“See you keep on the job. Do not speak to the press. I know you show great insight and intelligence, but it is necessary in a big case like this that we all work together, and that means following orders. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s the stuff,” said Blair, coming up to join them. “That laddie needs a wumman’s firm touch.”
“Mr. Blair, if I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” snapped Mary.
“Och, come on. It was just a wee joke. The way you females take on.”
“Any more of that, and I’ll have you up before the board for sexual discrimination. Also for alcoholism. You stink of booze and at this time in the morning!”
Hamish got into Angela’s car and sped off, leaving them to it.
It was one of those grey misty days in the Highlands where all the colour is bleached out of the landscape and sounds are muffled. The mist grew thicker as he reached Braikie and parked at the end of the cul-de-sac.
It was one of the few times when he regretted remaining a mere policeman. He was out of the loop, away from recent discoveries and statements from the suspects.
Maybe he should have told the inspector about the possibility Shona had found out something about one of the suspects when she was working in London, but Mary would ask how he had come about such information and then would give him a row for discussing the case with a member of the hated press.
He was just bemoaning the fact that he had forgotten to bring coffee and sandwiches with him when a police car drew alongside. He rolled down the window.
“Driving licence and papers,” snapped one, “and get out of the car.”
Hamish uncoiled his length from Angela’s small car and pulled his police card out of his pocket, saying as he did so, “I’m PC Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. I’m here to watch the professor. Instructions from Inspector Gannon. What’s up?”
“The neighbours have been complaining about a sinister-looking man – that’s you – casing the houses.”
God bless them all, thought Hamish. He phoned headquarters and got patched through to Mary’s phone. When he finished explaining, she said impatiently, “It’s your fault for making yourself so obvious.”
“It’s hard not to be obvious in a highland town,” protested Hamish.
“You’d better leave it. Get back and put your uniform on and go over to Styre. Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson was not available when we called. Find out where she was the night before last.”
♦
Back to the police station, into uniform, picnic basket loaded up with people food and animal food, and off in the Land Rover with the dog and cat. Hamish whistled cheerfully. He was glad to get out of what had looked like a long and boring day.
As he mounted the crest of the hill above Lochdubh, the mist rolled up the mountain sides, and soon the sun shone out. The landscape was a blaze of colour: yellow broom, purple heather, and rowan berries as red as blood.
Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson was not at home. Her car was gone. Hamish drove down to the beach and let the dog and cat out. He unpacked the picnic basket, spread a rug on the beach, and ate a leisurely brunch after feeding Lugs and Sonsie.
The sea was calm with sunlight rippling on tiny waves plashing gently on the shingly beach. The air smelled of salt and peat smoke. From one of the little cottages of Styre came the sounds of a football match on the radio.
How far it all was from the bustle and grime of the cities and the miseries of murder, thought Hamish. But unless the murders were solved, a dark stain of suspicion and dread would be left.
Back to work. He packed everything up with a sigh. Time to see if Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson had returned.
When he went back to her house, he was in time to see her getting out of her car. She took a large suitcase out of the boot. Hamish approached her.
“What now?” she asked.
“Do you know a television researcher called Shona Fraser was murdered in Lochdubh two nights ago?”
“Yes, I heard it on the radio when I was driving north. What’s it got to do with me?”
“I have to take a statement from you,” said Hamish soothingly. “Where were you the night before last?”
“I was visiting a friend in Glasgow.”
“I’ll need the name and address.”
She sighed. “Come into the house, and I’ll write it down for you.”
Hamish followed her into the faux country house living room.
She went to a desk and wrote on a pad of paper and then tore a sheet off. “There you are. Bella will confirm that I was with her the night before last. And last night, I stopped at the Palace Hotel in Inverness.” She opened her handbag and took out a receipt. “There is my hotel receipt. Now, I’d like to get on with unpacking.”
That was that, he thought. He’d phone over the details, and Strathclyde police would check her alibi.
“Just one thing,” said Hamish. “Why did you choose to live in an isolated place like this?”
“I wanted a quiet life. I like it here. I could afford a house this size in such a remote place where I could not afford it in the city. Now, if you don’t mind…”
Hamish decided to drive to Lochdubh with this information rather than phone it over. That way, he might find out what else was going on.
He was climbing into the Land Rover when his phone rang. It was Elspeth.
“Good news, Hamish. Shona was working on the background of doctors who had been sued for malpractice, and one of the subjects was Dr. Renfrew. He had told a woman that the rash on her breast was merely caused by an allergy to her bra. He prescribed ointments. This went on for months. It got worse. By the time the woman decided to get a second opinion, it was found she had invasive cancer and it was well advanced. The fact that she didn’t lose her life was a miracle, but she sued Dr. Renfrew for malpractice. He was not struck off the medical register and he was heavily insured against malpractice suits, so he got away with it. He wouldn’t give an interview, but there were television shots of him leaving his house and shouting at the reporter. He came up to Braikie Hospital last year.”
“Elspeth, I’ll go and talk to him. If I phone this in, they’ll send a detective and I’ll end up never getting an idea of who was guilty.”
So Hamish phoned over a report of Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson’s alibi to the mobile police unit, saying he would type it up and deliver it later with the receipt.
The policeman who answered the phone said, “Wait a minute. The inspector’s just coming.”
“Talk to her later,” said Hamish, and rang off.
Now for Dr. Renfrew.
♦
At the hospital, he was told it was Dr. Renfrew’s day off. He got his address, which was some way out of Braikie.
The doctor’s home was a square Scottish Georgian house, a relic of the days when army officers were quartered in the Highlands after the Battle of Culloden.
It looked a dark forbidding sort of place, and the garden was unkempt with a small square of shaggy lawn and straggly bushes.
He rang the doorbell. It was answered by a harassed-looking woman.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Mrs. Renfrew?”
“Yes.”
“Is your husband at home?”
“Is this necessary? He’s already been interviewed by the police.”
“Something else has come up. I would really like to speak to him.”
“Don’t be long about it.”
She turned away, and Hamish followed her into a dark, stone-flagged hall. She pushed open a door and said, “Darling, it’s the police again.”
Dr. Renfrew was sitting in an armchair beside a smouldering fire. The day had turned warm, but the house was cold.
The doctor threw down the newspaper he had been reading and got angrily to his feet. “This is too much. I shall put in a complaint.”