Death of a Village (22 page)

‘I think we might be on a winner,’ he said. ‘Maybe if I get some good shots of the service, you can do a voice-over.’

Sharon began to feel a surge of excitement as the black-clothed villagers gathered on the harbour in front of the dazzling blue of the sea. The pretty girl in white was having a tartan sash
arranged over one shoulder by a small woman. The sash was pinned in place by a magnificent cairngorm brooch.

The minister took his place in front of the congregation and raised his hands.

‘We are gathered here together,’ he said, ‘in memory of Mrs Tyle, who was drowned in the storm. May she rest in peace. We are also gathered here to draw comfort from each other
in our suffering. You have ruined homes and ruined boats. You must wonder how you are going to cope with the dark days ahead . . .’

‘Look at those faces in the front row,’ Jerry whispered to Sharon. ‘Marvellous.’

Arranged by Hamish Macbeth, the craggiest and therefore most photogenic of the villagers had been placed in front of the minister.

‘And so,’ the minister was going on, ‘you may feel forgotten by the world in your suffering. You may feel that this is a judgement on us for having been so tricked by a bunch
of evil men. But I am asking you to have hope. There are good people in the world, and I am sure there are people who will help us. May the Lord bless you all.’

The congregation fell silent. Then Elsie Queen began to sing a Gaelic lament. Her pure clear voice soared up the hills. Several of the women began to cry openly and some of the men had tears
running down their faces. Sharon felt a lump in her throat.

When Elsie’s voice finally died away, the piper tuned up and they all sang the Twenty-third Psalm. The cameraman could feel his excitement building. Those wonderful faces, and that girl in
white contrasting with the black clothes of the rest, and the tall piper, all set against the harbour, would make tremendous pictures.

After the singing, there was a short prayer.

Sharon stepped forward to do some interviews, expecting to be rebuffed, but people talked to her movingly about their losses, about their shock, and about their shame at having been tricked by
what turned out to be holograms.

When they finally packed up and drove towards Strathbane, Jerry said, ‘We’ll get this one on the six o’clock news. You’re perfect for this, Sharon. Feel like a drink with
me afterwards to celebrate?’

‘Are you sure we’ve got something to celebrate?’

‘Sure as sure.’

She smiled at him. ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘I don’t know if my eyes were deceiving me,’ said the soundman, negotiating the big van round the hairpin bends, ‘but I thought I saw that tall copper, the one who saved
the wee girl, at the back of the congregation, but when I looked again, he had gone.’

‘Red-haired, isn’t he?’ asked Jerry.

‘Yes, and taller than most.’

‘I interviewed a tall man with red hair,’ said Sharon, ‘but he was one of the villagers.’

‘Can’t have been the copper.’

Elspeth switched on the six o’clock news to see if there were any further reports from the police in Strathbane about the wreck. Instead she found herself looking at the
pretty face of Sharon Judge introducing the service at Stoyre. Elspeth had to admit it was very moving and was furious at having missed it. As it went on, she began to feel there was something
staged about it. Then at one point the camera panned over the faces of the congregation and she got a glimpse of Hamish Macbeth’s face. Then he ducked down and was lost to view.

When it was over, she sat back in her chair, feeling angry. That service would bring the cheques rolling in from all over. The villagers could never have arranged something as photogenic as that
all by themselves. But Hamish Macbeth could have thought of it. So he wanted to advertise their plight and yet he had not even bothered to tell her.

The roses he had sent her were in a vase on her desk.

She picked them up and threw them in the wastepaper basket.

‘So we are all agreed, gentlemen,’ said Superintendent Daviot, looking down the table at the high-ranking police officers, ‘Hamish Macbeth will be transferred
to Glasgow to begin training for the CID?’

There were murmurs of assent.

‘What will happen to the police station at Lochdubh?’ asked Blair, who was delighted to find himself in such exalted company and wanted to make his presence felt.

There was a buzz of discussion and then the chief constable said, ‘Is it really necessary to keep that station open? We need to prioritize. Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan could well cover
Macbeth’s beat.’

A sharp-eyed detective chief inspector from Glasgow said, ‘Wait a bit. We’ve been looking at all the cases Macbeth has solved and only recently at that. There was the insurance fraud
in Strathbane for a start . . .’

‘That was Strathbane and that’s not on Macbeth’s patch,’ said Blair.

‘So why did it take a Highland constable from another area to solve it?’

‘Macbeth pursued the investigations because he discovered the fraud while inspecting a burglary in Braikie,’ said Daviot.

‘We’d have got on to it,’ protested Blair. ‘We didn’t really need Macbeth.’

‘Oh, really?’ said the Glaswegian. ‘But there had been previous frauds and all to do with that wine and whisky importer and you weren’t able to discover anything
then.’

Daviot flashed Blair a warning look. ‘Normally,’ he said soothingly, ‘Macbeth does not lead a very demanding existence, and we have been meeting here because we feel his
talents are being wasted in a Highland village.’

A constable entered and handed an envelope to Helen, Daviot’s secretary, who had been taking the minutes. She opened it and said, ‘Sir, I think you should read this.’

She handed it to Daviot, who studied the contents of the envelope, his face darkening.

‘I am afraid, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that this is a letter and a medical certificate from a certain Dr Brodie in Lochdubh. He says Macbeth is suffering from depression and
exhaustion and has recommended two weeks’ leave.’

‘What!’ howled Blair. ‘That man is a born liar.’

‘If he is prone to exhaustion,’ said one, ‘I feel he will not be up to the rigours of crime in the city.’

‘He’s faking,’ growled Blair, his face red with fury. ‘That doctor’s a friend of his.’

‘Helen, get Dr Brodie on the phone.’

Helen left the room and came back a few moments later. ‘I have the number. Will I get him for you, sir?’

‘No, give me the phone.’ Helen placed a phone in front of him and told him the number.

The others waited. They could hear Daviot asking questions and then he listened in silence as the doctor spoke. Finally he thanked him and said goodbye.

‘Macbeth,’ he said heavily, ‘has gone off somewhere, no one knows where. His final message was that he would be back on duty in two weeks’ time.’

‘This is rubbish . . .’ started Blair.

Daviot turned cold eyes on him. ‘Would you please wait outside?’

His face flaming, Blair left. He paced up and down outside. Oh, please, he prayed to the God he didn’t believe in, send Hamish Macbeth to Glasgow, or the Outer Hebrides, or anywhere but
Lochdubh.

He waited a long time. At last the door opened and they all filed out. Blair waited impatiently and then approached Daviot. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘Well, what?’

‘Well, sir, what’s happened?’

‘We have decided to leave Macbeth where he is for the moment. He should have reported to us. We cannot suspend him from duty, as he is such a hero. He always was a bit of a maverick.
Perhaps it would be safer to leave him where he is. No!’ He held up his hand to stifle the outburst that he could see was just about to erupt from Blair. ‘You should know when to keep
your mouth shut. There was no need for you to have attended the meeting. The least you could have done was to keep quiet and not make an exhibition of yourself. Dr Brodie is a fine man. I was over
in Lochdubh once with my wife, and our poodle, Snuffy, fell ill. The local vet was on holiday so we took poor Snuffy to Dr Brodie. He was kindness itself. He kept Snuffy overnight at the surgery
for observation and the dog was right as rain the next day. We must respect the opinion of such a man. You may go.’

Blair went off to get well and truly drunk.

Hamish, camped on a hillside, heard his mobile phone ring and answered it. It was Dr Brodie. ‘That friend of yours, Jimmy Anderson, called. You’re off the hook, so
enjoy your holiday.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘You should be thanking your boss’s dog. That animal fell sick once and I looked after it and gave it back to him, cured, the next day. He thinks I’m a genius.’

‘What was up with it?’

‘I did a bit of detective work myself and found the Daviots had been at the Italian restaurant where Willie Lamont, it turned out, had said he would look after the animal in the kitchen
and fed the brute to bursting point. All I did was let the beast sleep it off. So what are you doing now?’

‘Camping. Just me and Lugs. Peace and quiet. Have you seen anything of Elspeth?’

‘The reporter? No. Why? She’s never ill.’

‘I phoned her a couple of times and she just hung up on me.’

‘You always were unlucky in love,’ said the doctor, and roared with heartless laughter.

Hamish walked the rest of the day and then went back to a camping spot next to a river where he had parked the Land Rover that morning. He set up his tent, got out his camping
stove, and started to fry sausages. ‘This is the life, eh, Lugs?’ he said, turning sausages in the pan.

Lugs wagged his tail and lolled his tongue and gazed eagerly at the sausages.

The sun was setting behind the mountains, going down in a blaze of glory. Hamish felt content. Worries about Priscilla’s marriage and worries about Elspeth were firmly put to the very back
of his mind. For two whole weeks, he was free from responsibility. He had seen no one all day except two hillwalkers in the distance.

After supper, he read for a while by the light of a gas lamp and then decided to turn in. He gave himself a perfunctory wash and settled down in his sleeping bag, still dressed in sweater and
trousers because it was a cold night. Lugs snuggled down at his side and soon both were fast asleep.

Hamish awoke with a start in the middle of the night, all his senses suddenly alert. He automatically felt for Lugs’s rough coat and, not finding the dog, struggled out
of his sleeping bag. He lit the gas lamp. No dog.

And then he froze. The tent flap opened and a man crawled in. He was holding a pistol. ‘Don’t make a move,’ he said. He had several days’ growth of beard. He was wearing
an anorak over black trousers that Hamish noticed bore white marks of salt. He was small and wiry with a long thin face and black eyes which glittered dangerously in the light of the camping
lamp.

‘My dog?’ asked Hamish through dry lips. ‘What have you done with my dog?’

‘Quiet, isn’t he?’ sneered the man.

That accent! ‘You’re German,’ said Hamish. ‘You were with the diving team.’

‘And I recognize you from the newspapers,’ the German said. His voice was light and his English perfect. ‘So this is the policeman who wrecked all our plans.’

‘How did you make it to shore?’

‘Because I didn’t weight myself down with gold bars like the rest. Now, you are going to make me something to eat. I have you covered.’

Keep him talking, thought Hamish. The tent was low, so he had to move doubled up. ‘I’d be better to take the stove outside,’ he said.

‘No. Here!’

Hamish pumped up the stove and lit it and put the frying pan on top of it. ‘I have bacon and eggs,’ he said.

‘That’ll do.’

‘And then what?’ asked Hamish.

‘Then I will kill you and take your police vehicle.’

Hamish looked at the gun. ‘We’re not very up on guns in the Highlands,’ he said, his voice soft and amiable as if entertaining a friend. ‘What kind is it?’

The man laughed. ‘You’re brave. It’ll be a pity to kill you. This, my friend, is an HS 2000 semi-automatic pistol, made in Croatia. It’s the best of its kind
anywhere.’

The fat was hot. Hamish laid in two rashers of bacon. This man may kill me but I’ll try to at least damage him first, he thought. He knew that the landscape for miles around was empty of
habitation, and who was going to come by in the middle of the night?

And then he heard voices. He could hardly believe his ears. Then a woman saying loudly, ‘Shine your torch. It’s a dog. He’s wounded.’

The man swore. ‘Move outside and join them. Fast!’

Hamish switched off the stove and moved forward through the tent flap, carrying the gas lamp with him. The light shone down on Lugs. The dog was lying still, a nasty-looking wound on his head.
Hamish could feel rage boiling up inside him. Two figures were crouched down beside Lugs. A man and a woman. They were probably the hillwalkers he had seen earlier.

The man was shining a torch on Lugs. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.

‘Get to your feet,’ ordered the German, ‘and put your hands on your head.’

Startled, they rose up, and stood staring at the gun.

‘You join them,’ the German said to Hamish. ‘Back against the Land Rover. It looks as if I’ll have to kill all of you,’ he said.

‘Don’t you want to eat first?’

He grinned. ‘You’re a cool one. I can cook for myself.’

‘Did you hit that dog?’ asked the woman, tears starting to her eyes.

‘Had to silence it. Lured it out of the tent with a bit of cheese. I’ve been stalking this man all day.’

‘Shoot him but let us go,’ cried the woman. ‘We won’t say anything.’

‘What were you doing walking the hills in the middle of the night?’ asked Hamish.

‘We’re on our honeymoon,’ she said. ‘We thought it would be so romantic to walk under the stars.’