Chapter Five

It requires a surgical operation to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding.

—Rev. Sydney Smith

Hamish’s mind worked furiously. How could they have found out? If only he knew more about computers other than the basic word processing necessary for filing reports.

“Can I use your toilet afore I take ye apart?” said Jimmy.

“Aye, go ahead, the bathroom’s through there.”

Jimmy went into the bathroom, Hamish ran into the police office, seized up the pile of printouts and stuffed them up under his dark blue uniform sweater. The phone rang.

“Hamish?” said Sarah’s voice.

The flush went in the bathroom.

“Sarah,” said Hamish urgently. “They’ve found out they’ve been hacked into and suspect me.”

“They can’t know exactly.”

“Why? How? What do I do?”

“Stick to your guns and look innocent.”

Jimmy walked into the police office.

“I will be looking into that matter right away, madam,” said Hamish.

“Call me later,” Sarah said and hung up.

Hamish turned to face Jimmy. “I’m flattered you think I should have enough expertise to hack into any computer.”

“You’re a clever bastard, Hamish. Someone hacked into Blair’s records during the night and it wisnae Blair.”

“Look around for a computer buff, Jimmy, but don’t come bothering me. Blair’s off his trolley. You know what he’s like. One sniff of trouble and he decides it must be coming from me.”

Jimmy sat down behind the desk and opened the bottom drawer. “Where’s the whisky?”

“I don’t think I should tell you,” said Hamish crossly. “You chust go back and tell Blair to spend his time looking for criminals instead of bothering innocent policemen.”

“Don’t be so sour. It was a way of getting away from the big grump.”

“All right. You can have a dram and then off with you.”

Hamish went through to the kitchen and found a bottle in the cupboard with the groceries. He collected a glass and then walked back through to join Jimmy.

“Great, man, pour it out.”

“You’ll be getting as much o’ a problem wi’ the booze as Blair,” commented Hamish, pouring a measure of whisky into the glass.

“Not me. I can take it or leave it. The only problem I’ve got wi’ booze these days is that I don’t get nearly enough o’ it.”

“So what’s Blair doing about this mysterious hacker apart from wasting time sending you over here to annoy me and drink my Scotch?”

“He says someone found out his password and he never told anyone what it was.”

“Probably told someone in a bar at the top of his voice. What was the password? I assume he’s changed it.”

“Crap.”

“No, seriously, Jimmy, what was the password?”

“I’m telling you. Clean your ears. The password was CRAP.”

And how did a nicely brought up lady like Sarah think of that, marvelled Hamish.

“So what’s new?” he asked aloud.

“Maggie Bane was having an affair wi’ Gilchrist and so when she said she wasn’t, she was lying in her teeth, so it stands to reason that she was lying about everything else. She says she didn’t want to lose her good name. Can you believe it? Like a Victorian novel. But, by God, she sticks to everything else and Blair howled and howled, but he couldnae move her.”

“So who else is there? And what did Gilchrist die of?”

“Nicotine poison.”

“Now there’s a thing. And the man didnae smoke.”

“How did you know that?”

“There were no cigarettes or ashtrays anywhere and a big NO SMOKING sign on the surgery wall.”

“Come on, Hamish. Every doctor and dentist has a NO SMOKING sign up these days.”

“But he had two posters in the reception about the evils of smoking. A smoker wouldn’t have put them up.”

“Far-fetched to me. Maggie Bane could have put them up.”

“But she didn’t. She smokes herself.”

“So she says. Oh, well, nobody saw Gilchrist puff a cigarette and anyway, even if he had, it wouldn’t have given him nicotine poisoning enough to kill him like that.”

“So who’s the favourite suspect apart from Maggie?”

“Blessed if I know.”

“And what about thon burglary?”

“Johnny King had done time for two counts of drunken driving.”

“Time?” Hamish looked puzzled. “I thought they would just take his license away.”

“The second time was when he drove into the front of a police station. Peter Sampson has no record. Family boy. Clean living.”

“And what of Macbean?”

“Now let me think. Any more whisky?”

Hamish sighed and pushed the bottle across to him.

Jimmy poured a generous measure, sat back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.

“Macbean’s never been in trouble. I mean, he’s never been arrested. He was running a hotel in Selkirk for a long time and then suddenly got fired. Owners just say that the profits were going down and down but they admitted that they could not pin anything on Macbean.”

“And Mrs. Macbean?”

“Nothing there. Born Agnes Macwhirter. Born in Leith. Married Macbean twenty-five years ago. Nasty bit of work. Always in a temper about something.”

“Any reports of her husband beating her up?”

“No, but I hope he does and regularly. If I was married to that one, I’d beat her up myself.”

“I heard on the grapevine that Gilchrist and Maggie Bane had a bit o’ a scene in a pub in Inverness. If they broke up, it stands to reason that there might be a new woman on the scene.”

“If there was,” said Jimmy, “something’ll come up sooner or later.”

“Then there’s the ex,” said Hamish, thinking aloud. “She was married to him. She seems a nice woman but you can never tell from the outside, can you? She might have hated him like poison.”

“She’s got clear of him so she had nae reason to bump him off.”

Hamish picked up the whisky bottle and replaced the top. “I don’t want to keep you, Jimmy. I’ve got the work to do.”

“Oh, aye, forgot to feed the hens, did you?”

When Hamish had finally seen a reluctant Jimmy on his way, he ran into the police office, seized the phone and dialled the Tommel Castle Hotel and asked for Sarah.

When she came on the line, he asked, “How did you guess Blair’s password?”

Her voice sounded amused. “I maintain there are about twenty variations on passwords. From what you told me about Blair, I was sure it would be some sort of swear word. Is everything all right? They will know someone used Blair’s password, but if he has trouble with drink, then he’ll begin to wonder who he actually told and he won’t be able to remember. I wouldn’t worry about it. What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to interview a couple of people. Do you feel like doing some amateur investigation?”

“You want me to come with you?”

“No, I wondered if you would like to go over to The Scotsman Hotel today and listen to what’s going on. They won’t talk if they see me, but they might not guard their mouths in front of a tourist.”

“Good. I’d like to do that.”

Hamish gripped the receiver hard. “And maybe we could meet up later? I could pick you up.”

“Seven o’clock will be fine, if you’re through by then.”

“That’s chust grand…grand. I’ll see you then. Bye.”

Hamish put down the receiver and stood for a moment smiling idiotically at the phone. Then he pulled himself together and decided it was time he visited the Smiley brothers.

Small fine pellets of snow were beginning to be whipped down the loch on an icy wind. He gave a little sigh. Then he thought of Sarah. He hoped the snow would not get worse. He did not want to think of her skidding into a ditch on the Lairg road. But ahead of him loomed a large yellow truck. The Sutherland road glitters were already on the job. He passed the truck and headed off into the thickening snow. By the time he reached the Smiley brothers’ croft, the snow had suddenly stopped and pale yellow sunlight was flooding the whitened fields and the low croft house.

He noticed there was a new extension at the back of the croft house: a long low building with a corrugated iron roof and with steel shutters over all the windows.

He was just getting out of the Land Rover when the door of the cottage opened and Stourie Smiley came out to meet him, followed by his brother, Pete. Hamish knew both of them slightly, but he was taken aback again by their appearance. They looked living proof that trolls still walked the earth. Both were squat and barrel-chested and hairy. Thick mats of hair covered both their heads, and hair sprouted on their cheekbones, and tufts of hair poked out of their ears. Both had small, gleaming wet eyes and red faces. Both had very long arms.

“It’s yoursel’, Macbeth,” said Stourie. “What brings ye? Ye’ve got the sheep dip papers.” A visit by the police to a croft in the Highlands did not usually mean a report of death or accident, but merely a demand for sheep dip papers.

“Can we go inside and sit down for a minute?” asked Hamish. “I need your help.”

“Okay,” said Pete, “but don’t take too lang ower it. We’ve got work to do.”

He led the way into the croft house kitchen, a bleak stone-flagged room with a plastic-covered table in the centre and a few hard upright chairs.

Hamish sat down, took off his cap and put it on the table. “It is my belief you are running an illegal still.”

“Whit?” demanded Stourie. “Who tellt you that?”

The two trolls bristled at Hamish and the cold air of the kitchen was suddenly full of menace.

“Before you get your lies ready,” said Hamish, “listen to me. Thon dentist, Gilchrist, was poisoned with nicotine. Anyone who had a still could have extracted the nicotine by means of a still. Now, either you cooperate or I’ll get a team over from Strathbane with a search warrant and right behind them will come the Customs and Excise. If you give me a dram of your stuff and I consider it safe and not liable to kill anyone, I’ll not be booking you. But I need to know if either of you had a grudge against Gilchrist, and then since I’m pretty sure you know your competitors, I’ll need some names.”

They looked at him in truculent silence and then Pete’s small wet eyes travelled past Hamish to the fireplace. Hamish swung round. A shotgun was hanging on the wall.

“Don’t even think of it, man,” he said. “That’s another breach of the law. That gun should be locked in a gun cabinet. You have one. Sergeant Macgregor over at Cnothan reported you had one.”

“Aye, well, we’d rather deal wi’ Macgregor than you.” Stourie looked surly.

Had Macgregor really checked, wondered Hamish.

“So let’s not take all day about this,” he said. “Did either of you go to Gilchrist?”

Pete suddenly grinned and so did Stourie. Hamish blinked. Both men were toothless. Pete jerked his head in the direction of the sink. Hamish looked across. There were two tumblers of water by the sink and in each tumbler resided a pair of false teeth, the dentures grotesquely imitating the grins across the table from him.

“We both had all our teeth out in our twenties,” said Stourie. “We don’t need no dentists.”

“So you didn’t know Gilchrist?”

“Didnae even know what the man looked like.”

“That’s strange, you pair being so near Braikie. It’s a small town. Surely someone pointed the man out to you.”

Stourie spat contemptuously on the floor. “We don’t talk to them in Braikie.”

“So who else has a still?”

“We arenae saying we hae one,” said Stourie, “but I guess you could say if we had, we wouldnae want any competition.”

“Meaning you’re the only ones you know about?”

They looked at him in sullen silence.

“All right, I’ll leave it there at the moment. Give me a dram.”

They looked at each other and then Stourie gave a little nod. Pete went over and opened a kitchen cupboard and took down a bottle of whisky, tipped one set of false teeth out into the sink and poured the whisky into the glass.

Oh, well, thought Hamish, the alcohol will probably act as a disinfectant.

He sampled the whisky and then raised his eyebrows. It was pretty good, quite smooth, not as good as a regular legal blend, but certainly not likely to poison anyone. Hamish had a good palate for whisky and knew that they had not given him Johnnie Walker or something like that to pass off as their own.

“I’ll be on my way.” He got to his feet. “That’s a big extension ye’ve built onto the cottage.”

“Lambing shed,” said Stourie laconically.

“Well, now, the poor wee things must grow up fair blind in the dark,” said Hamish sarcastically. “The windows are all shuttered.”

“We aye take the shutters off when we’re lambing,” jeered Pete. “As a crofter yourself, you should hae guessed that.”

“Now, listen here.” Hamish Macbeth turned in the doorway. “I’m turning a blind eye to your practises but only for the moment. I’ll give you a couple of months to pack up. If I hear by then that you’re still making whisky, I’ll report you.”

“It iss no wunner you became a policeman, Macbeth,” said Stourie viciously, “because without that uniform, you’d chust be a lang drip o’ nothing.”

Hamish put his cap firmly on his flaming red hair. “Behave yourselves,” he snapped and went out into the cold day.

It was clouding over again and a few snowflakes were beginning to drift down. Against the black clouds massing to the west curved a glorious rainbow. He stood looking at it, a half smile on his lips, and then he clutched his head and let out a groan as pain stabbed over his left temple. Hamish could not remember when he last had a headache. Could it have been that whisky?

But he belonged to the school of thought which firmly believes that if you pay no attention to physical ailments, they go away. He drove into Braikie and parked in the main street. The pain was now nagging and persistent. He found he was outside a chemist’s shop. He went in and walked through the racks of cosmetics and vitamin pills to the pharmacy counter.

Behind the counter was a plump little girl in her early twenties. Her buxom figure was covered in a tight white coat. She had a piggy little face and a turned-up nose. Hamish had often read that a turned-up nose was supposed to be saucy and attractive. He had never found it so. But he had to admit that despite his headache, he was well aware that this buxom piggy little blonde was exuding a strong air of sexuality, so strong it hung in the air like musk.

“I’ve got a bad headache,” he said. “Can you give me something?”

“The best thing is aspirin,” she said.

“What about one of those extra-strength painkillers?”

“Just a rip-off,” she said cheerfully. “Aspirin’s cheaper and does the job the same. You smell of whisky. Maybe you shouldn’t drink so early in the day.”

“I was out at the Smiley brothers on a case,” said Hamish stiffly, not liking the implication that he was a drunk.

“Oh, another one of those headaches. It’ll go away all by itself the minute you have another dram.”

Hamish looked at her curiously and she gave him a cheeky wink. Apart from himself the shop was empty of customers. He leaned forward on the counter. “So you know that the Smiley brothers operate a still?”

“I don’t want to get them into trouble, but, yes, everyone knows it.”

“I’m slipping,” thought Hamish. And I forgot Angus’s salmon.

“The pharmacist, Mr. Cody, says there’s migraine and there’s tension headaches and there’s the headache from the Smileys’ hooch. You don’t need aspirin. You need another drink. Works a treat.”

Despite the pain in his head, Hamish smiled. The shop door opened and a small, fussy man came in. “Everything all right, Kylie?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “You can take a break.”

He went through into the back.

“Come and have a drink with me,” said Hamish.

“Righty-ho. Just get my coat.”

She emerged a few moments later wearing a scarlet wool coat over a thin yellow blouse, tight short jersey skirt and heels so high that Hamish thought she must be very tiny indeed when she took them off, for as they walked in the direction of the pub, she hardly came up to his shoulder.

“What are you having?” he asked when they entered the smoky, dreary barroom of The Drouthy Crofter.

“Same as you. Straight whisky. And make it a couple of doubles.”

He went to the bar, collected their order and carried the glasses over to a corner table where Kylie was already seated. She shrugged off her coat. The yellow blouse had a deep V revealing that Kylie had the sort of cleavage only usually seen in the magazines on the top shelf of the newsagents. He dragged his gaze from it and raised his glass. “Let’s hope mis works.”

And it did, almost immediately. He blinked at her in relief. “Do you always join customers for a drink?”

She giggled. “Only the sexy ones.”

He was not surprised that despite the fact that the Smileys’ still was obviously pretty well known that no one had come forward to report it. There are some things in the Highlands which would be regarded as crimes anywhere else in Britain that people here regarded as quite respectable. Poaching, provided it was the occasional salmon or deer, was not regarded as illegal. It was every Highlander’s birthright to take a deer from the hill and a fish from the river, no matter who owned the land. And a whisky still was regarded as about as innocent as making homemade cakes.

But as he surveyed sexy little Kylie, he began to wonder if Gilchrist had ever made a play for her. How Gilchrist had been able to attract such a beautiful young girl as Maggie Bane was beyond him. But he had, and so it followed that other women might have found him attractive—young women.

“I’m investigating the murder of the dentist,” he said.

“Oh, him.” She shrugged. “I don’t understand anyone going to that man. I went there once. I knew all I needed was a simple little filling, but he says it had to come out. No thank you, I said, and got the hell out of there.”

“So that was the only time you saw him?”

“You’re looking a me as if I’m the first murderer. Why on earth suspect me?”

“I don’t suspect you. You’re a very pretty girl and Gilchrist liked the ladies.”

“I had nothing to do with him.” But that sexy aura had disappeared. It had been turned off somewhere deep inside her. Her eyes roved restlessly around the bar. “Headache better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I see some of my friends over there.”

And without waiting for his reply, she got to her feet and went over to join a group of men at the bar.

I’d better ask around about that one, thought Hamish. She was all right until I started asking about Gilchrist.

He left the pub and walked back towards where he had parked the Land Rover. He saw he was passing a fishmongers and stopped. “Special Offer. Fresh Salmon.” The sign in the window caught his eye. Salmon was selling for £1.80 a pound. He decided it would be worth buying one for the seer. He was sure the salmon was farmed rather than wild, but he was equally sure that old Angus would not be able to tell the difference.

He went in and bought a ten-pound salmon, big enough for that old leech, he thought crossly.

He took the salmon back to the police station and threw away the fishmonger’s bag, wrapped it in kitchen foil, and drove this time up to the seer’s.

He laid the salmon on the table in front of the seer. Angus studied it curiously after he had taken it out of its foil wrapper. Then he went off without a word into the nether regions and came back carrying a small stone on the end of a cord.

“What’s that?” asked Hamish. “Your pet rock?”

“Aye jeering at things you do not understand, Hamish. This iss my crystal.”

He waved it over the salmon. The ‘crystal’ swung round over the fish like a pendulum.

“This iss the farm salmon, Hamish.”

“It is not!”

“Aye, the pendulum sees it all. You forgot last night and it’s cauld the day and so you thought you could pass a shop-bought fish on poor Angus.”

“Havers.” Hamish wrapped up the salmon. “I’ll have it myself.”

“If I were you, Hamish Macbeth, I waud be thinking of getting Angus the real thing tonight or something bad will happen to ye.”

“You mean you’ll put a curse on me?”

“Don’t sneer. There are mair things in heaven and earth…”

“Horatio.”

“Who’s he?”

“Never mind. I’m out of here.”

Hamish drove off. What could the old phony do to him? He was damned if he was going to take his rod out on the river in this weather.

The wind had dropped and large Christmas card flakes of snow were spiralling down from a leaden sky. He went home and made himself a scrap lunch, that is he ate tuna out of the can with a fork while leaning against the kitchen counter. Then he set out for Braikie again. He nodded to the policeman who stood on guard outside the dentist’s building and then went on up the stairs to the top landing and knocked on Fred Sutherland’s door.

The old man answered his knock promptly and said, “You better come in.”

Hamish followed him in and sat down. “I want to ask you about the murder.”

“My, my. That was a thing. Poisoned him and drilled all his teeth. My, my.”

“How did you hear all that? The method of killing was not in the papers.”

“This is a small town. Everyone gets to hear everything.”

“That’s why I’m here. There’s this young lassie works for the chemist. Kylie something.”

“Kylie Fraser. Thon’s a cheeky wee thing. Called me old man. Cheek!”

“You wouldn’t have happened to hear if she had been seen at any time in the company of Gilchrist?”

“He was old enough to hae been her faither.”

“True. But that hadn’t seemed to have stopped him chasing young ladies.”

“There’s a lot o’ talk about her. She’s aye in the pub wi’ the fellows. But I never heard o’ her being wi’ Gilchrist.”

“Could you let me know if you hear anything?”

“Aye, I’ll do that. I’m a regular at the Old Timers Club at the community hall. The biddies that go there hear every blessed thing.”

“Thanks, Mr. Sutherland. And I would be grateful if you would be discreet about it.”

Fred laid a gnarled finger alongside his nose and winked. “Dinnae fash yourself. I’ll let you know.”

Hamish then ran lightly down the stairs and went into the dress shop. As usual it was empty of customers. The yellow cellophane was still across the windows casting a jaundiced light around the interior. Mrs. Edwardson came forward to meet him.

“I remember you,” she said, peering up at him. “You discovered the body. Have you any idea who did it?”

“No, that I haven’t, Mrs. Edwardson. You see, no one seems to give me any idea of what Gilchrist was like as a man.”

“I knew him a little bit. He fancied himself with the ladies. Smooth. Unctuous, is the word. Smarmy. Surely there are papers and letters and photographs at his home that might give you an idea?”

Hamish had already thought of that but did not want to lower his position on the case in her eyes by telling her that the CID were covering that. He frowned suddenly. There must be some report in the files now of the contents of Gilchrist’s home. He wondered if Sarah could access those, or if that was taking too great a risk.

“What do you know of Kylie Fraser?”

“The tarty little piece of baggage that works for the chemist?”

“Her, yes.”

“Apart from the fact that she’s getting herself the reputation of a tart and a lush, no.”

“Would Gilchrist have made a pass at her?”

“He might have done. But the fact is I don’t go out much.” Her face was sad. “At the end of the day I feel so tired, I usually sit down in front of the television set and fall asleep.”

“If you hear anything let me know.”

“I most certainly will.”

“Just to remind you, my name is Hamish Macbeth and I am the policeman over at Lochdubh.”

“Yes, I know that.”

He hesitated. He had been about to caution her to be discreet. Then he thought, it might be interesting if Kylie found out he was asking questions about her. He thanked Mrs. Edwardson and left the shop and stood for a moment outside in the snow. Then he set off in the direction of the pub. Time to ask more questions and hope his interest in her got back to Kylie.

The Drouthy Crofter was fairly quiet apart from a juke box blaring in the corner. Hamish went up to the bar. The barman eyed his uniform suspiciously. “I would like to ask you a few questions about one of your customers, Kylie Fraser.”

“Oh, thon wee lassie? What’s she been up to?”

“I just wondered if she had ever been in here with Gilchrist, the dentist who was murdered?”

“Naw. She hangs about with the young lads. She’s good fun.”

“Ever get drunk and disorderly?”

“Och, you know the young folk. They usually drink that alcoholic lemonade and get a bit pissed and noisy. Mind you, Kylie always drinks straight whisky. They all live locally and don’t drive here, so it’s not as if I have to worry.”

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

Later that day Kylie stood with her friend, Tootsie Duffy, outside Mrs. Edwardson’s shop. Mrs. Edwardson was just locking up. “Did you ever see such fashions?” crowed Kylie. “I wouldnae be seen dead in one of them. Tell you what, one o’ them would make a good shroud.”

Tootsie shrieked with mirthless laughter. Tootsie hardly ever found anything funny but she supplied a sort of canned laughter to her friend’s sallies.

Mrs. Edwardson whipped round and stared at Kylie with contempt. “You’d better just watch yourself, my girl. The police have been asking me about you and Gilchrist.”

Kylie stood, her small mouth hanging a little open. “What d’you mean?”

“Just what I said.” Mrs. Edwardson stalked off, her back rigid.

Tootsie moved a wad of gum to the other side of her mouth and asked, “You and auld Gilchrist?”

“Spiteful old twat,” said Kylie viciously. “I could do with a drink.”

They walked into The Drouthy Crofter, both teetering on high heels, oblivious to already cold and wet feet. Tootsie’s long skinny legs were purple with cold. But one must suffer to be beautiful.

Kyle pouted when she saw the pub was still empty. She did not like spending her own money.

“Getting yourself in trouble with the police?” asked the barman after he had taken their order.

“What is this?” demanded Kylie angrily.

“That tall policeman wi’ the red hair was in here asking if Gilchrist had been getting his leg over.”

“It’s police harassment,” said Tootsie. “You should report him, Kylie.”

Kylie tossed her short blonde locks. “And I will, too,” she said savagely. “Just you see if I don’t.”

Sarah sat in a corner of the bar-reception area at The Scotsman Hotel, pretending to read a book, but listening carefully. Two men who looked like detectives went into the hotel office. Then a small angry-looking middle-aged woman went up to the bar and said, “Give me a whisky. The decent stuff.”

Sarah looked at her curiously as the barman said, “Right you are, Mrs. Macbean.”

Mrs. Macbean had a headful of bright green plastic rollers. Mrs. Macbean picked up her drink and turned around. She saw Sarah looking at her and glared. Sarah smiled tentatively.

Mrs. Macbean walked over. “Were you looking at me?”

Sarah smiled into her truculent face. “I’m just a tourist and I wanted to ask someone if this hotel was a comfortable place to stay.”

The anger left Mrs. Macbean’s face and she sat down opposite Sarah. “I’m married to the manager,” she said. “The rooms are clean and the rates are cheap. Then we have the bingo Saturday night, if you’re interested.”

“Not really,” said Sarah. “I never win anything. I am one of life’s losers.”

“Me too.” Mrs. Macbean took a moody sip at her whisky. “Men,” she said bitterly.

“Tell me about it. They’re all bastards,” said Sarah encouragingly. “We’re still brought up to think the knight on the white charger is coming to look after us.”

“But all we get is horse shit,” said Mrs. Macbean. She jerked her thumb in the direction of the office. “That’s all he talks.”

Normally Sarah would quickly have disengaged herself from such a conversation.

“My husband’s the same,” she said.

“You don’t wear a wedding ring.”

Sarah gave her a slow smile. “I threw it down the toilet, and do you know why?”

“Go on. Tell me.” Mrs. Macbean now looked positively friendly.

“He beat me up.”

“And you took it?”

Sarah spread her hands in a deprecatory gesture. “What else could I do? He was stronger than me. So I got a divorce.”

“Lassie, lassie.” Mrs. Macbean shook her head and a curler fell into her glass of whisky. “Don’t you see that’s what they want? You get a divorce and settle for lousy terms or nothing at all. A man isnae as strong as a woman with a breadknife in her hand, remember that.”

Sarah looked at her, wide-eyed. “You sound to me like a very brave woman.”

Mrs. Macbean took another sip of whisky. Sarah noticed with horror that she was straining it through the roller, which had floated to the top of her glass, but did not want to say anything for fear of drying up this interesting conversation.

Mrs. Macbean preened. “You have to learn to take care of yourself. Brian, that’s him.” She jerked a thumb again in the direction of the office. “He used his fists on me last week. Well, he likes hot chocolate in the mornings so I put a whole lot of laxative in it. “You lay a hand on me and next time it’ll be poison, buster,” that’s what I said.”

Sarah gazed at her in well-feigned admiration.

“He’s useless, that’s what he is. Did you know we had the burglary here?”

“No!”

“Fact. Two hundred and fifty thousands pounds out o’ the safe.”

“How? Gelignite?”

“Naw. The damn fool had this safe wi’ a wooden back. Thought no one would find out.”

“But he’ll get the insurance.”

“I don’t think so. The insurance company said a safe like that was jist like leaving the money lying on the bar.”

“How terrible for you. And I’ll bet he made you think it was all your fault.”

“That’s it. That’s what he did.”

“But he couldn’t get away with it. I mean, you didn’t buy the safe.”

“Isn’t that what I told him? He said I musta told someone about the wooden back on the safe. As if I would!”

Sarah’s fine eyes glowed with sympathy. “I think you have a very hard life, Mrs. Macbean.”

Mrs. Macbean took another roller-flavoured sip of whisky. “Aye, that’s the truth.”

“I never thought of any crime being committed up here,” said Sarah. “I mean, people like me come up here for the quality of life.”

“Quality of life! Ha! Sheep and rain and cold and a lot o’ stupid teuchters.”

“Teuchters?”

“Highlanders. Sly, malicious and stupid. I hate the bastards.”

Sarah looked puzzled. “But they’re all Scottish. Just like you.”

“Don’t insult me.” Sarah covered her glass as another roller flew through the air. Mrs. Macbean leaned forward and whispered, “It’s like one o’ those primitive tribes up the Amazon. They havenae evolved.”

“You are a philosopher.”

“I’ve got my head screwed on.”

“I did hear about a murder up here. Some dentist.”

Mrs. Macbean’s face suddenly closed up. She had a mouth like Popeye’s and it seemed to disappear up under her nose.

“Got to go,” she muttered.

Sarah watched her march off, and then stop at the bar to whisper something to the barman. What would Hamish make of that, she wondered. Eager to tell all the secrets of her marriage life and talk about the burglary, but clams up when Gilchrist is mentioned.

The barman approached her. “Would you be wanting anything else?” he asked truculently.

“No, thank you.”

“Right.” He picked up her unfinished drink and walked off with the glass.

Sarah’s protest died on her lips. She felt she had done enough investigation for Hamish Macbeth for one day. Through the smeared glass of the windows, she could see the snow was falling ever thicker. She stood up and put on her coat. She had never credited herself with an overactive imagination, yet she could swear as she walked to the door that the air was heavy with menace.