He parked the Land Rover on the verge outside the gates. He wanted to spy out the lie of the land before he was seen.
He walked slowly up the drive. He could hear shouts and laughter, so instead of following round the turn of the drive that would bring him to the lawns in front of the house, he plunged into the pine wood at the side and made his way silently over the pine needles to where he could get a clear view without being seen himself.
They were playing croquet, Priscilla and her friends. At first, he had eyes only for her. She was bent over the mallet, the golden bell of her hair falling about her face. She was wearing a plain white blouse, a short straight scarlet cotton skirt, and low-heeled brown sandals with thin straps. Hamish’s attention turned to the man who had come up to her and put his arms around her to show her how to use the mallet. He was tall, with crisp dark hair, a handsome face, and a blue chin. He was wearing a checked shirt and black curling hairs sprouted at the open neck. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong tanned arms covered with black hair.
There were two girls, both with the monkey faces of rich Chelsea, and well-coiffed hair. They were wearing casual clothes. The other man was a rabbity-looking individual with gold-rimmed glasses.
Then as Hamish watched, Priscilla smiled at the dark-haired man, a radiant smile, a happy smile, and Hamish felt cold. A darkness grew inside him. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was in love with that hairy ape, that Neanderthal. His distress was sharp and acute. Suddenly, the smile left Priscilla’s face and she looked about her and then at the trees.
Hamish crept silently away. He felt numb. Misery dragged at his feet like clay as he walked back to the Land Rover.
He drove very carefully back to Lochdubh, drove like a drunk man trying to sober up.
Then he saw a large dusty removal van outside the Willets’s house. The newcomers had arrived.
Rather than be alone with himself and his thoughts, Hamish drove straight to the house and parked beside the van. A couple, a tall, rather elegant woman and a big shambling man, were unloading bits and pieces.
“Need any help?” he asked. “I’m Hamish Macbeth, the local bobby.”
The woman wiped her hand on her trousers and held it out. “Trixie Thomas,” she said, “and this is my husband, Paul.”
She was almost as tall as Hamish. She had long brown hair which curled naturally on her shoulders and brown eyes, very large with bluish whites. Her mouth was thin and her teeth, rather prominent when she smiled, very white. Hamish judged her to be about forty-five. Her husband, a large bear of a man with a crumpled clown’s face, looked like a fat man who had recently been on a severe diet. His skin looked baggy as if it was meant to stretch across a fatter frame. He had little black eyes and a big mouth and a squashed nose.
“Are you managing?” asked Hamish.
“We’re doing our best,” sighed Trixie. “But it is hot. We rented this removal van. Couldn’t afford the professionals so I suppose we’ll have to manage…somehow.” Her eyes grew wider and her mouth drooped and her hands fluttered in a helpless gesture.
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Hamish. He removed his peaked cap and rolled up the sleeves of his blue regulation shirt.
“Oh, would you?” breathed Trixie. “Poor Paul is so helpless.” She had a breathless sort of voice, marred by a faint Cockney whine.
Hamish glanced at Paul to see how he liked being described as helpless but the big man was smiling amiably.
Glad of something to take his mind off his troubles, Hamish worked steadily. He and Paul loaded in the furniture and the bric-a-brac and books while Trixie walked about the house showing them where to put things. “We’ll need more furniture,” she said. “We’re both on the dole and we decided to turn this into a bed and breakfast.”
“Aye, well, if you’re quick about it, you might get the tourists for July and August,” said Hamish. “And if you want any secondhand stuff, there’s a good place over at Alness. It’s a bit of a drive…”
Trixie’s mouth drooped again. “We haven’t a penny left for furniture,” she said. “I was hoping some of the locals might have some bits and pieces they don’t want.”
“Maybe I’ve got something I can let you have.” said Hamish. “When we’ve finished, come over to the station and I’ll make you something to eat.”
He regretted the invitation as soon as it was out of his mouth. Although by no means a vain man, he had a feeling Trixie was making a pass at him. She was emanating a sort of come-hither sexiness, occasionally bumping into him as if by accident, and giving him a slow smile.
He regretted his invitation even more when the couple arrived at the police station. While he was cooking in the kitchen, Trixie wandered off into the other rooms without asking permission and was soon back, her face a little flushed and her eyes wider than ever. “I notice you don’t use the fire,” she said, “and there’s that old coal scuttle. We don’t have a coal scuttle.” She smiled ruefully. “Couldn’t afford one.”
The coal scuttle had been given to Hamish by an aunt. It was an old eighteenth-century one with enamelled panels and he was very fond of it. Her eyes seemed to be swallowing him up and he was surprised at the effort it took to shake his head and say, “No, I use that the whole time in the winter. You cannae expect me to light fires in a heat wave.”
Trixie was now examining the contents of the kitchen shelves. She lifted down a pot of homemade jam and examined the label. “Strawberry! Just look, Paul. And home made. I love homemade jam.”
“Take it with you when you go,” said Hamish. She threw her arms around him. “Isn’t he delightful?” she said.
Hamish extricated himself and served the meal on the kitchen table.
He was beginning to dislike Trixie but he did not yet know why that dislike should be so intense. He turned his attention to Paul. The big man said they had decided to get out of the rat race and come north to the Highlands and maybe earn their living taking in paying guests. “There’s a lot to be done to the house,” he said, “but it shouldn’t take too long to fix, and then I thought I might start a market garden. There’s a good bit of garden there.”
“The trouble is,” said Hamish, moving his long legs to one side to avoid Trixie’s, which had been pressing against his own, “that the summers haven’t been very good and people have been taking holidays abroad. Mind you, with all the jams at the airports, they were saying on the news that people are starting to holiday in Britain again so you might be lucky.”
“We put advertisements already in the Glasgow Herald and The Scotsman, advertising accommodation for July and August,” said Trixie.
Hamish thought that for a pair with little money it was odd that they had found enough to advertise. And it was nearly the end of June. They would need to work very hard to get the rooms ready in time.
When they stood up to go, Trixie said, “I don’t want to be a pest, but if you’ve any little thing in the way of furniture…? I mean, it’s all paid for by the government anyway.”
“Only the desk and chair, filing cabinet, and phone in the office are supplied by the police force,” said Hamish. “The living quarters are all furnished by me. I haven’t time to look at the rooms at the moment, but if I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
With a feeling of relief, he ushered them out. It was only when he was watching them make their way back to their own house that he realized with something of a shock that the weather had changed. The air felt damp and there was a thin veil of cloud covering the sun. He walked slowly round the front of the police station and stared down the loch.