He glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. He took the dog and cat out for a walk and then returned to the station and took a venison stew out of the freezer and heated it up on the stove. Then he divided it equally among the three of them.
He went through to his living room and lit the fire. He switched on the television set and then surfed the channels until he found a fictional program on forensic investigation and settled down to watch. One minute he was marvelling how these forensic researchers could visit the scenes of crimes without any protective clothing whatsoever, shaking long hair and DNA all over the place and trudging around dead bodies in uncovered shoes, when he fell asleep.
He woke abruptly and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. He wondered if Shona had called and he hadn’t heard her. But he knew that in the past no matter how heavily he slept, a knock at the door always awoke him.
He stretched and yawned. Maybe she had changed her mind.
♦
Archie Maclean, the fisherman, swallowed the last of a cup of extremely strong tea and went up on deck. He was wearing a tracksuit under his oilskin. He kept clothes on board, for he knew his bullying wife expected him to go to sea in his suit and collar and tie. “You’re the skipper,” she always said, “and should look the part.”
His boat, the Sally Jane, bucketed through the increasingly high waves as she headed out from the loch towards the Atlantic. The earlier clouds which had threatened rain had disappeared, and a full moon rode the skies.
They were nearly at the entrance to the loch when Archie, who was about to go up to the wheelhouse and take over, spotted a rowing boat cresting a wave. Why it had not been overturned was a miracle. He nipped up to the wheelhouse and said to his mate, Harry, “There’s a wee rowboat in the water. Pull her ower and let’s have a look.”
Harry reduced the speed. Archie unhitched a pair of binoculars and then let out a hiss of alarm. “There iss some cheil lying in the boat. Pull alongside.”
He ran back to the rail and called to the other three men who made up his small crew. “Get a grappling iron and pull her in.”
It was a difficult job with the waves heaving the Sally Jane up and down. “Bring a light,” shouted Archie.
A grappling iron was attached to the rowing boat. Archie shone a powerful torch down into it. A young girl lay sprawled in the bottom facedown.
“Bang goes a night’s fishing,” said Archie. “There’s blood on the back o’ her head. I’ll phone Macbeth.”
♦
Hamish Macbeth stood on the harbour, waiting for the fishing boat to come in. In the distance, he could hear police sirens. He was wearing the blue forensic suit all police officers were now expected to wear when inspecting a crime. He felt guilty about it. He had worn it when he had been cleaning out the hen run on a wet day. It had subsequently fallen off a hook on the back of the kitchen door, and Sonsie had slept on it.
He thought miserably of forensic programmes he had watched on television. “Ah, I have one hair here!” some forensic scientist would say triumphantly. God only knew what they would find if they ever took away his protective clothing for examination.
The sirens sounded nearer. Lights were going on in the cottages along the waterfront.
♦
Elspeth woke up suddenly in her room at the hotel. She heard the wail of the sirens as police cars sped past and down the hill to Lochdubh. She went out of her room and hammered on the door of Luke’s room.
He opened it and stood looking Wearily down at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled strongly of booze.
“I’ve heard lots of police cars going past,” said Elspeth. “Come on. Get dressed!”
Luke groaned. After an unsuccessful evening trying to get Elspeth into his bed, he had resorted to comfort from a bottle of whisky.
“You go,” he said. “I’ll follow you down.”
“We’ve only got the one car!”
“I’ll wake someone up and take one of the hotel cars.”
Luke retreated into his room and shut the door. Just five minutes more sleep, he thought. He fell facedown on the bed, not waking until the morning.
♦
The fishing boat came nearer. Jimmy shivered. “Did Archie say who it was?” he asked Hamish.
“He chust said a wee lassie. Oh, God, Jimmy, I chust hope it isnae who I think it is.”
“That being?”
“Shona Eraser. She phoned earlier and said she had something to tell me. She said she would come to the police station, but she never arrived.”
A woman police inspector was waiting, flanked by a woman police sergeant.
“Look at them,” said Jimmy. “It’s all this political correctness. The whole Northern Constabulary will soon be filled with damn women.”
“If it iss Shona,” muttered Hamish, “what could she have found out that I couldn’t?”
“Beats me. Amazing if it wasn’t Blair who killed her. He was flaming mad when he was told that the television documentary was cancelled.”
“Where is the auld scunner?”
“Probably nursing a hangover. Here comes trouble!”
Hamish walked forward. “You! Macbeth!” barked Police Inspector Mary Cannon. “Go and knock on doors and see if anyone heard anything.”
Hamish trudged off. The pity of it was, he thought, that the hotel on the harbour had been boarded for years. The pub beside it still closed at eleven o’clock in the evening. There was no cottage looking directly onto the harbour.
The lights were on in Patel’s store. Patel was the epitome of the Indian businessman. He knew that crowds of people even in the middle of the night meant a good sale of sandwiches and hot coffee.
Hamish pushed open the door and went in. Mr. Patel was just carrying a plate of sandwiches through from the kitchen at the back.
“What’s going on, Hamish?”
“A dead body in a rowing boat. Archie caught it when he was out at the fishing. Did you see anyone at all? I would guess down by the harbour or approaching the police station. It’s a young lassie. I can’t see anyone going to the trouble of putting a dead body in a rowing boat and floating it out to sea. My guess is that the girl was hit from behind with a hard enough blow to kill her. Then she was toppled over the sea wall but fell into one of the rowing boats. The murderer went down the stairs but maybe heard someone coming and slashed the painter so that the boat drifted off. The tide would be on the turn.”
“I didnae see anyone, Hamish. Coffee? I’ve made some fresh.”
“No, I’d better get on with it.”
Hamish opened the shop door and looked outside. Mary Cannon believed in blanket coverage. Policemen were knocking at doors all along the waterfront.
Where was Shona’s car? That is, if the dead girl was Shona.
Then he recognised it. It was parked a little away from the police station. His heart sank. Had he been so heavily asleep that he had not heard her knock?
He took out his torch because the car was parked between two street lights and in the shadow. He shone the torch around it and then saw a tyre iron lying on the ground.
Hamish picked it up gingerly with one gloved hand and walked over to where Mary Cannon was directing operations.
“I found this, ma’am,” said Hamish. “There’s blood on the end of it, and I think this is the murder weapon. I found it beside that television researcher Shona Fraser’s car. She left me a message saying she was going to call on me this evening because she had some information for me. Shona Fraser was supposed to be doing research for a documentary on Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Oh, here comes Mr. Blair.”