“It’s Willie,” he said. “Cleaning again. I cannae call my house my own.”
“You’re too easygoing, Hamish,” said Priscilla firmly. “You should put your foot down. Find him something to do.”
“Well, I was thinking of phoning the superintendent and pointing out that there is not the work here for two men.”
“And then what would happen?” demanded Priscilla. “The police station would be closed down and you would be moved to Strathbane and you would hate that. I mean, it’s not as if you want to be demoted, is it?”
“As a matter o’ fact that waud suit me chust fine,” said Hamish, whose Highland accent became more marked when he was upset. “I had the good life afore the last murder and I should ha’ let Blair take the credit for solving it.” Detective Chief Inspector Blair was the bane of Hamish’s life, but in the past he had let him take the credit for solving cases, not wanting any promotion to disturb his calm life. But at the end of the last case, during which Blair had been more than usually obnoxious, Hamish had cracked and told the superintendent that he had solved the case himself and so the result had been promotion to sergeant – and the arrival of Willie.
“Oh, Hamish, you’re just saying that.”
“No, I am not. I had the fine life afore I got these wretched stripes. I want Willie and his scrubbing brush out and I don’t know how tae go about it.”
She sat down on a high stool behind the counter and crossed her legs. They were excellent legs, thought Hamish not for the first time, but he wasn’t going to be daft enough to fall in love with her again. He had enough trouble in his life with Willie.
“Look,” said Priscilla, “here’s something we could do.”
Hamish brightened at the sound of that ‘we’. He found another stool and perched on it, facing her over the glass counter. There was a sample bottle of a scent called Mist o’ the Highlands. He sprayed some on his hand and sniffed it. It was very strong and very sweet and cloying.
“Pooh,” he said, scrubbing at his hand.
“Can’t you leave any free sample alone?” said Priscilla. “You’ll smell of that stuff for weeks. Believe me, I’ve tried it. It’s immune to soap and water. Now about Willie. He’s a bachelor, right?”
“Aye, and likely to remain so,” said Hamish with feeling. “What woman can compete with all thon cleaning and polishing and cooking? Besides, he’s a terribly finicky eater.”
“That doesn’t matter. An awful lot of people are finicky eaters, and there are a lot of women who would be delighted to have a housekeeper.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Find him a wife,” said Priscilla. “If he gets married, there’s no room in that station for a married couple. They’d need to find him new quarters.”
Hamish’s face brightened. Then it fell. “Who is there who would even look at the beast?”
“We’ve got a new hotel receptionist. Doris Ward’s her name. Prissy, fussy, competent, not all that good-looking. Invite Willie up to the castle tonight and we’ll all have dinner. It’ll start his meeting females anyway.”
“All right,” said Hamish. “I’ll try anything.”
He was driving back slowly through the village but he slowed to a mere crawl as he saw a vision standing outside Napoli, the new Italian restaurant. The vision was shaking out a duster. She had an old–fashioned figure, that is, she had a voluptuous bust, a tiny waist and a saucy plump backside. She was wearing a short, skimpy black dress over which was tied a frilly checked apron. She had a heart-shaped face, a tiny nose and a wide soft mouth. Her hair was a riot of dusky curls. She was wearing very high heels and she had firm-muscled calves, like you see on dancer’s legs.
Must be one of old Ferrari’s relatives, thought Hamish. Mr Ferrari was a Scottish Italian, that is, his father had settled in Scotland at the turn of the century. From his father, Mr Ferrari had inherited a prosperous restaurant in Edinburgh, but having retired and turned it over to his sons, he found time lying heavy on his hands. And so he had started the restaurant in Lochdubh and staffed it with remoter relatives from Italy.
Hamish arrived at the police station in time to meet Willie, who had his uniform on and was preparing to leave.
“Where are you off to?” asked Hamish.
“There’s gypsies up on the field at the back o’ the manse,” said Willie.
Hamish’s eyes narrowed. “An old bus?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll come with you. They’re not gypsies but travellers.”
“Commercial travellers, sir?”
“No, I’ll tell you about them as we go along.”
Sure enough, there was the bus in the grassy field behind the manse.
Followed by Willie, Hamish knocked at the door. Cheryl opened it. “Two pigs,” she said in disgust.
“Here now,” said Willie, “there is no reason at all, at all to be using nasty words.”
“Go screw,” said Cheryl, and then, suddenly, she covered her face with her hands and began to sob pathetically, saying between her sobs, “Why are you always persecuting me?”
“And just what do you think you are doing, Sergeant?” demanded a wrathful voice from behind Hamish. He swung round. Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, stood there, and behind her was Sean, rocking lightly on his heels, a mocking look in his green eyes.
“I am moving these people on,” said Hamish.
“You have no right to do any such thing,” said Mrs Wellington wrathfully. “I gave this young man permission to put his bus here, and that is all there is to it. These poor young people are hounded from pillar to post by bureaucratic monsters like yourself, Hamish Macbeth. These people of the road should be admired for their life-style.”
“If you have given your permission,” said Hamish, “then that is all right. But I shall be calling on you later.”
As he walked off with Willie, he heard behind him Sean’s light, amused laugh. “Get on to Strathbane,” said Hamish to Willie, “and see if they have anything on their files on Sean Gourlay and Cheryl Higgins.”
“Herself was a bit dirty-mouthed,” said Willie, “but he seemed nice enough.”
“He’s as bad as she is and I have the feeling that he’s dangerous.”
“Well, now, sir, I am in the way of being a student o’ human nature,” said Willie. “I took a correspending course in the psychotry.”
“A correspondence course in psychiatry,” corrected Hamish, who always felt he was fighting a losing battle against Willie’s mistakes and malapropisms.
“Didn’t I just say that?” demanded Willie, aggrieved. “Well, I would say from my experience that Sean Gourlay is just a regular, normal fellow.”
“Never mind. Check up on him anyway,” said Hamish. “And by the way, we’re invited up to the castle for dinner tonight by Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
“But we cannae dae that, sir,” said Willie patiently. “That waud mean two of us off duty.”
“We leave a note on the door o’ the police station to say where we are,” said Hamish, striving for patience. “What’s going to happen in Lochdubh? The same as all the nights since you’ve been here…nothing at all.”
“Well, I suppose…” Willie’s voice trailed away and his mouth fell open. They had arrived outside the Italian restaurant and the beauty Hamish had seen earlier was down on her knees scrubbing the restaurant steps, her bottom waggling provocatively with each movement of the scrubbing brush. “That’s something you dinnae say these days,” said Willie, staring in admiration.
“What? A bum like that?” asked Hamish.
“No, a woman down on her knees scrubbing. I thought they were exstinked.”
“Nice day,” said Hamish loudly, raising his cap. The girl turned and looked up and then got to her feet, wiping her soapy hands on her apron.