Josie returned to her room and changed into her dressing gown, found a pound coin, and went back to the bathroom. She put the coin in the metre and twisted the dial, then turned on the water. There was a hiss of gas. She fumbled anxiously with the box of matches, lit one, and poked it into the metre. There was a terrifying bang as the gas lit but the stream of water became hot.
The bath was old and deep and took about half an hour to fill. At last, she sank into it and wondered what she was going to do about Hamish Macbeth. Perhaps the village women at the church hall could fill her in with some details.
Hamish Macbeth crowed over the phone to Jimmy Anderson. “I’m telling you, I give that lassie two days at the most. By the time Mrs. Wellington’s finished with her, she’ll be crying for a transfer back to Strathbane.”
Josie decided that evening to dress in her uniform to give herself a bit of gravitas. She still felt hungry. She was used to dinner in the evening, not the high tea served in homes in Lochdubh. She had eaten a small piece of fish with a portion of canned peas and one boiled potato followed by two very hard tea cakes.
To her relief, there were cakes, sandwiches, and tea on offer at the village hall. Mrs. Wellington introduced her all round. Josie wondered if she would ever remember all the names. One woman with a gentle face and wispy hair stood out-Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife-and two fussy old twins called Nessie and Jessie Currie.
Over the teacups, Nessie and Jessie warned her that Hamish Macbeth was a philanderer and to stick to her job, but Angela rescued her and said, mildly, that usually the trouble started because of women pursuing Hamish, not the other way around.
Josie tossed her newly washed hair. She had carried her cap under her arm so as not to spoil the hairstyle. She was angry with Hamish for billeting her at the manse and spoiling her dreams. “I can’t see what anyone would see in the man,” said Josie. “He’s just a long drip with that funny-looking red hair.”
“Hamish Macbeth is a friend of mine and, may I add, your boss,” said Angela, and she walked away.
Josie bit her lip in vexation. This was no way to go about making friends. She hurried after Angela. “Look here, that was a stupid thing to say. The fact is I don’t really want to stay at the manse. It’s a bit like being in boarding school. I’m angry with Hamish for not finding me somewhere a bit more congenial.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” said Angela. “Hamish covers a huge beat. You’ll be out all day.”
The next morning, Hamish presented Josie with ordnance survey maps and a long list of names and addresses. “These are elderly people who live alone in the remoter areas,” he said. “It’s part of our duties to periodically check up on them. You won’t be able to do it all in one day or maybe two. We only have the one vehicle so you’ll need to use your own. Give me any petrol receipts and I’ll get the money back for you.”
Josie longed to ask him what he was going to do, but had decided her best plan was to be quiet and willing until he cracked. And she was sure he would crack and realise what wife potential he had under his highland nose.
She gave him her mobile phone number and set out, deciding to try some of the faraway addresses first. Josie drove along, up and down the one-track roads of Sutherland, lost in a happy dream.
The hard fact was that she should never have joined the police force. But a television drama, The Bill, had fired her imagination. By fantasising herself into the character of a strong and competent policewoman, she had passed through her training fairly easily. Her sunny nature made her popular. She had not been in Strathbane long enough for any really nasty cases to wake her up to the realities of her job. She baked cakes for the other constables, asked about their wives and families, and generally made herself well liked. She was given easy assignments.
Then one day after she had been in Strathbane only a few weeks, Hamish Macbeth strolled into police headquarters. Josie took one look at his tall figure, flaming red hair, and hazel eyes and decided she was in love. And since she was already in love with some sort of Brigadoon idea of the Highlands, she felt that Hamish Macbeth was a romantic figure.
Hamish Macbeth began to receive telephone calls from people in the outlying crofts praising Josie McSween. She was described as “a ray of sunshine,” “a ministering angel,” and “a fine wee lassie.”
As there was no crime on his beat and Josie was covering what would normally be his duties, Hamish found himself at liberty to mooch around the village and go fishing.
During the late afternoon, with his dog and cat at his heels, he strolled around to see his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. Angela was a writer, always in the throes of trying to produce another book. She typed on her laptop at the kitchen table where the cats prowled amongst the lunch debris which Angela had forgotten to clear away.
“You’ll need to lock your beasts in the living room,” said Angela. “Sonsie frightens my cats.”
“I’ll let them run outside,” said Hamish, shooing his pets out the door. “They’ll be fine. How’s it going?”
“Not very well. I had a visit from a French writer. One of my books has been translated into French. She spoke excellent English, which is just as well because I have only school French. I think I upset her.”
“How?”
“Pour yourself some coffee. It’s like this. She talked about the glories of being a writer. She said it was a spiritual experience. She said this must be a marvellous place for inspiration. Well, you know, writers who wait for inspiration get mental block. One just slogs on. I said so. She got very high and mighty and said I could not be a real writer. She said, ‘Pouf!’ ”
“Meaning?”
“It’s that sort of sound that escapes the French mouth when they make a moue of contempt.”
“I haven’t seen a tourist here in ages,” said Hamish, sitting down opposite her. “The Americans can’t afford to come this far and the French are tied up in the credit crunch.”
“By the way she was dressed, she had private means. I bet she published her books herself,” said Angela. “How’s your new copper?”
“Rapidly on her way to becoming the saint o’ Sutherland. I sent her off to check on the isolated folks and they’ve been phoning me up to say how marvellous she is. Every time I go back to the police station, there’s another one ringing in wi’ an accolade.”
Angela leaned back in her chair. “What’s she after?”
“What do you mean?”
“A pretty little girl like that doesn’t want to be buried up here in the wilds unless she has some sort of agenda.”