removed her hands from her face and looked down at the handbrake. She had forgotten to release it.
There was no Hamish beside her now to prompt her.
She squared her shoulders, switched on the engine again, moved into first gear, checked her mirrors, signalled, took a quick look over her shoulder and moved off slowly. By the time she had reached the top of the road leading out of Lochdubh, she had to pull on to the side of the road to flex her hands which had pins and needles caused by her terrified grip on the wheel.
‘This will never do,’ she said aloud.
She started off again. The road was quiet. No cars behind her and none coming the other way. Slowly, she increased her speed until she was bowling along, her hands relaxed on the wheel, but only dimly aware of the stupendous majesty of the Sutherland mountains soaring on either side of the road. She drove on and on, down past the Kyles of Sutherland and the towns of Bonar Bridge and Ardgay and then up the famous Struie Pass – famous for being a motorist’s nightmare – but Alison did not know that and put her fear down to her own inexperience. The road climbed and climbed, seeming almost perpendicular and then she was running along the pass through the top of the mountains and finally down and down the twisting hairpin bends towards the Cromarty Firth which lay sparkling and glinting in the pale sunlight.
Alison came to a roundabout. A road went on over a mile-long bridge towards Inverness. On the other side of the roundabout lay the road to Dingwall. Dingwall sounded like a smaller town and therefore one with manageable traffic. She went round the roundabout and realized as she took the Dingwall road that she had forgotten to signal. All her nervousness returned.
She parked in one of the tiny town’s surprisingly many car parks, choosing a space well away from other cars and spending quite twenty minutes reversing the Renault into a space that could comfortably have held three trucks.
She carefully locked up and went down to the main street to look at the shops. She stopped by a phone box and, on impulse, went in and phoned the police station in Lochdubh. There was no reply. Then Alison noticed the light was fading fast. She had a long way to drive back. She headed back towards the car park, feeling in her pocket for the car keys.
Where the keys should have been was a large hole.
Alison stopped dead. She felt sick. She retraced her steps, scanning the ground. But Dingwall should receive an award for being the cleanest town in Britain – they vacuum the streets. There wasn’t even a scrap of paper.
She stopped someone and asked directions to the police station.
The police station was not at all like Hamish’s cosy village quarters. It was a large modern building with a plaque on the wall stating that the foundation stone had been laid by Princess Alexandria. She pushed open the door and went in.
A fey-looking girl was standing at the reception desk, chain-smoking.
‘My keys,’ Alison blurted out. ‘I’ve lost my car keys.’
‘We’ve got them,’ said the girl, lighting a fresh cigarette off the stub of the old one. ‘Just been handed in.’ And then she stood looking at Alison through the curling cigarette smoke.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’ Alison felt limp with relief. ‘I’ll just take them.’
‘You can’t get them till Monday,’ replied the girl.
‘Monday! This is Friday afternoon. Monday!’
‘You see that door behind me?’ The girl indicated a door behind her and a little to the right which was like a house door with a large letter box. ‘Well, the found stuff gets put through that letter box where it falls down to the bottom of a wire cage on the other side. The person who has the key to the door has gone off for a long week-end.’
‘But someone else must have the key,’ said Alison, her voice taking on the shrill note of the coward trying to be assertive.
‘No,’ said the Highland maiden patiently. ‘Only one
There was no Hamish beside her now to prompt her.
She squared her shoulders, switched on the engine again, moved into first gear, checked her mirrors, signalled, took a quick look over her shoulder and moved off slowly. By the time she had reached the top of the road leading out of Lochdubh, she had to pull on to the side of the road to flex her hands which had pins and needles caused by her terrified grip on the wheel.
‘This will never do,’ she said aloud.
She started off again. The road was quiet. No cars behind her and none coming the other way. Slowly, she increased her speed until she was bowling along, her hands relaxed on the wheel, but only dimly aware of the stupendous majesty of the Sutherland mountains soaring on either side of the road. She drove on and on, down past the Kyles of Sutherland and the towns of Bonar Bridge and Ardgay and then up the famous Struie Pass – famous for being a motorist’s nightmare – but Alison did not know that and put her fear down to her own inexperience. The road climbed and climbed, seeming almost perpendicular and then she was running along the pass through the top of the mountains and finally down and down the twisting hairpin bends towards the Cromarty Firth which lay sparkling and glinting in the pale sunlight.
Alison came to a roundabout. A road went on over a mile-long bridge towards Inverness. On the other side of the roundabout lay the road to Dingwall. Dingwall sounded like a smaller town and therefore one with manageable traffic. She went round the roundabout and realized as she took the Dingwall road that she had forgotten to signal. All her nervousness returned.
She parked in one of the tiny town’s surprisingly many car parks, choosing a space well away from other cars and spending quite twenty minutes reversing the Renault into a space that could comfortably have held three trucks.
She carefully locked up and went down to the main street to look at the shops. She stopped by a phone box and, on impulse, went in and phoned the police station in Lochdubh. There was no reply. Then Alison noticed the light was fading fast. She had a long way to drive back. She headed back towards the car park, feeling in her pocket for the car keys.
Where the keys should have been was a large hole.
Alison stopped dead. She felt sick. She retraced her steps, scanning the ground. But Dingwall should receive an award for being the cleanest town in Britain – they vacuum the streets. There wasn’t even a scrap of paper.
She stopped someone and asked directions to the police station.
The police station was not at all like Hamish’s cosy village quarters. It was a large modern building with a plaque on the wall stating that the foundation stone had been laid by Princess Alexandria. She pushed open the door and went in.
A fey-looking girl was standing at the reception desk, chain-smoking.
‘My keys,’ Alison blurted out. ‘I’ve lost my car keys.’
‘We’ve got them,’ said the girl, lighting a fresh cigarette off the stub of the old one. ‘Just been handed in.’ And then she stood looking at Alison through the curling cigarette smoke.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’ Alison felt limp with relief. ‘I’ll just take them.’
‘You can’t get them till Monday,’ replied the girl.
‘Monday! This is Friday afternoon. Monday!’
‘You see that door behind me?’ The girl indicated a door behind her and a little to the right which was like a house door with a large letter box. ‘Well, the found stuff gets put through that letter box where it falls down to the bottom of a wire cage on the other side. The person who has the key to the door has gone off for a long week-end.’
‘But someone else must have the key,’ said Alison, her voice taking on the shrill note of the coward trying to be assertive.
‘No,’ said the Highland maiden patiently. ‘Only one
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