The cat flap banged, and Sonsie and then Lugs appeared. He got a towel and rubbed each of them down.
There was nothing he could do now but wait until the blizzard died down.
♦
The morning dawned sunny and frosty, but a gale was still blowing powdery snow off the tops of the drifts.
The snowplough passed the window of the police station, followed by a lorry spraying grit and salt.
Hamish had snow tyres on his Land Rover, something he had campaigned for and had finally got.
He decided to see if he could get up to the Strathbane road to find out how Geordie McArthur was doing and then, maybe, visit some more of the outlying crofts.
The road up to Geordie’s from the main road was impassable, so he strapped on his snowshoes and set out.
Geordie answered the door, his face flushed with whisky and bad temper.
“Get lost,” he snarled.
Hamish stood his ground.
“How’s the missus?”
“She left me afore Christmas to stay with her sister in Bonar Bridge. The minister’s wife got hold o’ her and she became that uppity, so I gave her a taste o’ ma belt and the next day herself was gone. She’s filing for a divorce. The minister’s wife told me you were concerned, so it’s all your fault, you bampot. Get the hell out o’ here.”
Hamish turned away. Some sixth sense made him duck as a large boot sailed over his head. Now, I could arrest him for that, thought Hamish, but just think of the paperwork. He plodded on through the drifts to his vehicle. Another blizzard was now screeching across the countryside.
Nothing more he could do but return to the police station and read books and watch television.
♦
After a night and day of pure white hell, the snow stopped falling and the wind died.
The following day was bright and sunny. Hamish shovelled snow, fed his sheep and hens, and did chores around his home.
The snowplough and the gritter had cleared a path along the waterfront. By evening, Hamish decided to reward himself by going to the Italian restaurant for a decent meal.
He put Sonsie in a haversack on his back and carried Lugs in his arms. He knew the salt on the road would hurt the animals’ paws.
Willie Lamont, the waiter, greeted him with delight. “This weather!” he exclaimed. “I thought I’d never see another customer again. I’ll take the beasties into the kitchen. This snow! It’s a fair cats trophy.”
“Catastrophe,” corrected Hamish, sitting down at a table by the window. “You’ll have plenty of folks in here soon. Patel’s grocery will soon be running out of stores. How are you doing yourselves?”
“We’ve enough pasta in the storeroom to feed the whole o’ Italy, and we’ve got a deer for the Bolognese sauce and things. Once the venison’s ground up and put in the sauce, folks can’t tell the difference.”
“How did you get the deer?” asked Hamish suspiciously.
“The poor thing just dropped dead outside the kitchen door. Must have been the cold.”
Or the quick slash of a kitchen knife, thought Hamish cynically. Willie went off to the kitchen, with Sonsie and Lugs trotting eagerly at his heels.
The door opened, letting in a blast of cold air. A vision entered the restaurant. She was tall and blonde and wearing a white quilted anorak with a fur-lined hood.
She smiled at Hamish. “What weather!” Her voice had a slight trace of a foreign accent.
“Visiting?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, I’m staying at the hotel. I thought I’d never get out. May I join you?”
“Of course.”
She took off her anorak and hung it on a peg by the door. She was wearing a white cashmere dress with a white cashmere cardigan. Round her neck was a rope of pearls. She had perfect skin, very white, high cheekbones, and green eyes. Her mouth was full and sensuous.
She sat down gracefully opposite Hamish. “Are you visiting?” she asked.
“No, I live here. I’m the local policeman.”
She gave a tinkling laugh. “I didn’t think there were any local policemen left in Britain.”
Hamish grinned. “I hang on. I like being an anachronism. It’s an odd time to visit the Highlands.”
“Oh, I’d never been to Scotland before. I live in London.”
“My name is Hamish Macbeth.”
“And mine is Gloria Price.”
“Staying long?”
“Just a week.”
“Are you on your own?”
“Completely.” She picked up the menu. “Seems to be a lot of venison. I think I’ll stick to pasta.”
Willie came rushing out. “Good evening, madam,” he said. “We have plenty of tables, and Mr. Macbeth may be waiting for Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
“I am not waiting for anyone,” said Hamish, irritated, knowing that Willie, like many of the locals, had never forgiven him for breaking off his engagement to Priscilla. “Take the order.”
Both ordered minestrone. Gloria chose lasagne to follow, and Hamish did the same.
“Would you choose the wine?” asked Gloria.
Hamish ordered a bottle of Valpolicella.
After Willie had retreated, Hamish asked, “What is your job?”
Again that charming laugh. “I don’t work. I am independently wealthy.”
“Ah, your husband is successful?”
She waved her fingers at him. “See, no wedding ring? The money is all mine. Daddy has shops all over the place.”
“What kind of shops?”
“Electrical goods, washing machines, computers, all that sort of stuff.”
“But you must have been married.”
“Never could find the right man. Of course, a lot of men have fancied my money. Tell me about your job.”
“It’s very quiet now,” said Hamish. “A few break-ins, nothing special.”
“But I read in the newspapers about murders up here.”
“Ah, fortunately that’s all over and done with.”
“Tell me about it.”
Hamish had the highlander’s gift of telling a good story, perhaps because the north of Scotland is the last place on earth where someone can tell a long story without fear of interruption.
Gloria was a good listener, and by the end of the meal, Hamish realised guiltily that he had been talking during the whole meal about himself.
He insisted on paying.
“I must return some of this hospitality,” she said.
“Why don’t you come back with me to the hotel for a nightcap?”
“That would be grand, but I’ve got my dog and cat in the kitchen. If you go on ahead, I’ll follow you.”
Willie came out of the kitchen, followed by the cat and dog. Hamish was helping Gloria into her coat.
Sonsie glared at Gloria, her lips drawn back in a snarl and her fur on end. Lugs let out a sharp bark.
“What’s got into you?” shouted Hamish. He opened the door and ushered Gloria out. “I won’t be long,” he said to her.
“I’ve told you and told you,” complained Willie, “that you shouldn’t be keeping a wild cat. That animal’ll kill someone one of these days.”
Hamish lifted up the cat and put her in his haversack, then picked up Lugs. “You’re a right jealous pair,” he lectured.
He took them back to the police station and left them in the kitchen before climbing into the Land Rover and heading up through the white walls of snow on either side of the road to the hotel.
He felt intrigued and happy at the same time. For a moment, Elspeth’s image hung in his brain like a pale ghost, and then it was gone.
Gloria was waiting for him in the reception area. She rose and walked forward to meet him. “There’s a noisy shinty team celebrating in the bar,” she said. “Let’s go up to my room. I’ve got a good bottle of malt.”