He phoned his cousin on the Dally Recorder, marvelling, not for the first time, how long it took the newspaper’s switchboard to answer the call. He was told that Rory was in Paris, covering the riots.
“Is that a fact,” said Hamish cosily. He was addicted to gossipy long-distance calls. “And why is it your Paris office isn’t covering it?”
“The Paris office was closed down last year,” said the reporter at the other end. “Who is calling?”
“This is Police Constable Macbeth. Rory’s cousin.”
“Oh, you’re the one in the Highlands. Hold on a minute, till I switch on the recorder. I’d better have a word with you about this witchcraft murder.”
“I cannae say anything. Phone Chief Detective Inspector Blair at Cnothan 252,” said Hamish and dropped the receiver.
“Your steak’s ready,” said Jenny when he returned to the kitchen. “What do I do about Towser? Does he like a knife and fork?”
“I spoil him,” said Hamish awkwardly. “Put his steak beside me and I’ll cut it up for him.”
“I haven’t any wine,” said Jenny apologetically.
“I hae a bottle in the station,” said Hamish. “I’ll be back in a minute if I can get it without Blair seeing me.”
He ran out and across the road, keeping to the grass at the side of the short driveway so that his boots would not crunch on the gravel. He peered into the lounge. Blair, MacNab, and Anderson were sitting there, talking earnestly, their feet up on the glass table.
Hamish crept into the kitchen and opened the cupboard where he had put the bottle of wine. He was just about to escape when he heard Blair’s voice approaching. He jumped into the broom cupboard and closed the door behind him.
He could hear the noise of the fridge door being opened and then a hiss as Blair opened a can of beer. My beer, thought Hamish furiously.
“While we sort this thing out and wait for instructions from Inverness,” Blair shouted through to his sidekicks, “we’ll send Macbeth down to Mrs. Mainwaring with thae teeth.”
“Where is he?” Anderson’s voice came faintly.
“Bonking that artist over the road.”
Blair’s voice faded as he went back into the lounge and closed the door.
Hamish got out of the cupboard and out of the kitchen as fast as he could. He was determined his evening with Jenny Lovelace was not going to be spoiled. He ran into Jenny’s living-room and seized the phone and dialled the police-station number. After a few moments, Detective Jimmy Anderson answered it.
“Murder!” screamed Hamish in a high falsetto voice. “Sandy Carmichael is attacking me with the meat cleaver. Murder! Oh, help. This is Jeannie at the Angler’s Rest.”
He put down the phone and went to the window. Blair, Anderson, and MacNab rushed out and climbed into the Land Rover and shot off with the siren blaring.
Hamish grinned. If they thought they had got their man, they would not want Hamish Macbeth there to share in any part of the glory.
“What’s all the commotion?” asked Jenny when he entered the kitchen. “Your steak’s getting cold.”
“I don’t know,” said Hamish innocently. “Here’s the wine.”
They had a companionable meal. Hamish washed the dishes and then politely took Jenny’s hand to thank her for the meal and say good night. He didn’t know quite how it happened, but the next moment she was pressed against him and a moment after that he was kissing her passionately.
Towser watched in amazement as the trail of clothes up the stairs to Jenny’s bedroom lengthened. A pair of regulation police trousers sailed down from the top and landed on Towser’s nose. He snuffled at them dismally and then curled up on the trousers and went to sleep.
At midnight, Blair knocked furiously on the door. Towser raised his head and sniffed the air, and then lowered it onto Hamish’s trousers and went back to sleep. He knew Blair as well as his master did.
∨ Death of an Outsider ∧
6
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in,
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.
—James Henry Leigh Hunt
Hamish awoke at dawn the next morning, dazed, bewildered, and happy. He would have liked to cuddle up to Jenny and spend a lazy morning in bed, but he did not want her to become the butt of Blair’s coarse remarks, and so he dressed quickly, picking up items of clothing from the stairs, and finally rescuing his trousers from under Towser.
He made his way quietly over to the police station and was just emerging innocently from his own bedroom when Blair came looking for him.
“Where was ye last night?” howled Blair. “Getting your leg over that artist bint?”
“I wass out looking for clues,” said Hamish. “Miss Lovelace is a highly respectable lady. I am furthermore quite prepared to put my job on the line if you make any more filthy remarks about her by sinking ma fist right into your mouth.”
Blair backed before the fury in Hamish’s eyes. “Cannae ye take a joke?” he said. “Me and the others are off to stay at the Anstey Hotel doon the road. The bigwigs are comin’ up from Inverness and Edinburgh to see what we can do about keeping thae lobsters quiet. In the meantime, you take those false teeth down to Mrs. Mainwaring and let’s hear what she says.”
Blair walked into the lounge as he talked. Hamish looked around the room in dismay. The ashtrays were overflowing, and there were greasy fish-and-chip papers on the coffee-table.
“And what am I supposed to do about this mess?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, get a wumman in tae clean the place and put the bill through your expenses as something else.”
Furious as he was at the state of the place, Hamish was only too glad to get rid of Blair and his detectives. It meant he would have the phone to himself again.
He got into the police Land Rover and drove off before Blair could commandeer it. It would be just like Blair to expect him to walk the miles to Mrs. Mainwaring’s.
And before he even reached Mrs. Mainwaring, he had to quieten his conscience by looking for Sandy Carmichael. The moors were covered with searching policemen, but there might be something he, Hamish Macbeth, could find that they could not. He could not in his heart believe Sandy responsible for the murder. He called at Sandy’s cottage after scouring the highways and byways, only to retreat quickly as Blair’s furious face appeared at the window.
On his way to Mrs. Mainwaring, Hamish dropped in to see Diarmuid Sinclair. He nearly didn’t recognize him, for Diarmuid had shaved off his long beard. “Why the new image?” asked Hamish. “Doing it for your public?”
“Aye, did you see me on the television?” said Diarmuid. “Grand, that was. John took a video o’ it and showed it to me and I thought I looked that old. Forbye, I’m off to Inverness soon to buy wee Scan a present for his birthday.” Scan was Diarmuid’s grandson. “Have ye any idea what I should get?”
“How old is he?”
“Eight.”
“Well,” said Hamish, “I would just buy the bairn something you would like to play with yourself.”
He then drove on to the Mainwaring bungalow.
Mrs. Mainwaring was packing clothes, boxes and boxes of them. There were no men’s clothes among the piles lying ready for packing, but Hamish recognized the blue-and-white sailor dress. She was obviously getting rid of all the clothes her husband had chosen for her. Mrs. Mainwaring believed her husband was dead.