Death of a Dreamer (25 page)

He dialled.

Deep in the heather, protected from the elements, down below Geordie’s Cleft, Effie’s phone, which she had charged up on the night she met her death, began to ring.

Like a faint cry for help, it shrilled tinnily out into the soft clear highland light.

But there was no one to hear it.

Not even the ghost of a dreamer.

If you enjoyed
Death of a Dreamer,
read on for the first chapter of the next book in the
Hamish Macbeth
series . . .

The letter lay on the doormat just inside the kitchen door of the police station in Lochdubh.

Police Constable Hamish Macbeth picked it up and turned it over. From the address on the back, he saw it was from Elspeth Grant. Elspeth worked as a reporter on a Glasgow newspaper, and he had
once considered proposing marriage to her but had dithered and left it too late.

He carried the letter into the kitchen and sat down at the table. His cat, Sonsie, stared at him curiously, and his dog, Lugs, put his paw on his master’s knee and looked up at him with
his odd blue eyes.

‘What’s she writing to me about?’ wondered Hamish aloud. Personal letters were rare and curious things nowadays when most people used e-mails or text messages. He opened it
reluctantly. Elspeth always made him feel guilty. She had once jeered at him that he was married to his dog and cat.

‘Dear Hamish,’ he read, ‘I have a few weeks holiday owing and would like to come back to Lochdubh. As I can now afford it, I shall be staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel.
Knowing your vanity, I am sure you will think that I am pursuing you. That is not the case. I am not interested in you or your weird animals any more.

‘This letter is just to clear matters up. Yours, Elspeth.’

‘Now, there wass no need to write such a thing,’ said Hamish, scratching his fiery hair. ‘No need at all.’ The sibilance of his accent showed he was upset. ‘Herself
can chust keep out of my way, and that’ll suit me chust fine.’

But he was hurt and he felt guilty. He had treated her badly, blowing hot and cold, and the last frost had been caused by the news that his ex-fiancée, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, was
returning to work at the Tommel Castle Hotel, owned by her parents. He could never quite rid himself of the attraction Priscilla held for him. But she had come, seen him infrequently, and then
after a month had left again for London. He crumpled up the letter and left it on the table just as someone knocked at the door.

When he opened it, he looked down at the squat figure of Mrs Mavis Gillespie. Mrs Gillespie was a charwoman, although in these politically correct days, she was referred to as ‘my
maid’. She was considered an amazingly good cleaner. Hamish remembered with a sinking feeling that he had won her services in a church raffle.

She bustled past him into the kitchen and took off her coat. Mrs Gillespie was a round little woman in her fifties with rigidly permed grey hair, ruddy cheeks, and a long mean mouth. She was
carrying a metal bucket and an old-fashioned mop.

Hamish did not like her. ‘I’ve decided you don’t need to do anything,’ he said. ‘The place is clean enough.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ She glared around. ‘This place needs a good scrub, and what would Mrs Wellington say?’

Mrs Wellington was the formidable wife of the minister.

‘All right,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll be off for a walk.’

‘And take your beasties wi’ you,’ she called to his retreating back. ‘They fair gie me the creeps.’

‘Women!’ muttered Hamish as he strolled along the waterfront, followed by his dog and cat. He knew that the households Mrs Gillespie worked for probably all had
buckets and mops, but she carried her own around with her like weapons. He had once called on Mrs Wellington when Mrs Gillespie was cleaning and had winced at the clatter and banging as she slammed
her bucket against the furniture and knocked out cables from the back of the television set with her mop.

Why the redoubtable Mrs Wellington should put up with such behaviour was beyond him. Then he realized that he himself had shown cowardice.

He knew Mrs Gillespie to be a gossip. Everyone in the north of Scotland gossiped, but Mrs Gillespie was malicious. If there was anything bad to say about anyone, she would say it. He felt he
should go back and order her out, but as he gazed out over the still sea loch to the forest on the other side, a feeling of tranquillity overcame him. He watched seagulls squabbling over the
harbour.

Behind him, peat smoke rose lazily from the chimneys of the little whitewashed cottages along the waterfront. Lugs lay across his boots, and Sonsie leaned against his uniformed trouser leg.

The great thing about the peace of Lochdubh, thought Hamish dreamily, was that it acted like a balm on the soul. The guilt and worry about that letter from Elspeth faded away. As for Mrs
Gillespie, let her get on with it. There wasn’t much at the police station that she could break.

It was autumn in the Highlands of Scotland, and the rowan trees were heavy with scarlet berries. The locals still planted rowan trees outside their houses to keep the witches and goblins at bay.
People said, as they said every year, that the berries were a sign of a hard winter to come, and therefore they occasionally got it right.

Pale sunlight glinted on the water of the loch. A seal surfaced and swam lazily past.

Hamish felt suddenly hungry. He decided to put his animals in the police Land Rover and motor up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to see if he could cadge a sandwich from the kitchen.

Hamish was met in the foyer of the hotel by the manager, Mr Johnson. ‘What brings you?’ asked Mr Johnson. ‘The only murders here now are the fake ones on
these murder weekends where everyone gets to play Poirot.’

Hamish did not want to say outright that he would like something to eat, so he asked instead for news of Priscilla.

‘Still down in London.’ Mr Johnson eyed the tall, gangly figure of the red-haired policeman suspiciously. ‘I suppose you want a cup of coffee.’

‘Aye, that would be grand,’ said Hamish, ‘and maybe a wee something to go with it.’

‘Like a dram?’

‘Like a sandwich.’

‘You’re a terrible moocher, Hamish, but come into my office and I’ll send for something.’

Soon Hamish was happily demolishing a plate of ham sandwiches while surreptitiously feeding some of them to his dog and cat.

‘Did you come up here for a free feed?’ asked the manager.

‘I’ve been driven out of my station,’ said Hamish. ‘I won the services of that Gillespie woman in a raffle.’

‘Oh, my. Couldn’t you get rid of her?’

‘Too scared,’ mumbled Hamish through a sandwich.

‘The trouble is,’ said Mr Johnson, ‘that nobody wants to go out cleaning these days. Now that the big new supermarkets have opened in Strathbane, they prefer to work there. The
staff here has mostly changed. Most of them are from eastern Europe. Mind you, they’re good. But those names! All consonants.’

‘Who does the Gillespie woman work for these days?’

‘Let me see, there’s old Professor Sander at Braikie. Also in Braikie, Mrs Fleming and Mrs Styles, then Mrs Wellington here, and a Mrs Barret-Wilkinson at Styre.’

Styre was a village to the south of Lochdubh. ‘I havenae been in Styre in ages,’ said Hamish.

‘Why not? It’s on your beat.’

‘I’m thinking the whole of damned Sutherland is on my beat these days. Besides, there’s never any crime in Styre.’

‘By the way,’ said the manager, looking slyly at Hamish, ‘we’ve a booking for Miss Grant.’

Hamish pretended indifference, although he could feel his tranquillity seeping away. ‘Herself must be earning a fair whack to be staying here,’ he said.

The Tommel Castle Hotel had once been the private residence of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, but faced with bankruptcy, the colonel had turned his home into a hotel because of Hamish’s
suggestion, although he still claimed the bright idea had been all his own. The hotel was one of those pseudo-Gothic castles built in the nineteenth century when Queen Victoria had made living in
Scotland fashionable.

‘Not bothered about her coming up?’ asked Mr Johnson.

‘Not a bit,’ lied Hamish. ‘I’ll be off. Thanks for the sandwiches.’

He hung around the village until he saw Mrs Gillespie leaving. She drove off in her old battered Ford. Filthy smoke was exiting from the exhaust. Hamish stepped out on to the
road and held up his hand.

She screeched to a halt and rolled down the window.

‘Whit?’

‘Your exhaust is filthy. Get to a garage immediately and get it fixed, or I’ll have to book you.’

By way of reply, she let in the clutch and stamped on the accelerator. Hamish jumped back as she roared off.

Back inside the police station, he looked gloomily around. The kitchen floor was gleaming with water which should have been mopped up. The air stank of disinfectant. Then he looked at the
kitchen table. The letter from Elspeth, which he had crumpled up and left there, had gone.

He searched the rubbish bin, but it had been already emptied. He had heard stories that Mrs Gillespie was a snoop.

He decided to drive over to Braikie, where she lived, on the following day and confront her. He guessed she would protest that it was a crumpled piece of paper and she had just been clearing up,
but he thought that he and others had been cowardly long enough.

Then Hamish swore under his breath. He had forgotten to lock the police station office. He went in. The cables had been detached from the computer. He replugged them and then looked around the
office, glad that he had at least locked the filing cabinet.

He went back to the kitchen, got out his own mop, and cleaned up the water from the kitchen floor. The work made him relax and count his blessings. With police stations closing down all over the
place, he had still managed to survive.

But down in a bar in Strathbane, Detective Chief Inspector Blair was wondering again how he could winkle Hamish Macbeth out of that police station of his and get him moved to
the anonymity of Strathbane, where he would just be another copper among many. As he sipped his first double Scotch of the day, Blair dreamed of getting Hamish put on traffic duty.

‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic,’ said a hearty voice beside him. A man had just come up to the bar. Blair squinted sideways and looked at him. He was balding on the front, with
the remainder of his grey hair tied back in a pony-tail. He had a thin face, black-rimmed glasses, and a small beard. He was dressed in a blue donkey jacket and jeans, but he was wearing a collar
and tie.

‘Are you from the television station?’ asked Blair.

‘Aye. Who are you?’

Blair held out a fat mottled hand. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Blair.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Phil McTavish, head of documentaries.’

Blair thought quickly, the whisky-fuelled cogs of his brain spinning at a great rate. In the past, Hamish Macbeth had always sidestepped promotion, knowing that promotion would mean a transfer
to Strathbane. But what if there were to be a flattering documentary about Hamish? The top brass would feel they really had to do something, and he could swear they had a party every time another
village police station was closed down, sending more money into their coffers.

‘It’s funny meeting you like this,’ said Blair, giving Phil his best oily smile. ‘I’ve got a great idea for a documentary.’

The following day Hamish had to postpone his trip to Braikie. He had been summoned by his boss, Superintendent Peter Daviot, to police headquarters for an interview.

The day suited his mood. The brief spell of good weather had changed to a damp drizzle. Wraiths of mist crawled down the flanks of the mountains.

Strathbane had once been a busy fishing port, but new European fishing quotas had destroyed business. Then, under a scheme to regenerate the Highlands, new businesses were set up, but drugs had
arrived before them and the town became a depressed area of rotting factories, vandalized high-rises and dangerous, violent youths.

Hamish’s spirits were low as he parked in front of police headquarters and made his way up to Daviot’s office, where the secretary, Helen, who loathed him, gave him a wintry smile
and told him to go in.

Daviot was not alone. There were two other people there: a middle-aged man with a pony-tail and a small eager-looking girl.

‘Ah, Hamish,’ said Daviot. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Mr Peter McTavish, head of Strath-bane Television’s documentary programmes.’

Hamish shook hands with him and then looked inquiringly at the girl. ‘And here is one of his researchers, Shona Fraser.’ Shona, although white, had her hair in dreadlocks. Her small
face was dominated by a pair of very large brown eyes. She was dressed in a denim jacket over a faded black T-shirt, jeans ripped at the knee and a pair of large, clumpy boots.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Blair has told Mr McTavish that your colourful character and exploits would make a very good documentary. Miss Fraser here will go around with you initially to
take notes and report back to Mr McTavish.’