Hamish took out his telescopic truncheon, sprang across the floor, and vaulted over the counter, driving his feet straight into the gunman’s chest. The gunman fell backwards, and the shotgun went off, blasting a hole in the ceiling.
Hamish smashed the truncheon down on the arm holding the shotgun.
“You’ve broke my arm,” screamed the gunman.
Hamish flipped him over and handcuffed him. Then he wrenched off the balaclava hiding the man’s face. It was a face he didn’t recognise, and he was glad of that. He had been afraid it might be one of the locals and had not liked to think that one of them had decided to go in for bank robbery.
From outside the bank, Blair’s unlovely Glaswegian voice sounded through a loudhailer. “You are surrounded. You cannot escape. Come out with your hands up.”
The townspeople were now crowded behind police barriers.
The door of the bank opened, and Hamish Macbeth appeared, pushing the handcuffed gunman in front of him.
A great cheer went up from the crowd.
Blair’s face darkened in anger. A local cameraman was busy taking pictures. Police took the gunman off to a waiting police van.
The bank manager, looking white and shaken, came out in time to hear Blair raging at Hamish, “You should have waited. I have a trained negotiator here.”
The bank manager, Mr. Queen, said crossly, “If it hadn’t been for Hamish, some of us might have been killed. There’ll be a reward for you, Hamish.”
A policeman came up and said, “There’s a call from Mrs. Sutherland’s store in Cnothan. She’s caught a shoplifter.”
Blair’s face cleared. Here was a way to get the triumphant Macbeth off the scene before any more press arrived.
“That’s your beat,” he said. “Hop to it.”
“What about my statement?” asked Hamish.
“You can send it in later. Off you go.”
And so Hamish headed off to Cnothan, unaware of the fuss and gossip Effie was causing at the sale of work.
∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧
3
Thou are gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream,
And I seek thee in vain by tbe meadow and stream.
—George Linley
The members of the Mothers’ Union were inclined to snub Effie, each one feeling she might have offered to help the cause by putting some of her own work up for sale.
Effie, complete with garish make-up, cruised the stalls, picking up things and putting them back. Then as she stopped in front of Mrs. Wellington’s stall, which was full of all the unsuccessful junk recycled from the last sale, she picked up a horrible green vase. A shaft of sunlight struck down through the grimy windows and sparkled on the diamond ring on her engagement finger.
“Is that an engagement ring?” boomed Mrs. Wellington.
The chatter in the hall suddenly died.
“Indeed it is,” said Effie with a smile.
“And who is the lucky fellow?”
“Jock Fleming,” said Effie triumphantly.
All the women crowded around her as Effie beamed in triumph. In that heady moment, she was sure Jock had actually bought her the ring.
“When did he pop the question?” asked Angela.
“Just before he left.”
“So when’s the wedding?” asked Freda, who was visiting the sale of work on her lunch break.
“As soon as we can,” said Effie. “Jock is so impetuous.”
“I never would ha’ thought it,” murmured one woman.
Effie heard her and scowled. “It was a whirlwind romance,” she said loudly.
Angela looked at the little defiant figure of Effie with her clown’s make-up and felt a pang of unease.
Maybe Hamish Macbeth knew more about it than she did.
♦
Hamish had just finished sending over his report about the attempted bank robbery when Angela knocked at the kitchen door. He had not sent a report about the shoplifting because the culprits turned out to be two small terrified schoolchildren who had stolen a chocolate bar each. Hamish had spent a weary afternoon persuading the angry shopkeeper not to press charges, then delivered the sobbing children to their respective parents.
“Come in, Angela,” he said.
“Have you heard the news about Effie?”
“What news?”
“She’s flashing around a diamond ring saying she’s engaged to Jock. Hamish, she looked quite mad, and her make-up is worse than ever. Do you think it’s true?”
“I don’t know. I’d have thought it highly unlikely. I’ll go and call on her.”
♦
Effie answered her cottage door to Hamish. She had scrubbed off the dreadful make-up and looked perfectly sane to Hamish.
“I called to congratulate you,” said Hamish.
“How kind. Come in.”
Hamish removed his cap and followed her into her living-room-cum-kitchen-cum-studio.
“When did all this happen?”
“Just as Jock was leaving. He said he couldn’t live without me.”
Hamish conjured up a picture of easy-going Jock in his mind. “Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand him?” he asked cautiously.
Her face flamed with anger. “He gave me this ring! Now, go!”
Hamish eased towards the door. He looked down at the work table. There was a jug full of paintbrushes, but they looked hard and dry, and he could swear the pottery wheel had a film of dust on it.
“I see you haven’t been working,” he said.
“Of course I have, and I’d like to get on with some more. Go away!”
And Hamish left, a very worried man. Newcomers had meant trouble in the past, and somewhere inside him, he could feel bad times coming.
As he drove back to the police station, thin wisps of black clouds were sweeping in from the Atlantic, as if in keeping with his mood.
He gave a mental shrug. He was worrying too much. If Jock had asked Effie to marry him, then his agent would know about it. He swung the steering wheel and headed for the Tommel Castle Hotel.
♦
Priscilla was crossing the reception area when Hamish entered the hotel. “Why, Hamish, what brings you here?”
“I want to see Betty Barnard.”
“She was out for a walk, and now I think she’s in the bar.”
“Thanks.”
Hamish strode off in the direction of the bar, leaving Priscilla staring after him.
Betty was ensconced in a corner by the window with a book and a glass of whisky.
She looked up as he approached. “Hamish, what a nice surprise.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. I was thinking of phoning you.”
“My treat next time. What I was wondering was whether you knew anything about this business about Jock going to marry Effie.”
“Who the hell…?”
“Effie Garrard. An artist who lives here. She’s flashing around an engagement ring and says Jock is going to marry her.”
“Jock is divorced and swore blind he’d never marry again. Is this Effie beautiful?”
“No. She was at the ceilidh. Wait a bit. You weren’t there.”
“Nobody asked me.”
“I should have done,” said Hamish ruefully. “She seemed to be chasing Jock, and he looked as if he didn’t like it one bit.”
“I’ll look into it. Where does she live?”
“Not going to have a row or anything?”
“Why should I? Jock’s a valued client, but that’s all. But I am protective of my clients.”
Hamish gave her directions and then said, “There’s another odd thing. Although she’s been supplying art works for sale, the pottery wheel has dust on it and her paintbrushes are dry and stiff.”
“Aha! Meaning you think she’s been getting the stuff from somewhere else and passing it off as her own?”
“Just a thought.”