“Are we the only ones?” asked Paul Anstruther.
“Looks like it,” said Tom wearily. “That biddy Fleming is trying to plead with them to wait for more, but it’s just you and me.”
The cavalcade moved off. In the front limousine, Mrs. Freda Fleming was doggedly trying to look on the bright side. “I know that at the moment we only have the representatives from the Glasgow Morning News,” she said to the small figure of the provost, who was sitting next to her. “But mark my words, the others will be making their own way there.”
The provost, Mr. Jamie Ferguson, shifted uneasily. “It’s an awful lot of money we’ve been putting out on this. The Labour Party is cracking down on wasteful councils. They’ll have something to say about this.”
“It isn’t really costing anything,” said Mrs Fleming. “I mean, I sent the constable full instructions. Lochdubh will bear the expense of the celebrations.”
“If I know Lochdubh,” said the provost gloomily, “then they’ll send us a bill.”
“They can try,” snapped Mrs. Fleming. She rapped on the glass. “Go faster, driver, we’re running late.”
“I’m in trouble, Freda,” said the provost. “The other members of the council want rid of you.”
“They cannot sack me. I am an elected Labour representative.”
“Aye, but they want to give the job of environment officer to someone else.”
“That is ridiculous. To whom?”
“To Jessie Camber.”
“What? That blowsy blonde who goes around flashing her tits? Over my dead body.”
The provost sighed and settled down into an escapist dream in which the murderer of Lochdubh, who everyone knew was still at large, would murder Mrs. Freda Fleming. But the dream didn’t last very long and reality set in. What on earth had ever possessed him to spend a night with her? She would never let him forget it. He shuddered at the thought of his wife finding out. His wife was remarkably like Mrs. Fleming, being well-upholstered and domineering.
♦
In the press bus, the photographer, Paul, was saying to Tom, “The next time I’m sent on a job like this, I won’t even bother to put film in the camera.”
“Come on,” said Tom. “Something could happen.”
“You’re always saying that,” replied Paul. “You’ve been saying it for years.”
“Look, there’s been two murders in Lochdubh. Maybe we could find out a story.”
“Huh,” snorted Paul. But he checked his camera and, by force of habit, focused it out the window. A dismal-looking sheep stared back.
♦
The crowd on the waterfront at Lochdubh stared up at the helicopter. It came lower. They could clearly see Ionides sitting beside the pilot. The pilot pointed down.
“They’re getting away,” shouted Hamish as the helicopter rose and began to head out over the loch.
“Stand back!” yelled Geordie in a great voice.
He began to swing his long hammer. Round and round he went, faster and faster, the skirts of his kilt swinging out. Then he let go.
The hammer sailed up and towards the helicopter in a great arc. It was a throw that was to be talked about for years to come. The hammer sheered straight through two of the rotary blades on the helicopter.
The helicopter spiralled down over the loch. Hamish could see the sheer terror on Ionides’s face as the craft struck the black waters of Lochdubh. The pilot got his door open just before the helicopter struck the water, Ionides seemed trapped in his seat. The last they saw of him he was struggling frantically with the door as the water flooded in.
Hamish pulled off his navy blue police sweater and shirt and dragged off his trousers and unlaced his boots and dived into the loch.
Then Jimmy Anderson could see Hamish struggling with the pilot. “Help him,” he shouted to his men. But at that moment Hamish rose in the water and punched the pilot full on the chin and then dragged the unconscious body towards the shore, where five policemen ran down to help him.
“What about the other one?” panted Hamish.
“We’ll need to get the divers down,” said one.
“What’s going on?” shouted Tom as their minibus stopped on the waterfront. Paul darted out the bus with his camera. He pushed and elbowed his way through people in the crowd, who were staring up at a helicopter. Then he saw them back off as Geordie began to swing his hammer. He clicked and clicked. His heart beat with excitement. Then he took the picture that was to go right round the world as the hammer sailed through the rotary blades of the helicopter.
Behind him, Tom’s impeccable shorthand was flying across the pages of his notebook.
Paul was now clicking away at Hamish and the pilot in the loch. He ran down the beach to catch pictures of Hamish landing the unconscious pilot on the beach. As Hamish wearily turned to walk up the beach, in his vest and underpants, Paul, who had moved behind him to get another shot of the pilot, suddenly saw that Hamish had a large hole in the back of his underpants. That photo was to appear on the front of a London tabloid under the heading, ARE WE PAYING OUR POLICE ENOUGH?
Tom ran up to him. “Get up there,” he shouted. “Get the Fleming woman’s face.”
Screams were sounding along the waterfront. Mrs. Freda Fleming was blind to the mayhem that was going on around her. She was staring at the mess that was Lochdubh. Paper was festooned everywhere.
She saw Hamish approaching and ran up to him, screaming, “You bastard! You did this deliberately!” As Paul gleefully raised his camera, she smacked Hamish Macbeth full across the face. With a reflex action that Hamish was to regret for a long time, he smacked her back, and she burst into noisy sobs.
♦
It was to be a long day. Geordie was under arrest. “Why?” demanded Hamish furiously. “All he did was stop a murderer from escaping.”
“Hamish,” said Jimmy patiently, “we still have no proof that Ionides murdered anyone.”
“I ordered Geordie to throw that hammer,” said Hamish.
“You what?”
“I ordered Geordie to throw that hammer,” lied Hamish stubbornly.
“Man, do you know what you are saying? I’ll need to suspend you from your duties, and Blair will have you off the force.”
The two were in police headquarters in Strathbane.
“Get back to your police station,” said Jimmy. “We’re about to grill the Stathos woman, and you’d better pray she cracks and comes up with something.”
Priscilla called round at the police station that evening to find Hamish moodily sitting in his living room with his dog on his lap.
“I did knock,” said Priscilla.
“Sit down,” said Hamish wearily. “I’m in bad trouble.”
“But you got that pilot, and the divers fished Ionides’s corpse out of the water.”
“There’s no proof he committed either of the murders. Blair’s interviewing the pilot and that secretary. I hope one of them comes up with something. It’s the first time in my life I’ve prayed that Blair is at his nastiest. Then that Fleming woman. God, she lands in the middle of a police operation, and all she can do is scream about the mess of paper in Lochdubh. What’s that box?”
“It’s my sewing kit. Hamish, television wasn’t there but a photographer was. So television news has been showing still photographs of Geordie throwing the hammer, but there was another photograph of you on the beach with your bum hanging out of your underpants.”
Hamish covered his face with his hands. “What next?”
Priscilla laughed. “Didn’t Mrs. Macbeth always tell you to wear decent underwear in case you had an accident? Bring your stuff in and let’s go through it.”
“I am not in the mood to haff my underwear examined,” said Hamish huffily.