Hamish consulted his notes. “Bella Robinson, The Croft, Mylie Road, Bearsden.”
“I’ll have a go.”
They both stood up. Hamish looked down at Elspeth.
He had a sudden longing to take her in his arms. As if she sensed his feelings, Elspeth gave an awkward little duck of her head and muttered, “Goodbye. Talk to you later.”
♦
Elspeth wondered whether to tell Luke where she was going, but finally decided against it. Luke had said he didn’t come north to work. He was on holiday, and Elspeth’s wanting to be a reporter night and day was interfering with good drinking time. And Luke drank a lot. Reporters were hard-drinking people, but Elspeth felt uneasily that Luke’s drinking was getting out of hand. Usually the most boozed-up reporter would chase any story, whether on holiday or not.
As she drove south over the Grampian mountains, she put Luke from her mind and, with an even greater effort, stopped thinking about one village policeman.
When she finally got to the respectable town of Bearsden and found that The Croft was in fact a neat bungalow, she was tired and hungry and wished she had stopped for food on the road.
Her heart sank as she walked up the garden path. Houses with nobody at home always, to Elspeth, radiated an empty feeling. She had debated telephoning first but knew that if by any remote chance Bella had been covering for her friend, she would be forewarned. She rang the bell and waited and waited.
Depressed, she turned away. She went to the bungalow next door and rang the bell.
The woman who answered the door was a large matron with a well-upholstered bosom and thick flowing hair. She looked like the figurehead on an old sailing ship.
“Ye-es?” she asked.
“I was looking for Mrs. Robinson next door,” said Elspeth.
“Mrs. Robinson hes goan to hir wee house in Spain.” She had the strangled, genteel accents of what is damned as Kelvinside.
“When did she leave?”
“Thet would be yesterday.”
Nothing more to do, thought Elspeth wearily. She drove to her Glasgow flat, planning to spend the night before starting on the long journey north. She phoned Hamish. His mobile was switched off. She tried the police station and got his answering service and left a message.
♦
Hamish was in the local pub on the harbour, trying to comfort Archie Maclean. A crumpled letter lay on the scarred table between them.
“Buggering government,” said Archie, tears running down his face. “To decommission my boat! To order me to take her to Denmark where she is to be scrapped! The Sally Jane’s my life. I’ll die without her. What am I goin’ tae do?”
“Leave it to me,” said Hamish. “I’ll get up a petition.”
Archie scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. “Good o’ ye, Hamish, but that’s been tried afore.”
The British government had massacred more than half the Scottish fishing fleet to prevent the waters being overfished.
“Are they offering compensation?”
“Only a wee bit. I didn’t go in for the voluntary decommissioning.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Hamish went out and along to the church, which was never locked. He seized the bell rope and began to ring the bell. It clamoured out over the village of Lochdubh, bringing people hurrying out of their houses and the minister and his wife from the manse. They knew it was only rung in times of peril. The old folk said it had been rung during World War II when a fishing boat sighted a German destroyer.
“What is going on?” panted Mrs. Wellington.
The villagers began to stream in as Hamish went up to the pulpit. “The government has ordered Archie Maclean’s boat to be decommissioned. He’s to take her to a scrapyard in Denmark. I want someone to start a petition.”
“I’ll do that,” shouted Mrs. Wellington.
“That’ll be a start,” said Hamish. “But we’ll need more than that. I’ll see if there are any press left up at the hotel and try to get them interested.”
Mr. Patel ran to his shop and came back with reams of typing paper. A table was set up, and people crowded around to sign.
Hamish came down from the pulpit and, after adding his name to the list, headed up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. “Are any of the national press still here?” he asked Mr. Johnson.
“The television people have gone, but there’s two nationals, a French newspaper, and some of the Scottish ones. You’ll find them in the bar.”
Hamish walked into the bar, a sudden bold idea striking him.
Luke was there, his eyes blurred with drink.
“Gentlemen of the press!” shouted Hamish. “I have a story that will interest you.”
Silence fell.
“Archie Maclean, a local fisherman, is having his boat forcibly decommissioned, and he has been ordered to take her to a scrapyard in Denmark.”
Bored eyes stared at him. Just another poor fisherman out of work. They’d heard it all before.
“And so,” said Hamish, raising his voice, “the villagers are that mad wi’ the government that they are declaring independence for Lochdubh.”
Now he had their attention. Several were already wondering if a headline ‘The Mouse That Roared’ might be too old hat.
“If you will follow me down to the church hall, you’ll see what I mean.”
Hamish sprinted out and drove fast back to the hall, where the whole village was now crowded around the petition table.
“I’ve declared Lochdubh independent,” he shouted. “The press are coming. Stick to the story.”
A big forester asked, “Can we put up roadblocks into the village and ask them for their passports?”
“Great idea,” said Hamish. “But quick. I can hear them coming. Some of you drag me along to the police station and lock me in the cell.”
The press arrived just in time to see Hamish being frogmarched along the waterfront. Thank goodness for all those mobile phones with cameras in them, thought Hamish. This’ll be on television tomorrow.
He was locked in the one cell in the police station with his dog and cat. They handed the key through the bars to him ‘chust in case you feel hungry during the night,’ and headed off.
Hamish then phoned Elspeth and told her the story. “Oh, Hamish, I’m so tired, but I can’t miss out on a story like this. I’ll drive through the night.”
♦
Although not much visited by tourists, Lochdubh was a very scenic highland village. By next morning, the story was round the world. Film of a crumpled and sobbing Archie Maclean was beamed into homes from the north of Scotland to Japan.
Police contingents, roaring over from Strathbane, found their way barred by roadblocks manned by locals with deer hunting rifles and shotguns.
Blair tried to land in the police helicopter but was driven off by rockets fired up at him – not army rockets, but ones left over from the last fireworks display.
Some wag had found a skull and crossbones used in an amateur production of The Pirates of Penzance and had run it up the flagpole on the waterfront. Only the press were allowed past the barriers.
Hamish was photographed in his cell. “This is an outrage,” he was quoted as saying, “but on the other hand, I can’t say I blame them.”
He hoped desperately that the London reaction he was counting on could have its effect before the police decided to use force.
♦
In Number 10 Downing Street, the prime minister, Simon Turl, paced up and down. His popularity had been fading fast. He was addicted to photo opportunities and grabbing headlines and therefore shoved through unpopular acts of Parliament without even considering the consequences.
“How am I to handle this?” he asked his adviser, Sandy McGowan.
“Oh, stop dithering, man. It’s simple,” growled Sandy. “Say that wee fisherman got the wrong papers by mistake and there’s to be an enquiry. Do it fast. Take the wind out of those villagers’ sails. No prosecutions.”