Death of Yesterday (23 page)

He awoke late in the morning to the sound of the telephone ringing and hammering on the door.

“It’s the press. Don’t answer any of it,” said Dick coming in with a cup of coffee. “Man, I still feel sick and I can’t seem to get the smell of burning out of my nostrils.”

“Where are Sonsie and Lugs?” asked Hamish.

“I took them up to the hotel before I went to bed and got Elspeth to look after them. You don’t want the press getting shots of your wild cat.”

“You’re a good man, Dick,” said Hamish, suddenly guilty that he had recently been wishing he could get rid of him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’d better get up and get to work. Daviot must be spitting bullets. Heather escaping twice can hardly cover the police in glory. Oh, God, there’ll be investigations and reports required. The whole of the next few months is going to be hell.”

* * *

Once Hamish had finished a long report, he and Dick, noticing that the press had gone, made their way up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. They parked at the side and made their way through the kitchen door, knowing that some of the press were probably trying to get a statement from Angus, while the rest would be over at Strathbane.

Clarry, the chef, was cooking up liver for Sonsie and Lugs, who were standing at his feet, waiting expectantly.

“We’ll just nip up the back stairs,” said Hamish.

“Had your breakfast?” asked Clarry.

“Haven’t had time to eat anything,” said Hamish.

“When you come back down, I’ll have something for you.”

“Do you know which room Elspeth is in?”

“She’s got the tower suite, her being a celebrity and all.”

Elspeth answered the door to them. “Thank goodness I know how to operate a camera,” she said. “Peter, the cameraman, went into shock and had to be sedated. I hope I don’t get into trouble with the unions. Got a good interview. Angus is as tough as old boots. I destroyed that film. I don’t suppose anyone wants that as a souvenir. If Strathbane saw that, with all the enquiries going on, they might arrest him out of spite.”

“Will you be leaving soon?” asked Hamish.

“No. A lawyer’s being flown up. We’re signing up Angus for an exclusive. I’m bone-weary, Hamish. The police have taken a statement from me, so you don’t need to bother.”

“I didnae come for that. I came to see you were all right.”

“It’ll take me a long time. I’m not as hardened as you.”

“I’m not that hardened.”

“What about that remark about the smell of roasting Heather? Another journalist would have seized on it.”

“The worse the situation, the worse the remark. I’ll hae bad dreams for a while.”

“Angus is the strongest of all of us. He believes in hellfire and in the old Celtic gods. He believes they rode down from the heavens to save him.”

“Do you think we might have dinner this evening like old times, Elspeth?”

“All right. If I don’t get too tied up here.”

“The Italian place at eight?”

“As long as you’re not hassled by reporters.”

“We should be all right. Apart from yourself, Willie Lamont doesn’t like the press. He’ll have told them it’s all booked up. Anyway, you know what they’re like. Come evening, they’ll all be in the bar up here, competing to tell the tallest story.”

Hamish and Dick enjoyed a gourmet lunch in the kitchen that left them realising they were bone-tired and hadn’t had enough sleep. They both went back to the station and to their respective beds. Hamish was sure that Jimmy would not want to contact him. Strathbane would still be coping with answers as to why Heather had escaped a second time.

In the evening, he put on his one good suit and brushed his fiery hair until it shone.

A fine drizzle was falling as he walked along to the restaurant.

Elspeth’s hair was once more smooth. She was wearing a grey cashmere sweater and jeans. But her silver Gypsy eyes surveyed him, giving his heart a lurch. No matter how sophisticated she looked, Hamish realised she would always be the Elspeth of the Highlands for him.

“I’m tired,” said Elspeth. “It’s been a long day. Just a salad for me, Willie.”

“Aye, that’ll be because of your weight,” said Willie. “You television ladies have aye got to starve yourselves.”

“I don’t put on weight,” snapped Elspeth. “I’m just too tired to eat much.”

Willie sniggered. “If you say so. But the everdupeas is a sore point for . . .”

“What the hell’s he talking about?” demanded Elspeth.

“He means avoirdupois,” said Hamish. “I’ll have the lasagne and buzz off, Willie, or I’ll put your head in the pizza oven.”

“So is Angus all signed up?”

“Signed and sealed. He drives a hard bargain. The other press don’t know yet so there won’t be any spoiling pieces about him tomorrow, and by that time he’ll be a hero. I gather the whole business about the factory is a legal muddle.”

“I’ve been asleep this afternoon,” said Hamish, “and I forgot to find out if they arrested people for the fire.”

“Not one. The whole village clammed up. Police did a house-to-house search but couldn’t find anything. Not even a smell of petrol on anyone.”

“Well, all’s well that ends so messily,” said Hamish. “Back to the quiet life. What about you? Plan to go on forever?”

“I’m a woman. I can’t. You won’t see any old female presenters. Men can go on getting grey hair and wrinkles, but women are out as soon as they show signs of age. I like the fame and the money, but occasionally I just want to chuck the lot up. It would be nice to leave while I’m at the top.”

“How’s Barry Dalrymple?”

“Not romancing any of the competition that I know of. Talking of competition . . . oh, here’s our food.”

She waited until Willie had left. She lifted a forkful of salad to her mouth and put it down again. “Hamish, did you sleep with Hannah Fleming? She said you did.”

Hamish wanted to lie. He found himself going red under her steady gaze. He sighed. “It’s like this, Elspeth. She seemed such a beauty. I neffer even listened to the lassie. I’m that ashamed. It was worse when I found everything about her seemed to be false—hair, eyelashes, breasts, teeth, you name it.”

“I wonder that didn’t put Barry off,” said Elspeth. “He swore he hadn’t slept with her. He thought she was holding out for marriage.”

Hamish poked dismally at his food.

“Don’t look sad, Hamish. You were just behaving like any other man.”

“I thought I was different,” mourned Hamish.

She leaned across and took his hand in a warm clasp. “Let’s forget about it. It’s over and done with.”

He looked into those Gypsy eyes, those silvery eyes, and grasped her hand tightly.

“Marry me, Elspeth.”

“What?”

“Why don’t we get married?”

“But what about Dick?”

“He’ll need to find somewhere else.”

“What about my career? Would you move to Glasgow?”

“No, I belong up here and so do you. Why don’t we chust get engaged and take it from there?”

“We’d need to keep quiet about it for a bit,” said Elspeth, although her eyes were shining. “If I announce I’m getting married, believe me, they’ll start looking for a replacement right away.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Hamish leaned across the table and kissed her full on the mouth. Then he sat back, feeling happy and elated.

“Let’s go and tell Dick when we’ve finished our meal.”

Dick was lounging on the sofa with the dog and the cat beside him when Hamish and Elspeth walked in. He took one look at their glowing faces and his heart sank.

“You’ve got to keep quiet about this, Dick,” said Hamish. “Be the first to congratulate us. We’re going to get married.”

Dick got slowly to his feet. “That’s just great. Will I get some drinks?”

“No, I’m taking Elspeth back to the hotel.”

“Good luck to both of you.”

Hamish and Elspeth went off.

Dick sank slowly back on the sofa and patted the cat’s large head. He looked sadly around at what he had come to think of as his little kingdom. His fingers tightened on the cat’s fur, and Sonsie gave a warning hiss.

“Over my dead body,” said Dick. “Hear that, fellows? Over my dead body.”

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,
Thou tyrant of the mind!

—John Dryden

After two days, Elspeth returned to Glasgow after bidding a passionate farewell to Hamish.

Once she was back in her old environment and back to her usual work, Lochdubh and Hamish seemed very far away. She wondered if she could get him to change his mind and come to live in Glasgow. That would mean the dog and cat as well. Hamish would not leave them behind. And in the smart riverside block of flats in which she lived, pets were forbidden.

She went out one evening with some of her colleagues. They laughed and talked shop and all got mildly drunk. How on earth would Hamish fit in?

On the other hand, she could get out of it all and go back to her old reporting job on the
Highland Times
. But her mind cringed away from the thought of reporting things like school concerts, flower shows, and council meetings.

At the Tommel Castle Hotel, the manager, Mr. Johnson, felt uneasy. His loyalty was to the hotel and that meant to Priscilla. Like all good hotel managers, he knew who was sleeping with whom, and Hamish had spent two nights with Elspeth Grant. She had not been wearing an engagement ring, but when she had leaned forward to put her debit card in the machine in the manager’s office, her neckline had dipped and Mr. Johnston had clearly seen what looked like a diamond engagement ring worn on a thin chain around her neck.

A week after Elspeth had left, he was down at Patel’s grocery shop to buy the thin cigars that Mr. Patel kept for him when he saw Dick Fraser entering the shop.

He paid for his cigars and waylaid Dick.

“Come outside. I want a word with you.”

Somehow, Mr. Johnson knew that if he asked if Hamish and Elspeth were engaged, then Dick might deny it outright, so instead he said, “What’s all this about Hamish going to marry Elspeth Grant?”

Taken aback, Dick said, “How did you hear about it?”

“Little bird told me.”

“Keep quiet about it!”

“Sure. But I wonder what our Priscilla would think about it? Don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word.”

Priscilla, thought Dick, forgetting about shopping and staring for a long time over the loch. Now, there was a thing. Priscilla would be a beautiful spanner to throw in the works.

He had arranged with Hamish that when the couple were married, he would put a caravan up on the back field and move there. He felt that the police station was now more his than Hamish’s. Hadn’t he cleaned and polished and furnished until it was his little palace?

He was sure that deep down in Hamish, there was a part that had never got over Priscilla. He did not know what had gone wrong to end their engagement.

What would Priscilla do if she found out?

He got into his battered car, drove to the hotel, and walked into the manager’s office.

“I’ve been thinking about Priscilla,” said Dick, settling into a chair on the other side of the manager’s desk. “Maybe you feel she ought to be told, but that might be a bad idea. I was a wee bit worried that your loyalty to the Halburton-Smythe family might make you want to tell her.”

“I really don’t think Hamish means anything to her any more,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Oh, that’s all right, then,” said Dick blithely. “And here’s me worried that the lassie would mind.”

“She hardly comes up here any more,” said Mr. Johnson, half to himself. “Probably wouldn’t bother her at all. What would bother her is the news was being kept from her.”

Dick folded his chubby hands over his stomach and smiled. “Just what I was beginning to think.”

“Coffee?”

“No, I’d better get back. Not a word to Hamish. Mind!”

Hamish opened his newspaper. The death of Heather and the subsequent investigations had gone from the front page. But on one of the inside pages was a photograph of Freda Crichton, along with photographs of models wearing her creations and the news that she had secured a job with the Jacques Desonet fashion house in Paris.

He found Freda’s number and phoned her to congratulate her, saying that he had been worried all her designs had gone up in smoke.

“The best ones were down in Inverness for the fashion show,” said Freda. “And I had kept my best sketches at home. I’ve got that publicist, Joan Friend, to thank for all this.”

Hamish wished her luck and rang off, glad that some good news had come out of the disaster.

Mr. Johnson phoned Priscilla. “Just to bring you up to date with the news,” he said. “Hamish Macbeth is getting married.”

Priscilla laughed. “If he gets to the altar this time, it’ll be a miracle. First it was that immigrant he thought he was saving from deportation, then it was that conniving drunk. Elspeth saved him from the last one.”

“Well, it seems like the real thing this time around. Priscilla! Are you still there?”

“Yes, who is he marrying.”

“Elspeth Grant.”

“Oh.” Another long silence. Then, “Thank you for telling me,” and Priscilla rang off.