He walked through the town and up the grassy hillock where the war memorial stood, black against the starry sky. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. Five minutes to go. He looked up at the sky and saw that the northern lights had started to blaze in all their swirling glory. He had only seen them once before. What was it they called them in school? The aurora borealis, that was it. He felt the very heavens were celebrating the soon-to-happen escape of one Mark Lussie. Then he heard the town clock strike midnight and tore his gaze from the magnificence of the heavens and looked down the hill to watch for anyone approaching.
He never heard the step behind him. A knife was thrust savagely into the back of his neck. Rough hands searched his pockets after he had slumped to the ground and took his mobile phone. Then his assailant crept away.
Mark lay dying as the lifeblood pumped out from the wound in his neck. As the lights of the aurora borealis moved and swirled across the sky, Mark Lussie finally went on his last great journey.
Roger Burton, Barry Fitzcameron’s hit man, crouched behind the sheep shed up on Hamish’s croft. He had instructions to make it look like an accident. But he planned to wait until Hamish Macbeth was asleep, get into the station, and simply shoot him. It would be easy to get into the police station. He had noticed one of the fishermen knocking at the door, carrying two fish. When he didn’t get a reply, he had felt in the guttering above the kitchen door, taken down a key, and unlocked the door. Then he had come out a few moments later, relocked the door, and put the key back up in the gutter. Because Barry had thought Roger meant to stage an accident and because the person to be killed was a police sergeant, he had paid him generously up front. Roger meant to do the deed and clear off to Glasgow.
He waited until Hamish came back and then waited until finally the lights in the police station went off.
He was just about to make his move when the northern lights began to blaze across the sky. He suddenly felt he should leave it-just take Barry’s money and run. But he was a professional and he had a reputation to keep. No one in the criminal fraternity of Glasgow would mind that he hadn’t staged an accident.
He softly made his way towards the kitchen door.
Sonsie awoke and pricked up her tufted ears. Because of the odd telepathy between the two animals, Lugs awoke as well. Sonsie sprang down from the bed where she and the dog had been sleeping and went to the kitchen door. Her fur was raised. Hamish was to wonder afterwards why Lugs had not barked.
They heard the key in the door. Roger loomed up in front of them. When he saw the two animals he raised his gun but Sonsie, the wild cat, flew up at his face and tore her sharp claws down it while Lugs bit his leg. He howled and dropped the rifle.
Hamish came running in. He picked up the rifle and ordered, “Stay there or I’ll shoot.”
He scrabbled in the pocket of his coat hanging on the back of the door and produced a pair of handcuffs. “Over on your back,” he shouted.
Roger rolled over, yelling, “I can’t see.”
“It’s the blood,” said Hamish, clipping on the handcuffs. He grabbed his mobile from the kitchen table and called for help.
It was to be a long night. The deep scratches on Roger’s face were tended to by the medical officer before he was judged fit for questioning. But Roger remained silent apart from saying he was going to sue Hamish Macbeth for the damage to his face. He would not say that anyone had hired him to kill Hamish. Hamish waited in the detectives’ room because Blair would not allow him to be part of the interview. He had asked them to find out Roger’s address so that the place could be searched before anything was destroyed but Blair had snarled at him that he was not in charge of the case and to type up his report.
When Jimmy finally appeared, Hamish said desperately, “Have you an address? We’ve got to get round there. There may be something in his place that connects him to Barry Fitzcameron.”
Jimmy rubbed the bristles on his foxy face. “I’m tired. We’ve been up all night, Hamish.”
“Let’s just do it ourselves,” pleaded Hamish.
“Oh, all right. It’s a house in Boroughfield, that suburb at the edge o’ the town.”
But when they got there, it was to find the blackened shell of what had been Roger’s home being checked by a fire inspector.
“I’m sorry, Hamish,” said Jimmy wearily. “We should ha’ listened to you. Go home.”
Before he went to bed, Hamish locked the door. As he fell asleep, he was dimly aware of Josie shouting through the letter box.
Josie was alarmed when she did not get a reply. She phoned police headquarters and learned of the attempt on Hamish’s life. Then she was told to hold on. Police Sergeant Mary Southern came on the line.
“Get over to Braikie right now and we’ll join you. A body’s been found at the war memorial.”
Josie scribbled a note to Hamish and pushed it through the letter box before driving as fast as she could to Braikie. Trails of dark cloud were streaming in from the Atlantic, and the wind had begun to rise.
She stopped in the main street, asked for directions to the war memorial, and then set off again. As she climbed the hill to the memorial, she could see that a small crowd had gathered. She pulled a roll of police tape and some posts out of the car and set off up the hill, shouting, “Get back! It’s a crime scene.”
The little crowd backed away as she secured the site. Then she went forward and looked down at the body. Here was no horror such as she had seen when she had viewed Annie’s body. Mark Lussie lay as if at peace, his sightless eyes staring up at the windy sky.
“Who found the body?” asked Josie, walking back to the crowd.
A tall man stepped forward. “That’s me,” he said.
“Name?”
“Alec Templar. I wass up the brae looking after my sheep and I saw what I thocht was clothes by the memorial and went for a look. Poor wee laddie.”
Josie felt the experience of being in sole charge of a murder case was very exciting, but it was short-lived. Police, detectives, and SOCO headed by Superintendent Daviot came hurrying up the brae.
Daviot glared at Josie. “Why aren’t you suited up?”
“I was rushing to secure the crime scene,” said Josie.
“Don’t ever make such a mistake again. Where’s Macbeth?”
“There was an attempt on his life last night and-”
“I know that. So where is he?”
“I think he must be asleep.”
“Then get over to Lochdubh and wake him up. I need him here.”
“I know the deceased,” said Josie tremulously. “We interviewed him yesterday.”
“Name and address?”
Josie gave them to him. “Shall I go and tell the parents?”
“Just get Macbeth here!”
Josie drove miserably back to Lochdubh and hammered on the police station door. She jumped as a voice behind her said, “There’s a spare key on a hook at the back of the henhouse. He used tae leave it in the gutter, but he changed it. He telt it tae me the ither day.”
She swung round. A small man in a very tight suit stood looking at her. “I’m Archie Maclean,” he said. “Friend o’ Hamish’s.”
“I’ve got to wake him up,” said Josie. “He’s wanted over at Braikie.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Archie. “I only came for a wee crack.”
Josie found the key and let herself in. She decided that instead of shouting to wake him, she would go into the bedroom and gently shake him by the shoulder. It was an intimate scenario.
She went into the bedroom. The dog and cat were at the end of the bed. The large cat arched her back and hissed while her yellow eyes blazed. The dog barked.
“Hamish!” screamed Josie, darting out the door and slamming it behind her before the cat could spring.