“Don’t be silly,” said Priscilla coolly. “Look, there’s two women about to come in. Let’s see if we can sell something for a change.”
♦
Hamish trudged on, looking for a quiet reach or pool where he could fish without being accused of poaching. The path now ran parallel to the river, but high above it. Then he saw, below him, a quiet pool surrounded by tangled undergrowth. He could sit quietly and fish and he would be able to hear any water bailiff approaching since the spot could be reached only with difficulty.
He slipped and scrambled down, with Towser slipping and scrambling down behind him.
Hamish unstrapped his rod and began to put it together. It didn’t seem such a good idea now as it had seemed earlier when the sun had been shining. It was now bitter cold, the sky was changing from light grey to dark grey, and the wind scudded across the black surface of the water.
Towser, who always seemed impervious to the cold, sat down beside his master and watched the water.
Then the dog began to shift uneasily. It let out a faint whimper, sniffed the air, and pawed at Hamish’s arm. Hamish stiffened and sniffed the air too. The wind had shifted from the west to the north-west and on it came the sickly sweet smell of decomposing corpse.
Hamish got to his feet. “Fetch,” he said to Towser, but the dog backed away, whimpering dismally.
Hamish felt a sick lurch in his stomach. If the smell had come from a rotting animal carcass, then Towser would not have been upset.
He wedged his rod between two rocks and, still sniffing the air, he began to search around. Up to the left of where he had scrambled down, the smell grew stronger. Diligently sniffing, pausing, and sniffing again, Hamish got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the close-packed undergrowth of fem and bramble and gorse.
He stopped and crouched still. The smell was now so strong it made him want to retch. And then he saw it.
A pale hand was stretching out from under a bush.
Hamish lay on his stomach and looked under the bush and the dead eyes of Sandy Carmichael stared back.
He ran back to the pool and grabbed his fishing rod and collapsed it and fled up the hill with Towser at his heels.
♦
Blair, Anderson, and MacNab arrived just as the blizzard struck. With Hamish, they huddled under the bushes by the rotting corpse waiting for reinforcements. At one moment, it seemed as if they would never come, and then they were all there, glaring lamps lighting up the dreadful scene as a tent was erected over the bush and body. Then came the pathologist, who was hailed with relief by Blair.
“Ye’ll find it a clear case o’ death from exposure,” said Blair. “He was on the run, drunk, crawled under that bush, and never woke up. Ah, well, that wraps up the case.” Blair pulled a flask from his pocket and took a stiff drink. He winked at Hamish. “Nae problem about lobsters now, lad,” he said. “The murderer’s dead and we can say what we like.”
Hamish said nothing, but watched as the pathologist crept into the tent.
After what seemed a very long time, he backed out.
“Well?” demanded Blair eagerly.
“A clear case of murder,” said the pathologist. “Struck a heavy blow on the back of the head.”
“Couldnae he hae done it hisself?” pleaded Blair.
“Of course not,” snapped the pathologist. “I shall be phoning my report to the procurator fiscal. Get photographs quick or we’ll all be snowed in.”
♦
Hamish shovelled a path to the foot of the drive the next day. He had just reached the gate when a snow-plough passed and blocked him in again, throwing up a huge wall of snow against the front gate. By the time he had cleared it, he felt sweaty and gritty. He went indoors, had a shower, changed into his uniform, and went down to the Anstey Hotel.
The blizzard, luckily for Blair, had kept most of the press away, but Hamish arrived just in time to hear Ian Gibb asking, “Who found the body?” and Blair’s reply of “Some local idiot.”
Hamish felt too angry to stay. Blair would withhold all information possible from him. He bumped into Jimmy Anderson outside the hotel. “I’m frightened to go in there,” said Anderson with a grin. “Blair’s roaring mad. His chief suspect murdered.”
“Definitely murder?”
“Oh, yes. And another thing: he had a hundred pounds on him.”
“It couldnae ha’ been his savings,” said Hamish. “A drunk like Sandy wouldn’t have been able to keep a penny.”
“Aye, and he must have been trying to blackmail the murderer. A hundred pounds would have kept his mouth shut.”
“Until the next time he was drunk,” said Hamish sadly,
“It’s no wonder he was killed.”
Anderson went into the hotel and Hamish walked down to the waterfront. The snow was thinning and he could see the other side of the loch. An army rescue helicopter stood on a flat piece of ground by the jetty, the pilot standing outside it, smoking.
Hamish ambled up to the pilot. “You aren’t dropping emergency supplies yet?” he asked.
The pilot shook his head. “There’s more bad weather coming. I’m just about to go up to pick out the houses that’ll need it most and make sure there’s no one in difficulties.”
A pale ray of sunlight struck the loch. “Are you going up right now?” asked Hamish.
The pilot stubbed out his cigarette. “Aye, I’m on my way.”
“Any chance of coming along for the ride?” asked Hamish, who had a sudden longing to soar high above Cnothan and everyone and everything in it.
“Sure, hop in.”
Hamish felt his spirits lifting as the helicopter started to rise. The clouds were rapidly thinning. He sat very still, with his hands on his knees, like a child on a fairground ride, staring down at the Christmas-card countryside with delight. The pilot began to ask questions about the murder, and Hamish answered absent-mindedly, his eyes on the white scene spread out below.
“Needn’t bother about those two cottages,” said the pilot. “They’re empty.”
Hamish could see the two houses far below and then beyond them, towards Cnothan, Mrs. Mainwaring’s bungalow. He could see Mrs. Mainwaring herself, shovelling snow.
“Would you believe it,” said the pilot. “There’s the train. I wouldn’t have thought it would have got through. They must have had a plough out on the line early this morning.”
The helicopter banked. The railway line curving out of Cnothan disappeared into the hills in a fantastic loop. In the days when it had been built, it had meandered all over Sutherland to take in the country homes and shooting lodges of the rich. Then the whole scene was blotted out as the sun disappeared and the blizzard came roaring back.
♦
Like most people in Sutherland, Hamish had not bothered to lock the door when he had left. As he trudged up to the police-station drive, which was already becoming thickly covered with snow again, he could hear voices from the kitchen.
He opened the door. Diarmuid Sinclair and Jenny were sitting drinking coffee. A huge box stood on the floor.
“Oh, Hamish,” said Jenny, “you must help. Mr. Sinclair’s bought a train set for young Scan and he wants you to put it together first to see if it works. He can’t understand the instructions and I’m no good at that sort of thing either.”
“I shouldnae be wasting time,” said Hamish guiltily.
“There’s been another murder.”
“We know. That Mrs. MacNeill just called to find out why you hadn’t arrested herself. I asked who herself was but she wouldn’t tell me.”
“She thinks the minister’s wife did it,” said Hamish, kneeling down on the floor and beginning to open the box.
“Of course she would,” said Jenny. “She’s got a crush on Mr. Struthers. Even when her husband was alive – and that was only four years ago – she was chasing the minister. This is becoming really scary. Whoever murdered Sandy and William must be a maniac.”