Blair lumbered to his feet and headed rapidly out of police headquarters. He had to get to Tommy before they did.
He got in his car and raced down to the tower block by the docks. The lift was broken and he had to hurry up the filthy stairs, stopping on each landing to catch his breath. At last he reached Tommy’s door and hammered on it.
There was no reply. Frantic with fear, he took a small cosh out of his pocket, smashed one of the glass panes on the door, and, reaching inside, turned the handle.
There was a foul smell of booze and a sweetish smell of decay. He went into the bedroom. Tommy was sprawled across a dirty bed with a needle stuck in his arm. Blair felt for a pulse and found none.
“There is a God,” muttered Detective Chief Inspector Blair, and he fled from the flat, taking the stairs two at a time. He gained the sanctuary of his car and drove off – just in time. Two police cars swept past him going towards the tower blocks.
He had worn thick gloves the whole time, except when he had felt for that pulse. Could they get a fingerprint off a dead body? They surely wouldn’t be looking for one. Of course, the fact that the flat looked broken into would start them thinking about murder, but the only fingerprints they would find on that syringe would be Tommy’s.
Well, that pillock Macbeth would be safe now. He wouldn’t hang around Grianach waiting to be murdered.
♦
But that was just what Hamish Macbeth proposed doing. He told an angry Jimmy Anderson that it was their only hope of catching the murderer.
“I’ll see if I can get Daviot to agree to it,” said Jimmy finally, “but we haven’t got any spare men to go all the way up there on the off-chance. We found the informant.”
He told Hamish about Tommy Shields.
“That iss verra interesting,” said Hamish, the sibilance of his accent showing he was upset. “If you’ve got any spare time, see if Blair ever arrested the man.”
“Do you mean to say Blair was behind this?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. I’m not saying he murdered the man, but if he got there before you and found him dead, he must ha’ been verra relieved.”
“Hamish, even if I found out Blair was behind it, I doubt if Daviot would believe me. I went up to tell him about Tommy when I got back and there was a big bunch of flowers on his desk. Daviot said, “Aren’t they lovely? So nice of Mr. Blair to remember my wife’s birthday.” Look, I’ll give you a day or two longer and then you’d better get out of there. Go somewhere else.”
“I’ll go back to Lochdubh. I’m not going to run away any more.”
♦
Hamish spent a pleasant day wandering around the village and chatting to the locals. When he settled down for the evening in front of the fire, he wondered if the murderer would come for him. If I were the murderer, thought Hamish, I wouldn’t drive down that road into the village. Everyone would see the car. So what would I do? I’d park a bit away at the top of the road and wait till it was after midnight. The weather’s on the turn, and there’s no moon tonight. I’d come quietly down into the village. But how would I know which cottage?
He lay back on the sofa and stared up at the nicotine-stained ceiling. He should really report this place to the Scottish Tourist Board, he thought. What a dump for a holiday let! His eyes began to close, and soon he was fast asleep.
He was awakened by a hammering at the door and the voice of his neighbour, Ellie, shouting, “There’s a fire down by the harbour!”
He made for the door and then stopped. That’s it, he thought. Light a big fire, get everyone running out of their cottages, and wait.
“You go ahead,” said Hamish.
He pulled a black woollen cap over his head, then pulled a sweater on over his shirt. He left the cottage quietly and headed towards the river. He had seen a track leading along the side of the river up to the top of the cliffs. Near the top, he turned and looked back. A shed by the harbour had been set on fire; the locals were passing buckets of water, one to the other, to throw on the flames.
Hamish gained the road and walked along to the west, looking for a parked car. He then turned and walked back along to the east. At last he saw it on a bend of the road. It was a small battered-looking van, and the number plates had been removed.
He tried the handles at the back and found that the van was unlocked. He climbed inside, shut the doors behind him, and settled down to wait.
An hour had passed when he heard the sounds of someone approaching. Let her drive off a bit, thought Hamish grimly, and then I’ll have a surprise for her.
The driver’s door opened. He heard the engine roar into life, and in a split second he realised he had not heard the driver’s door close.
He tore open the back door of the van, tumbled out, and leapt, seeing nothing but blackness below him. His flaying hands caught hold of a branch sticking out of the cliff. He clung on for dear life.
There was the sound of an explosion far below, and then flames shot up into the night sky.
He saw he was hidden by the overhang of the cliff. His arms felt as if they were about to be torn from their sockets. He kicked his boots into the soft ground of the cliff until he found footholds and felt the pressure on his arms slacken.
In the light from the flames below, he saw a rocky ledge to his left. With all the strength left in his arms, he swung himself over and fell panting on the ledge. Using tufts of grass for purchase, he swung himself back up over the top of the cliff and, taking out a powerful torch, swung it to the left and right.
Moorland stretched for miles either way. He pulled out his mobile phone and woke up Jimmy Anderson.
“I’ll get the police helicopter up and we’ll search the moors,” said Jimmy. “Go back and lock yourself in.”
♦
Hamish stayed awake, listening to the sound of the police helicopter overhead. At last he could not bear the inactivity any longer and went out. The harbour was full of police cars. A forensic team was working on the burnt-out van, which had fortunately hit a large rock instead of plunging down onto one of the houses.
James Fringley appeared beside him. “I gather you’re not who you said you were,” he said.
“No. Who told you?”
“A copper asked me which cottage had been rented to Hamish Macbeth. I gather that’s you and you’re that policeman from Lochdubh. Why are you here?”
“Headquarters has me hidden up here because some murderer is after me,” said Hamish wearily.
“Do me and everyone in this village a favour and get the hell out of it as soon as you can. There were fishing nets burnt in that shed, and that van could have killed someone.”
Hamish guessed the would-be killer had probably guessed he would search for him up on the clifftop. The back of the van had been cramped, and he had changed his position from time to time. Maybe the van had rocked a little, alerting the murderer to the fact that he was inside.
♦
Jimmy arrived at Hamish’s cottage at six in the morning to find the policeman still awake, packed and ready to leave.
“No success,” said Jimmy. “We kept the helicopter up as long as we could but then Daviot came on the phone screaming about the cost. All we can do now is put a police guard outside your station.”
“I’ll alert the villagers,” said Hamish. “Any strange woman appearing in Lochdubh and they’ll make a citizens’ arrest. There is no need for a police guard. Do you know, I don’t think she or he will try again. I think whoever it is could possibly be mad, and made even madder with fear that I might guess something.”
“It’s up to you. What a dump this place is. Worse than Lochdubh.”
“It’s really lovely,” said Hamish. “That reminds me. I’ve a present for you.”
He took out the wood carving that looked so like Blair.