“Before I speak to you, have you a towel or something I could use on my hair?”
“Sorry, there’s just the hand drier in the toilet.”
“That’ll need to do.” Elspeth made her way across the hall and into the ladies’ toilet. She banged on the hand drier and crouched under it, occasionally reaching up to switch it on again after it had automatically switched off. At last she straightened up and fished in her capacious handbag for a brush and dragged it through her frizzy hair before going back into the hall.
“I tried to see you earlier,” she said. “I’m from the local paper. I thought this place would be full of reporters.”
“I think it would have been, but there’s a landslide on the road. Two of them tried to climb over the hill and had to be rescued. But the tide’s turned and they think they’ll get the blockage cleared soon.”
“You must have been very shocked by that video.”
Mr. Blakey sat down suddenly on a chair. “I’m frightened,” he said. “It was such an evil thing to do, and why pick on the old folks?”
“Has anyone told you or the police if anyone was seen in or around the community centre when the package was delivered?”
“The problem is that I just found the package when I opened up. That would be around five o’clock. It could have been delivered anytime during the day.”
“I saw you handing Hamish a note.”
“Yes, that came with it. I told you about that. It simply said it was a video from Help the Aged.”
“Typewritten?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, well, the police will be searching everywhere in Braikie for the typewriter that was used.”
“What worries me, too,” said Mr. Blakey, “is that they’ll be too frightened to come back for another film show. They used to love them.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Elspeth’s busy mind was already forming an appeal. Maybe raise money for a proper screen and cinematography equipment. She asked him some more questions and then said she had to file a story. She went back out into the storm and located her car, stopping on the way to buy a rain hat and a towel.
In the car, she once more dried herself and then took out her laptop, pushed back the driving seat to its limit to give herself more room, and began to type busily.
When it was finished, she sent it over and then phoned Sam, the owner and editor. She told him about her idea of an appeal to help the community centre. “Great,” said Sam. “Where’s Mallone?”
“I think he’s up at the hospital seeing Jenny.”
“Didn’t you tell him you’d already done that story? And have you a camera? Harry can’t get through. There’s a landslide.” Harry was the photographer.
“Yes, I’ve got a camera.”
“Then get a photo of Jenny and one of Hamish. Get as many photos of the locals as you can. That’s what sells this paper. And get Pat to take photos as well.”
“I doubt if he’ll have a camera.”
“I’m seriously thinking of sacking him, Elspeth.”
“Give him a talking-to first.”
“I already have. Doesn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference.”
Elspeth rang off and located her camera. She drove up to the hospital. Pat was sitting on the end of Jenny’s bed, laughing and joking and eating most of the chocolates he had brought her.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” cried Pat.
“Harry can’t get through, so I’m here to take a pic of Jenny,” said Elspeth. “Have you a camera, Pat?”
“No.”
“Well, after I take Jenny’s picture, you’d better come with me. Sam’s orders are that we’re to take as many pictures of the locals as possible and get their comments.”
“Can’t you do that?”
“It would be nice to have some help.”
Elspeth took several photographs of Jenny and then said, “Come along, Pat.”
“I don’t take orders from you,” he muttered, but he bent and kissed Jenny on the cheek and reluctantly followed Elspeth out of the hospital. “I’ll follow you down into the town,” he shouted above the roar of the wind.
Elspeth set off and parked in the main street. But when she got out of her car, there was no sign of Pat Mallone. Wearily, she set off in the direction of the post office.
To Elspeth’s delight, there were six elderly ladies clustered around the counter in front of Mrs. Harris, all chattering and exclaiming about the events of the night before. Elspeth interviewed them and then photographed them.
As Elspeth was taking the used film out of her camera and searching in her pockets for another roll, Mrs. Harris exclaimed, “Would you look at that!”
Everyone swung round in alarm. Mrs. Harris was pointing at the window. “Sunshine,” she said.
The weather of Sutherland had gone in for one of its mercurial changes. Pale yellow sunlight was flooding the street outside.
Elspeth left the shop. The wind was dropping rapidly and the clouds were rolling back. Elspeth strolled around the streets and shops, photographing and interviewing the locals, enjoying the now friendly, blustery wind and the feel of warm sun on her cheek, and all the time looking for Hamish Macbeth. At last she caught up with him as he came out of the dry cleaner’s. He was wearing the old sweater and trousers he had borrowed and carrying his cleaned and pressed uniform. Elspeth raised her camera and took his picture.
“Och, Elspeth,” said Hamish angrily. “Could ye no’ wait until I got my uniform on?”
“It’s better like this,” she said. “Have you seen Pat Mallone?”
“Not a sign.”
Elspeth sighed. “Tell you what, Hamish, my expenses aren’t that great, but they would certainly run to taking a policeman for lunch.”
“You’re on. Where?”
“What about that hotel outside Braikie where we went before?”
“Right.”
“My car’s just along there.”
“If Blair sees me,” said Hamish, glancing around, “I won’t be able to go.”
“Then hurry up!”
♦
They were just sitting down in the dining room when Elspeth’s mobile phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said to Hamish, and answered it.
“I’ll go and change into my uniform,” said Hamish. “Thank goodness I didn’t wear my cap for the rescue or I’d never have been able to get it back into shape.”
Elspeth heard Sam’s voice on the phone. “Mallone’s turned up trumps,” he said. “He’s got marvellous quotes. Better than yours. But no photos. If I give you the addresses, could you get round there and take pictures?”
“Wait till I get my notebook.” Elspeth took it out of her handbag and opened it on the table. “Fire away.”
She wrote down the names and addresses and then said cautiously, “Sam, are you sure these people exist? I mean, Mrs. McHaggis of Tavistock Street? Apart from the daft name, I don’t remember a Tavistock Street in Braikie. Tell you what, I’m having lunch with Hamish Macbeth. I’ll show him the names and addresses and get back to you.”
When Hamish returned, now in his uniform, Elspeth explianed about Pat Mallone’s quotes, names, and addresses.
“Let me see,” said Hamish.
He carefully read the list and then leant back in his chair, looking amused. “The man should be writing fiction.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know every street in Braikie and I don’t see one genuine address on this list. He’s made the lot up.”
“I suppose I’ll need to tell Sam.”
“You’ll have to. If he publishes any of that, people from Braikie will soon put him wise.”
Elspeth phoned Sam and told him that Pat had made the lot up. “That’s it,” said Sam angrily. “I’ll give him a month’s notice. That’s more than he deserves.”