Harry stormed off. Hamish looked after him curiously and then gave a shrug.
The big man could complain all he wanted. All Hamish had done was have a chat with him. Nothing would come of it.
In this, Hamish Macbeth was wrong.
♦
The following morning, before Hamish had had time to change into his uniform and while he was repairing a broken plank on his henhouse, Detective Chief Inspector Lovelace arrived.
Flanked by Detectives Anderson and Macnab, he stood watching Hamish until Hamish, aware of his gaze, turned round.
Lovelace introduced himself and then said curtly, “May we go inside? Anderson and Macnab, wait here.”
They walked indoors to the police station. Lovelace sat behind Hamish’s desk and folded a pair of white, well-manicured hands on the desk in front of him. Hamish stood before him.
Lovelace was a small, neat man with well-brushed fair hair. He had neat features and a small, prissy mouth. He looked at a corner of the ceiling and began. Hamish was to learn that Lovelace never looked you in the eye, not out of shyness or furtiveness, but more as if he thought his august gaze was too valuable to waste on underlings.
“We will begin by asking why you are not in uniform.”
“I wass chust attending to a few chores.”
“To a few chores…what?”
“To a few chores, sir.”
“You are being paid to police Lochdubh and the surrounding area, not to repair henhouses. Why did you call on Patricia Martyn-Broyd at the hospital without telling your superiors what you were doing and why?”
“I know Miss Martyn-Broyd. I mean, I have known her since before the murders. We are by way of being friends,” lied Hamish. He did not want to tell Lovelace that Patricia had asked him to find out the identity of the murderer.
“Nonetheless, it was your duty to inform your superiors of your movements. To the even more serious matter. You bullied and harassed Mr. Harry Frame last night and accused him of being a double murderer.”
“I did not…sir. I was merely interested in discussing my views with him.”
Lovelace’s gaze shifted to the window. There was a long silence.
A child shrieked, “Gie that back, Hughie!” somewhere out on the waterfront, a dog barked and a wind sighed down the loch.
“I have heard of your way of doing things,” said Lovelace at last. “This is not the Wild West and you are not an American sheriff. You will not step out of line again, and in order to make sure that you do not, I am giving you these orders. You will confine yourself to your duties as a village constable. I am now in charge of the murder inquiry. There are enough people working under me to deal with it. Do not approach anyone concerned with the case.”
He stood up and walked to the door. Then he swung round. “And get your uniform on!”
After he had heard him drive off, Hamish slumped down behind his desk. He was, he thought miserably, not suited for the police force. He enjoyed his job until he ran up against the pecking order of the British police force. Except during a major case like this, he was usually left to his own devices.
Now he could not dare go near Drim, or see Sheila, and right at that moment, he would have liked to see Sheila. She was not only pretty, there was an endearing warmth about her.
Gloomily judging that he would not have to sustain another visit that day from Lovelace, he went back to repairing the henhouse and when that job was finished, he got the trout out of the freezer and strolled along the waterfront and up the hill to the seer’s cottage.
“Took your time,” said Angus by way of greeting. “So they’ve driven that poor woman mad, have they?”
“How did you find out so quickly?”
Angus tapped his forehead and winked, and Hamish looked at him impatiently. “I wish I had your network of gossip, Angus, because I’m off the case.”
“What’s the new man like?”
“So you even know there’s a new man? Oh, don’t tap your forehead again. He’s a pompous little fart,” said Hamish bitterly. “He called on me this morning.”
“And you not even in uniform. My, my.”
Hamish’s eyes fell on an expensive basket of fruit on the table. He jerked a thumb at it. “What’s that for? Going hospital visiting?”
“That iss the present from a grateful client. They are not all as mean as Hamish Macbeth.”
“Any of the TV people come to see you?”
“That would be telling. I neffer betray the confidences of my clients.”
“Then I won’t waste any more time with you,” said Hamish, going to the door.
Angus followed him. “I warned you not to get your hopes up about that wee blond lassie.”
“I don’t see much hope of that,” retorted Hamish. “I’ve been told to keep clear, so I probably won’t see her again.”
“Not unless you hurry.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Herself has chust driven up to the police station.”
Hamish stared down the hillside. A car had driven up outside the police station, and he could see the glint of blond hair as the driver got out.
He muttered an exclamation and began to run off down the hill, his long legs going like pistons.
As he arrived at the police station, Sheila was just driving off. He waved and shouted, and she screeched to a halt and then turned the car and headed back in his direction.
“Hallo, Hamish,” she said, getting out of the car again. She was wearing a shirt blouse, shorts and sandals. Her legs were muscular but well shaped, smooth and tanned.
“Come in and have a coffee,” panted Hamish.
“Where did you come from?” Sheila asked.
“I wass up seeing Angus Macdonald, the seer.”
“I’ve heard of him. Any good?”
“Nothing but an old gossip,” said Hamish, leading the way into the kitchen. “Coffee?” He plugged in the electric kettle.
“That would be nice,” said Sheila. “I didn’t know you had gone modern.”
“What?”
“The electric kettle. I thought you had to light that stove every time you wanted a cup of tea.”
“Och, no, I only use it for cooking. Milk and sugar?”
She nodded.
“So what brings you?”
“I’ve got a break. There’s to be no filming today. The lawyers are locked in battle with the police. But the police have a statement from the people in Drim that Patricia had already gone potty, so they might not get very far. I thought you’d be over with them.”
“I’ve been taken off the case by the new man.”
“Do you find that hard?”
“Yes, I do. These murders took place on my beat. I know all the locals. I should not have been left out. How are things in Drim?”
“Seething. It’s a funny place. When we first arrived, I thought it was lovely, a sort of Brigadoon, leisurely and kind. But after a bit, I got to know some of the locals that are being used as extras. They can be quite spiteful about each other. Edie Aubrey, that thin woman who does the exercise classes, got one line to say, that was all, and the other women ganged up and said unless they had something to say themselves, they wouldn’t appear. Fiona told them that the whole thing would go on without them and they backed down, but none of them are speaking to Edie, and someone threw a brick through her living room window.”
“That’s Drim for you.”
“And Alice, the hairdresser, she also had a line to say. Now, she had an extra bathroom put in upstairs two years ago, and she never bothered getting planning permission for it, and suddenly someone reports the existence of that bathroom to the council and she’s in trouble. And yet they all seemed like such friends.”
“It’s a closed-down sort of place, cut off by the mountains and the loch,” said Hamish, “and the winters up here are long and dark. They’ve nothing else to do but study each other.”