Hamish switched on the engine and then glanced down to his left and stiffened. “Chust what do you think you are doing, Elspeth?” he demanded.
“I’m a reporter, remember? I want something to report.”
“Tell you what, if you go to the station and take Lugs and Sonsie for a walk and feed them, I’ll give you something to report.”
“Like when?”
“Say five o’clock.”
“You’re on, copper. What did your hooker think of the possibility of sharing a home with your two other wives – Sonsie and Lugs?”
“Get out!”
“I’m going.”
Hamish drove off, feeling highly irritated. He regretted telling Elspeth he would see her later. She had jeered at him in the past over his devotion to his pets.
When he walked into the hotel, he glanced in the bar and then walked through to the lounge not just to see if he could find any odd-looking guests, but also to see if he could meet Priscilla again.
Apart from Harold Jury and his laptop, there were no other guests in the lounge. But the surprise was that Harold appeared to be entertaining Mrs. Wellington and the Currie sisters. Hamish ambled over to join them despite a ferocious keep-out-of-this look on Mrs. Wellington’s face.
Harold wanted to berate Hamish over the trick he had played on him, but bit his lip when he realised how silly it would make him sound.
Nessie Currie said, “If you behave yourself, Hamish, there might even be a part for you.”
“A part in what?” Hamish asked curiously.
“The Mothers’ Union is going to put on a production of Macbeth and we are here to ask this distinguished author to help us.”
“Has Mr. Jury any knowledge of the theatre?”
“He is a cultured man, cultured man,” said Jessie. “Which is mair than what you are. Go and find your murderers, murderers.”
Harold had been about to refuse, but the thought of becoming a presence in the village would wipe out his humiliation. From the look on the constable’s face, it would irritate him no end.
Hamish walked back to the reception area. Priscilla was just coming out of the manager’s office.
“Hullo again,” she said. “You look upset.”
Hamish told her of the offer to Harold. “It’s not fitting. The man could be a murderer.”
“Hamish, he is a famous author. That was a dirty trick you played on him. Fortunately I was able to soothe him by telling him you were by way of being the village clown.”
“Priscilla! That’s an awfy harsh thing to say.”
“I had to do something. The press will soon leave, and the hotel needs all the guests it can get. Having someone of Jury’s stature here is good for business.”
“Why? Is business that bad?”
“The European Union’s lousy economy and the weak dollar are killing off the tourists. In the grouse season, we used to get the French, and Americans in the fishing season. Now most of our guests, such as we have, are homegrown. We swore that next time the press arrived in Lochdubh, we would turn them away, but we can’t do that because we need the business.”
“What about the Irish? They’ve done well out of the Union.”
“We got one Irishman here, but he’s only interested in hill walking.”
“What’s his name? You didn’t tell me about him.”
“It slipped my mind. Patrick Fitzpatrick.”
“What’s he like?”
“Tall beanpole of a fellow. Very quiet. Courteous. Quite good-looking.”
“I’d like to look at the shed where you keep the bikes.”
“Most of them are falling to bits. Any keen cyclist usually stays at a youth hostel. The ones we get either drive or walk. I’ll get the key.”
Hamish waited. Mrs. Wellington’s voice suddenly boomed from the lounge, “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.”
And Harold’s amused cry of “Splendid.”
The bastard’s going to treat the whole thing as a joke, thought Hamish.
Priscilla came out with the key. They walked together out of the hotel and round to the shed in back where the bikes were kept. Hamish examined the lock. “It hasn’t been forced, but it’s a simple lock, easily picked. Did Johnson say anything about anyone asking for a bike?”
“Yes, just one. A Mrs. Fanshawe. But she’s so deadly respectable, it couldn’t be her.”
“I’ve got to meet her.”
Priscilla opened the door and they went into the dusty darkness of the shed. “Mr. Johnson said she borrowed the mountain bike. We’ve only two of them. The rest are pretty old.”
“And shoogly,” said Hamish. “You’re right. Half of them look as if they would fall to bits.”
“Yes, but the thing is, Hamish, I can’t remember us having a bicycle like the one in the river.”
She went over to straighten a bike which had fallen, but Hamish said, “Don’t touch it. Might be an idea to get this place dusted for fingerprints. Let’s go back to the hotel. I’d like to meet this Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“He usually turns up about now for afternoon tea.”
Hamish’s stomach rumbled. He had not yet had time to eat anything. “Is there any hope of tea for me?” he asked. “I’m awfy hungry.”
“You don’t change,” laughed Priscilla. “All right. Mr. Fitzpatrick is a bit cheap. I’ll offer to pay for his tea and order one for you.”
♦
Patrick Fitzpatrick was delighted to accept Priscilla’s offer of afternoon tea. He was a slim, fit-looking man in his forties with a shock of ginger hair, a thin face, a small pursed mouth, and skin reddened by walking in the cold.
Priscilla said, “Mr. Fitzpatrick – ”
“Patrick, please.”
“Very well. Patrick. Hamish Macbeth here would like to ask you a few questions.”
He paused, a scone dripping butter in his hand. “What could I possibly know that could help the police?” His Irish accent was light, and his voice unexpectedly high and reedy.
Hamish gulped down a tea cake and asked, “You do a fair bit of walking. Have you seen a strange woman around? She’s tall, possibly wearing dark glasses, headscarf, breeches.”
“Oh, her,” said Patrick, reaching out for another scone.
“Where?” asked Hamish urgently. “Where did you see her and when?”
“It must have been the day before yesterday. I was walking along the upper reaches of the river, must have been about two o’ clock. She was coming the other way. I shouted out, “Fine day,” but she stared at me for a moment and then turned and hurried off up the brae. Then I heard the sound of a car starting up.”
“Can you remember exactly at which point on the riverbank you saw her?”
“It’s where the river makes a loop and there’s a stand of silver birch.”
“I know it. I’d better go and have a look.” Hamish grabbed two tiny sandwiches and hurried off, eating them as he went. He realised he would need to go back at some point and ask Patrick what he did for a living and why he was at the hotel.
♦
He drove up into the hills and followed the narrow one-track road which ran along beside the River Anstey. He parked on the road above the bend in the stream described by Patrick and looked around. He searched the road, then went down and searched along the river. He had recently seen a detective series on television where the detective had found a book of matches with the name of a sinister nightclub. The only things he found were two rusty tin cans.
The nights were drawing in. He looked at his watch. It was just coming up to five o’clock. He’d better get back to the station.
♦
He found not only Elspeth but also Jimmy waiting for him. “There’s no time to talk to your lady friend,” said Jimmy. “We’ve got to get down to headquarters. Some Russian detective’s come over.”