“I’m surprised he was able to run a brothel in a place like Knightsbridge.”
“It was described as a drinking club. Important people used it – members of Parliament, high-ranking police officers, people like that. There will always be a market.”
“It’s all over now.”
“I hope so,” said Hamish.
♦
The next few weeks passed pleasantly. The weather was a mixture of showers and sunshine. Hamish drove diligently around his long beat, checking on people in the outlying crofts, drinking tea and gossiping, doing all the things that made him enjoy his job.
And then one morning as he was raking out the stove, there came a knock on the front door. He wiped a grimy hand over his brow, went through, and shouted, “Come to the side door.”
He hoped it wasn’t someone from Strathbane, come to interrupt his tranquil life.
He opened the door. A tall, slim woman stood there, expensively elegant in a well-tailored trouser suit. Masses of auburn hair framed an attractive face. Wide-spaced brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a beautiful mouth.
“I’m visiting the area,” she said. Her voice was pleasant but held traces of cockney. “I wondered if you could tell me the best places around here to visit.”
“If you go along to the general store, just inside the door you’ll find a rack of tourist brochures,” said Hamish. “Where are you from?”
“I’m from London. I read about those murders and saw film of this area on television. It looked so beautiful and I was in need of a holiday, so here I am. I’m staying at the hotel.”
“Mr. Johnson, the manager, has plenty of tourist information.”
“May I come in?”
“Why?” asked Hamish.
“I’ve never been inside a country police station before.”
“Just for a minute, then.” Hamish stood aside to let her past.
She settled herself at the kitchen table. A waft of some subtle perfume emanated from her.
“Would you like tea or coffee?” asked Hamish reluctantly.
“Coffee would be nice.”
“Wait until I finish cleaning out the stove.”
She sat placidly, seeming perfectly at ease. The cat flap banged, and Lugs followed by Sonsie strolled into the kitchen.
“Is that a…?”
“Yes, it’s a wild cat,” said Hamish, “but harmless.”
She opened her handbag and took out a camera. “Mind if I take a picture?”
“Yes. They don’t like having their pictures taken.”
“Oh, well, pity.”
Hamish finished cleaning the stove and plugged in an electric kettle. He rarely used it, preferring to keep a kettle boiling on the top of the stove, but he thought it would take too long and he wanted rid of her. He did not want a beautiful woman to upset his placid existence.
“My name is Tasman Kennedy,” she said.
“I’m Hamish Macbeth. Where does the Scottish name come from?”
“My grandfather was Scottish. But I’ve never been in Scotland before. When I drove up, I could hardly believe the emptiness. It’s so crowded in the south. It’s hard to believe there are places like this in the British Isles.”
“What do you do for a living?” asked Hamish, putting a mug of coffee in front of her. “Help yourself to milk and sugar.”
“I’m a model. Photographic model mostly, although I go on the catwalk for the collections.”
“Is it hard work?”
“It is. And I know it’s a short life. I don’t use drugs like some of the others. Any money I get, I put into property. I may even buy something up here.”
“I wouldn’t bother. It looks fine at the moment, but the summer is brief and the winters can be hard.”
“But you like it.”
“Yes, but I’m a highlander. It makes a difference.”
She took a sip of her coffee and wrinkled her nose.
“It was on special at Patel’s,” said Hamish defensively.
“It’s nearly lunchtime,” she said. “Why don’t I take you for lunch at the hotel?”
Hamish stared at her for a long moment, his eyes blank. Then he said, “That would be nice. I’m supposed to be on duty. I’ll need to put my uniform on in case someone from headquarters sees me.”
♦
During the meal, Hamish’s suspicions grew. He had wondered how long it would be before Freddie Ionedes from his prison cell would arrange something horrible for him. He had certainly pulled out all the stops with this one. Tasman was amusing and charming. She told funny stories about her appearances on the catwalk.
Hamish played along, wondering all the while what was in store for him.
And although he smiled and chatted, he could feel himself getting angrier and angrier. No one this beautiful could be interested in such as Hamish Macbeth.
He had an idea. He was not going to go along with it. He was not going to be a sitting duck. What had they planned for him this time? Were they going to take him out to sea in a boat and throw him over? Take him up to a peat bog and drop him in?
Towards the end of the meal, Hamish thanked her with every appearance of warmth and then said, “You didn’t get a proper look at the police station. Why not come back with me and I’ll show you round.”
“I’d like that. But not your coffee. Let’s have it here and then we’ll go.”
♦
Tasman followed Hamish to the police station in her car. He courteously helped her out. The sun was sparkling on the loch. Seagulls sailed overhead. A beautiful schooner cruised out to sea under full sail. No one is going to spoil this for me again, he vowed.
Hamish ushered her inside. “Now you’ve seen the kitchen. I actually have a cell. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes. Do you lock many people up?”
“Usually only one of the locals who’s drunk too much. I lock the man up and let him out in the morning when he’s slept it off. Here it is.”
She gave a charming laugh. “It looks quite cosy.”
Hamish put a hand in the small of her back and pushed her in. “Take a good look at it from the inside.” She staggered forward into the cell, and he banged the door shut and locked it.
She hammered on the door. “Let me out, you maniac!”
Hamish ignored her and went through to the computer. Time to check the police files before he phoned Strathbane.
But before he could get to the office, the Currie sisters walked in. “Where is she?” asked Nessie eagerly.
“Is she,” echoed Jessie. “Is that her screaming, screaming?”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Hamish.
“We’ve only seen her on the telly and in the magazines,” said Jessie. “We’ve never seen a famous model close up.”
Colour flooded Hamish’s face. “Famous model?” he echoed.
“Yes, the whole village is that excited.”
Hamish all but pushed them out the door. “Come back later.” He slammed the kitchen door on their startled faces and locked it. Then he went and unlocked the cell.
“I should have known better than to spend time with the village idiot,” raged Tasman.
“Before you do that,” pleaded Hamish, “let me tell you a story.”
“What? About the little people, you inbred moron?”
“Come into the kitchen and sit down,” said Hamish soothingly. “I’m not mad. But I must tell you why I locked you up.”
“I think you do owe me an explanation, but be quick about it!”
They sat at the kitchen table, and Hamish began. He told her all about the threats of Freddie Ionedes, and then he told her how Crystal had tried to lure him to his death.
When he finished, she looked half-angry, half-amused. “So you thought I was a hooker?”
The answer to that was ‘yes,’ but Hamish was not going to make matters worse.