somewhere.’
I’m losing my touch, thought Hamish. But he said angrily, ‘Why didn’t you inform the police?’
‘They didn’t ask me.’
‘I’ll need to take them with me.’
‘Have you a warrant?’
‘Don’t be daft, laddie, and waste my time. Hand them over.’
‘I’ll need a receipt.’
‘Of course, you’ll get a receipt.’
‘Eileen!’ called James.
His secretary came in. Her hair was gelled into spikes, and she wore a low-cut blouse exposing an area of freckled bosom. Although she was young, her face was already set in a sullen look. Her
make-up was as thick as a papier-mâché carnival mask.
‘Get the box with Mrs Gillespie’s papers.’
‘Okey-dokey.’
Hamish waited anxiously. The wind rattled the window-panes, and a smouldering coal fire in an old Victorian fireplace suddenly burst into flame.
At last, Eileen returned with a large deed box.
‘I think you’ll find everything is in there,’ said James.
‘Did she have an accountant?’ asked Hamish.
‘Not as far as I know. She wouldn’t need one. She probably never paid taxes. She must have earned very little cleaning houses.’
‘She had a tidy sum of money. Didn’t you look?’
‘No, why should I? As far as I was concerned, she was eccentric, and if she wanted to go on paying me to keep all her papers, I was quite happy.’
Hamish wrote out a receipt, thanked him and left, clutching the box. He decided to look at the contents first before turning them over to police headquarters.
Elspeth and Luke had begged the use of a desk in the Highland Times, the local newspaper with an office in Lochdubh, and were busy filing a joint story.
‘Are you sweet on that copper?’ asked Luke when they finished.
‘Of course not,’ said Elspeth. ‘I knew him when I used to work up here.’
Luke studied the smoke rising up from his cigarette and drifting over the No Smoking sign on the wall. ‘I thought you were. There was a sort of atmosphere.’
‘Get this straight,’ said Elspeth angrily. ‘Hamish Macbeth was once engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Her parents own the hotel we’re staying at. He never got over
her.’
‘Dumped him, did she?’
‘No, strange to say, he dumped her.’
‘So why . . .?’
‘Leave it, Luke.’
In the police station office, Hamish opened the box and began to go through the contents. He found the deeds to the house, electricity and gas bills up to the previous month,
and a bank book showing the amount of money he already knew about from the printout. But no blackmailing material.
He phoned Jimmy and told him of the find and said he would deliver the box to police headquarters. ‘Don’t bother,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ll come over and collect it. If I
don’t get some time away from Blair, I’ll strangle him.’
Hamish went along to the general store and bought a bottle of whisky. Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, was buying cat food.
Her thin face lit up when she saw Hamish. ‘How are things going, Hamish? We hardly see you these days – that is, unless you want to offload your animals on to me.’
‘Sorry I’ll be round soon. How’s the writing going?’
‘Slowly and painfully’ Angela had won a literary award for her first novel. ‘Getting that award didn’t give me confidence. It did the opposite. I feel I can’t match
up to the first book. If this murder case you’re on ever gets solved, would you read some of it for me? Tell me what you think?’
‘I’m no literary critic.’
‘But you’re a reader.’
‘All right.’
‘What’s the whisky for?’
‘Jimmy Anderson,’ said Hamish. ‘I’d better feed him as well.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Angela, who knew Jimmy of old. ‘Whisky is food as well as drink to that man.’
Hamish returned to the police station, where he cooked up some venison liver for the dog and cat before making himself a sandwich and a cup of tea. He had just finished eating when Jimmy
arrived, cursing the
I’m losing my touch, thought Hamish. But he said angrily, ‘Why didn’t you inform the police?’
‘They didn’t ask me.’
‘I’ll need to take them with me.’
‘Have you a warrant?’
‘Don’t be daft, laddie, and waste my time. Hand them over.’
‘I’ll need a receipt.’
‘Of course, you’ll get a receipt.’
‘Eileen!’ called James.
His secretary came in. Her hair was gelled into spikes, and she wore a low-cut blouse exposing an area of freckled bosom. Although she was young, her face was already set in a sullen look. Her
make-up was as thick as a papier-mâché carnival mask.
‘Get the box with Mrs Gillespie’s papers.’
‘Okey-dokey.’
Hamish waited anxiously. The wind rattled the window-panes, and a smouldering coal fire in an old Victorian fireplace suddenly burst into flame.
At last, Eileen returned with a large deed box.
‘I think you’ll find everything is in there,’ said James.
‘Did she have an accountant?’ asked Hamish.
‘Not as far as I know. She wouldn’t need one. She probably never paid taxes. She must have earned very little cleaning houses.’
‘She had a tidy sum of money. Didn’t you look?’
‘No, why should I? As far as I was concerned, she was eccentric, and if she wanted to go on paying me to keep all her papers, I was quite happy.’
Hamish wrote out a receipt, thanked him and left, clutching the box. He decided to look at the contents first before turning them over to police headquarters.
Elspeth and Luke had begged the use of a desk in the Highland Times, the local newspaper with an office in Lochdubh, and were busy filing a joint story.
‘Are you sweet on that copper?’ asked Luke when they finished.
‘Of course not,’ said Elspeth. ‘I knew him when I used to work up here.’
Luke studied the smoke rising up from his cigarette and drifting over the No Smoking sign on the wall. ‘I thought you were. There was a sort of atmosphere.’
‘Get this straight,’ said Elspeth angrily. ‘Hamish Macbeth was once engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Her parents own the hotel we’re staying at. He never got over
her.’
‘Dumped him, did she?’
‘No, strange to say, he dumped her.’
‘So why . . .?’
‘Leave it, Luke.’
In the police station office, Hamish opened the box and began to go through the contents. He found the deeds to the house, electricity and gas bills up to the previous month,
and a bank book showing the amount of money he already knew about from the printout. But no blackmailing material.
He phoned Jimmy and told him of the find and said he would deliver the box to police headquarters. ‘Don’t bother,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ll come over and collect it. If I
don’t get some time away from Blair, I’ll strangle him.’
Hamish went along to the general store and bought a bottle of whisky. Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, was buying cat food.
Her thin face lit up when she saw Hamish. ‘How are things going, Hamish? We hardly see you these days – that is, unless you want to offload your animals on to me.’
‘Sorry I’ll be round soon. How’s the writing going?’
‘Slowly and painfully’ Angela had won a literary award for her first novel. ‘Getting that award didn’t give me confidence. It did the opposite. I feel I can’t match
up to the first book. If this murder case you’re on ever gets solved, would you read some of it for me? Tell me what you think?’
‘I’m no literary critic.’
‘But you’re a reader.’
‘All right.’
‘What’s the whisky for?’
‘Jimmy Anderson,’ said Hamish. ‘I’d better feed him as well.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Angela, who knew Jimmy of old. ‘Whisky is food as well as drink to that man.’
Hamish returned to the police station, where he cooked up some venison liver for the dog and cat before making himself a sandwich and a cup of tea. He had just finished eating when Jimmy
arrived, cursing the
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