Death of a Bore (24 page)

‘Archie, another favour,’ said Hamish. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Heather Meikle is outside the police station. She might be waiting in her car. Could you tell her I’ve
gone off to Inverness clubbing with Freda? And your boat’s at the foot of the steps on the far side of the harbour. I didn’t want her to see me.’

‘All right, Hamish. Back in a tick.’

Archie made his way to the police station. He went to a car that was parked in front of it and peered into the driver’s side. Heather Meikle had a bottle of whisky and a glass and was just
helping herself to another drink. ‘What is it?’ she snapped. ‘What do you want?’

‘Hamish Macbeth has gone off to Inverness to go clubbing with our schoolteacher.’

‘Rats!’

Heather drained her glass in one long gulp. She screwed the top on to the bottle and put glass and bottle on the floor. Archie drew back as she drove off.

Then he returned to report to Hamish.

‘I hope that’s the last I’ll see of her,’ said Hamish. He went to the police station, and although it was only late afternoon, he fell on the bed with his clothes on and
plunged back down into sleep.

Just before he had gone to sleep, he vowed to ring Elspeth on her mobile and explain what had happened.

But he did not awake until six o’clock the following morning.

Jimmy Anderson phoned him later in the morning. ‘Was our Heather over at Lochdubh to see you yesterday?’

‘Aye. But I kept out o’ sight.’

‘She had a crash.’

‘Oh, God. Where?’

‘On the Lochdubh-Strathbane road. She found the only tree by the road and crashed right into it. She was as drunk as a skunk.’

‘Is she seriously hurt?’

‘Not a scratch. But her alcohol intake was so great they pumped her out, and they’re keeping her in Strathbane Hospital for observation.’

‘I should maybe have seen her, but, man, I was frightened that that one would eat me alive. Is Paul Gibson fit to be interviewed?’

‘No. The psychiatrist says his mind’s gone. We’ve been ferreting into his background. Seems he once worked on a police series, and they had a man there showing the actors how
to break in to a car. That must have been how he learned to hot-wire that van. What are you doing now?’

‘I’m still off duty, and I plan to eat and sleep.’

Hamish phoned Elspeth on her mobile. It was switched off. He tried her flat in Glasgow and got an answering service. He did not want to leave a message. He would try her later.

He took himself and Lugs along to the Italian restaurant, and he ate a large meal while the waiter, Willie Lamont, led Lugs off to the kitchen to spoil the dog with a large helping of osso
bucco.

When he returned to the police station, he checked his messages. There was one from Elspeth. ‘It was typical of you not to turn up,’ she said. ‘Face up to it. You don’t
want to marry me. In fact, I don’t think you want to marry anyone.’

Hamish felt guilty and ashamed because deep down he felt a little surge of relief.

A week after the arrest of Paul Gibson, the vet phoned Hamish. ‘Come and get your cat. It’s spooking the other animals.’

‘Is the plaster off?’

‘Of course not. But you’ll need to look after it yourself.’

Hamish decided to take Lugs with him. If the dog saw him taking the cat home, he might not react so badly.

‘Can it walk?’ he asked Hugh.

‘Yes, it can limp around with the plaster on. But you’d better keep her indoors.’

‘It’s a she-cat?’

‘Yes. What are you going to call it?’

‘Nothing at all, since I’m going to let her free as soon as the plaster’s off. How long exactly?’

‘Bring her back in three weeks’ time.’

‘Three weeks!’

The vet put on a pair of thick gloves before lifting the cat out of the cage. He handed her to Hamish.

Hamish expected her to twist and fight, but she lay supine in his arms.

‘She’s still weak,’ said the vet. ‘But look out when she recovers her energy.’

Hamish carried the cat back to the police station. Lugs plodded amiably beside him.

‘What’s up with you, Lugs?’ demanded Hamish. ‘I thought you’d be barking your head off.’

At the police station he found two mackerel laid out on a plate on the table with a note from Angela: ‘For your cat.’ The news that Hugh had ordered him to take the cat home must
have already gone round the village. Angela had obviously let herself in with the new spare key that Hamish had put in the gutter. Now the computer was gone, he didn’t see any reason to keep
visitors locked out.

Hamish put the cat on the floor. He put one of the fish on a plate and set it down beside her.

The cat ate ravenously while Lugs calmly watched. ‘I don’t understand you,’ said Hamish to his dog. ‘Another animal eating, a cat at that, and you don’t bother! I
just can’t make it out.’

Hamish put Lugs on the leash and went along to Patel’s and bought cat litter and a litter tray. When he returned, there was no sign of the cat. He wondered whether she had slipped out
after him.

But when he went into his bedroom, the cat was lying asleep, stretched out with her head on the pillow.

Hamish phoned Angela. ‘Thanks for the fish. I was wondering . . .’

‘No, Hamish. I love my cats, and that beast would eat them.’

‘It’s awfy quiet. Just like a house cat.’

‘It’s still recovering. No, Hamish. It’s all yours.’

The snow had melted and a soft wind was blowing up the sea loch from the Atlantic when Hamish went to the vet and watched as the plaster was taken off.

‘She’ll limp a bit,’ said Hugh, ‘but she should soon get the full strength back in that leg. I’m surprised to see you and Lugs in one piece.’

‘I’m surprised, too, Hugh. She’s right quiet.’

‘Take my advice and get rid of the thing as soon as possible.’ The cat stared at Hamish.

‘She iss not a thing,’ protested Hamish. ‘She iss one fine animal.’

‘Don’t be daft and get any ideas of keeping her. She belongs in the wild.’

Hamish carried the cat back to the police station despite Hugh’s protests that he ought to be carrying such a dangerous animal in a cat box. He let the cat out in the
kitchen and said to Lugs, ‘It’s the grand day. We’ll just go for a stroll.’

He opened the kitchen door. Lugs went out and the cat slid after him.

‘No, you don’t,’ said Hamish. ‘Get back in.’ He bent down to lift the cat but she moved away from him. He looked at her curiously, then he began to walk away with
Lugs at his heels. The cat followed behind Lugs, and the odd procession made its way along the waterfront.

Mrs Wellington hailed him. ‘You shouldn’t be letting that animal on the loose.’

Hamish stopped. Lugs sat down and waited and the cat sat beside him.

‘Doesn’t look dangerous to me,’ said Hamish. ‘Leave the beast alone.’

But he knew the day was approaching when he would need to turn the cat loose.

In late spring Hamish put the cat in the Land Rover in the back and lifted Lugs on to the passenger seat and drove up high on the moors.

The air was full of the smell of growing things, and there was a tang of salt in the air.

He stopped the Land Rover and lifted Lugs down, then got the cat out of the back and set her down in the heather.

‘Go now,’ said Hamish. ‘You’re free!’

The cat sat and stared at him.

With a little sigh Hamish lifted Lugs back in and got into the Land Rover himself and drove off, glancing in the rear-view mirror until the cat was no longer in sight.

‘It’s you and me again,’ he said to Lugs inside the police station, trying not to admit to himself that he missed the cat already. He had thought Lugs would have put up some
sort of protest because the dog and cat had become inseparable.

He went off on his rounds for the rest of the day, resisting the temptation to go back where he had left the cat to see if she was all right.

When he returned, he cooked dinner for himself and Lugs and went into the office to do some paperwork.

Lugs gave one sharp peremptory bark. Hamish went into the kitchen. The dog was staring at the kitchen door and wagging his tail.

Hamish opened the door. The cat trudged wearily in. She went straight to the bedroom and leapt up on the bed and fell asleep.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Hamish Macbeth.

By autumn that year Alistair Taggart’s short novel,
Home of the Eagles
, was published. The first half of the book was in Gaelic and the second half was the
English translation. It was nominated for the Booker Prize. It sold very well in the south, where people displayed it on their coffee tables and didn’t read it. Angela was still working on
her novel.

Freda and Matthew were married by Mr Wellington. Elspeth arrived for the ceremony. Hamish felt a desperate need to talk to her, accompanied by a desperate need to keep out of her way.

He had just made up his mind late on into the reception to take her aside and talk to her when he found out she had left for Glasgow. He knew he had holidays owing. He could always go down to
Glasgow and see her.

But as winter began to clamp its icy fingers round the Highlands again, as the purple heather faded to dull brown, Hamish was still in Lochdubh with his odd cat, now called Sonsie, christened by
Archie Maclean, who said the cat’s broad face brought to mind Burns’s ‘To a Haggis’: ‘Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face.’

One clear cold evening he went out on to the waterfront. Life had become blissfully quiet. He felt there was really nothing to stop him going to Glasgow except his pets. Many would be happy to
look after Lugs, but none wanted the cat.

Then he saw Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, his ex-fiancée, walking towards him. At first he thought he was imagining things, but she came up to him and they both leaned on the sea wall and
looked out on the black waters of the loch.

‘You’ve been having a lot of adventures since I was last here,’ said Priscilla.

‘It’s lovely and quiet now.’ The moon shone down on the diamond engagement ring on Priscilla’s finger. There was no wedding ring.

‘Not married yet?’ said Hamish.

‘No.’

‘Me neither.’

They both leaned together on the sea wall in silence. There seemed to be so much to say on the one hand, and on the other, no need to say anything at all.

If you enjoyed
Death of a Bore
, read on for the first chapter of the next book in the
Hamish Macbeth
series . . .

It had been a particularly savage winter in the county of Sutherland at the very north of Scotland. Great blizzards had roared in off the Atlantic, burying roads and cottages
in deep snowdrifts. Patel’s, the local grocery shop in the village of Lochdubh, sold out of nearly everything, and at one point it was necessary for rescue helicopters to drop supplies to the
beleaguered inhabitants.

And then, at the end of March, the last of the storms roared away, to be followed by balmy breezes and blue skies. The air was full of the sound of rasping saws and the thump of hammers as the
inhabitants of Lochdubh, as if they had awakened from a long sleep, got to work repairing storm damage.

The police station was comparatively sheltered below the brow of a hill and had escaped the worst of the ravages of winter. Police Constable Hamish Macbeth found that the only thing in need of
repair was the roof of the hen house.

Archie Macleod, one of the local fishermen, went to call on Hamish and found the lanky policeman with the flaming red hair up on top of a ladder, busily hammering nails into the roof of the hen
house.

‘Fine day, Hamish,’ he called.

Glad of any diversion from work, Hamish climbed down the ladder. ‘I was just about to put the kettle on, Archie. Fancy a cup of tea?’

‘Aye, that would be grand.’

Archie followed Hamish into the kitchen and sat at the table while Hamish put an old blackened kettle on the woodburning stove.

‘Got much damage, Archie?’

‘Tiles off the roof. But herself is up there doing the repairs.’

Hamish’s hazel eyes glinted with amusement. ‘Didn’t feel like helping her, did you?’

‘Och, no. The womenfolk are best left on their own. How have you been doing?’

‘Very quiet. There’s one thing about a bad winter,’ said Hamish over his shoulder as he took a pair of mugs down from a cupboard. ‘It stops the villains driving up from
the south to look for easy pickings in the cottages.’

‘Aye, and it keeps folks sweet as well. Nothing like the blitz spirit. How did that newcomer survive the winter, or did herself take off for the south?’

The newcomer was Effie Garrard. Hamish had called on her last summer when she first arrived, and had been sure she would not stay long. He put her down as one of those romantic dreamers who
sometimes relocate to the Highlands, looking for what they always describe as ‘the quality of life’.