“I saw Macbeth,” said Blair. “He’s in a fair taking over the way he’s been treated.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr Daviot. “He seemed so good about it all. Of course I did tell him if there was anything we could do for him to let us know.”
“As tae that, I meant to tell you, sir, that he’s been wanting the central heating for that bit o’ a polis station in Lochdubh.”
“Then arrange it! Arrange it right away!”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. How’s the lady wife, sir?”
“Tolerably well, thank you. She was delighted with the flowers you sent her.”
“Only too happy tae please, sir, you know that.”
Blair followed the superintendent down the stairs, oiling and complimenting. Superintendent Daviot saw nothing wrong with this. In fact, he enjoyed it immensely.
Blair finally got back to his desk. What had come over him to try that trick on Hamish? He had been so pleased with the job he’d done on those photographs. Now he’d had to pay Maggie and the Tullyfeathers to run for it – pay them a lot. It must have been the drink. He would never drink again. Well, maybe just the one to steady his nerves. He slid open the bottom drawer of his desk and eased the bottle out.
♦
Hamish drove slowly and carefully back to Lochdubh. It was so cold that even the salty slush on the roads was beginning to freeze hard.
A small cold moon was shining down on the snow-covered moors. He braked hard as a stag skittered across the road in front of him. He drove on through the moon landscape until he topped the rise of the road which led down to Lochdubh. Bright stars were burning above and shining in the still waters of the loch below. Home, he thought, home and comfort. A glass of whisky, light the fire, relax.
But when he pulled up at the police station it was to see the kitchen door and front door standing open and piles of furniture in the small drive at the side. From the inside came the busy sound of vacuuming.
He edged his way around the furniture and walked in. Willie was through in the living room. He was pushing the vacuum around the carpet and whistling cheerfully.
“Willie!” roared Hamish, bending down and whipping the vacuum cord so that the plug shot out of the wall.
Willie turned slowly and stared at Hamish in ludicrous dismay. “It’s yerself.”
“What the hell are you doing to my home?” demanded Hamish.
“I thought I waud give it a wee bittie o’ a spring clean,” said Willie miserably.
“Get this straight,” said Hamish. “You occupy one bedroom. The rest is mine – my furniture, my books, my carpet, my kitchen…mine, mine, mine. Put everything back the way it was, close the doors, heat the place up. You’ve got one hour to do it. And don’t ever let me see you do any housekeeping here again.”
Hamish turned and strode out. Willie blinked and looked slowly about at the ruin of his dream. Gone forever, oh lovely Regency-striped paper. Gone forever, synthetic dust-free log fire.
Hamish drove to Tommel Castle Hotel, parked and went in search of Priscilla.
She was in the hotel office, sitting in front of a computer. “Working late,” commented Hamish.
“Yes, Mr Johnson’s got a bad cold.” Mr Johnson was the manager. “Sit down, Hamish. You don’t look your usual relaxed self. What’s up?”
He told her all about Blair’s perfidy. “So,” she said when he had finished, “that’ll leave a gap in the ranks.”
“How come?”
“Well, Blair’ll be out on his ear.”
“No, he won’t. I didn’t tell Daviot I knew it was Blair.”
“Why not?”
“I told Blair to get the central heating put in instead.”
“Hamish Macbeth, no detective should be allowed to stay in the force after pulling a trick like that. Forget about the central heating. Get on to the phone now and tell Daviot you know it was Blair.”
“No point in that,” said Hamish uneasily. “He’ll have destroyed any evidence in his darkroom, and that precious pair he got to bear false witness will be long gone.”
“They can be found,” snapped Priscilla. “You know that.”
Hamish looked at her in irritation. “Look, Blair’s had it in for me for a long time. I can cope. He’s not bent when it comes to the general public. In fact, he’s quite a good policeman in his plodding way.”
“When he’s not coercing one ex-prostitute and one ex-burglar to lie for him to get you out of a job!”
“Priscilla, let it go. It’s my business, not yours.”
She eyed him coldly. “You’re a born moocher. When it comes to getting something for nothing, then you’d turn a blind eye to murder.”
“That iss going too far!”
They both stared at each other in dislike. Hamish seized his cap, which he had placed on her desk when he arrived, noticing that the brim was cracked, for it was his second-best one, his good one having been lost in the river when he rescued the boy. “I haff nothing mair tae say tae ye,” said Hamish, stalking out and spoiling the effect by knocking into an umbrella stand at the door and sending the contents flying. He picked up the assortment of walking-sticks and umbrellas and shoved them back into the uprighted stand.
Outside, he got into the car. He did not want to go straight back to the police station. He decided to call on Dr Brodie and his wife, Angela.
The doctor welcomed him, saying Angela was off at Stirling University on some course to do with her Open University degree. Hamish told him the tale of Blair and the doctor laughed appreciatively. “So you’ll be getting the central heating at last. How’s that wee moron of yours getting on?”
Correctly identifying the moron as Willie, Hamish told him of the spring cleaning of the police station. “That’s bad,” said Dr Brodie, shaking his head. He handed Hamish a glass of whisky and then shovelled two dogs off the sofa so that Hamish could find a place to sit down. “Remember when Angela had that spell of frantic cleaning? Man, it was terrible. Each house should have a little of its own family dirt. Gives the place character. I see you’ve still got your beatniks up at the back of the manse.”
“They don’t call them beatniks any more,” said Hamish gloomily, still thinking of Priscilla’s angry face. “They call themselves the travellers or new travellers and try to claim the same rights as the gypsies. That pair has me fair puzzled. You see, normally these travellers like to go around in convoys, making some landowner’s life hell. Landowner screams for the police, complains his land is being turned into a sewer, that the travellers’ children aren’t going to school and that drugs are traded openly. If he has enough power, then the police come in to move them on. Press arrive in droves. Next day letters in the papers from Church of England vicars and so on, complaining about harassing these poor innocent people, and the landowner is nothing but a bloated capitalist. A few people complain that the travellers are allowed to run around without road taxes and on bald wheels and all the other crimes for which John Smith is regularly stopped by the police and hauled over the coals, and then by the following day it’s all forgotten until the travellers cause the next batch of trouble and then it all starts up again. But this pair have admittedly an old bus, but the tax is paid and he’s got a clean licence and the tyres are good. What are they after?”
“Maybe not after anything,” said Dr Brodie, throwing another lump of peat on the ash-choked fire. “Maybe genuine drifters.”
“Then there was Priscilla’s scarf. She said he’d taken it. Mrs Wellington says she’s probably dropped it behind the counter, and sure enough, there it is.”
“Priscilla doesn’t make mistakes,” said Dr Brodie.
“No, she’s barely human, and that’s a fact,” complained Hamish.
Dr Brodie gave him a quizzical look, waiting for more, but instead Hamish said, “If only I could get some lassie to fancy Willie and take him off my hands.”