Death of a Dreamer (2 page)

Hamish grinned. He took an instant liking to the artist. He was a powerful man in, Hamish judged, his early forties with shaggy black hair streaked with grey. He had a comical, battered-looking
face and seemed to find himself a bit of a joke.

‘When you’ve got settled in,’ said Hamish, ‘drop by the police station and we’ll have a dram.’

‘Great. See you.’

Hamish watched him go. ‘Well, Lugs,’ he said. ‘That’ll be one incomer who won’t be any trouble at all.’

Hamish was disappointed as two days passed and Jock did not call for that drink. But on the third day, as he walked along the waterfront in the morning, he saw Jock at his
easel, surrounded by a little group of women.

Walking up to the group, Hamish said, ‘Move along, ladies The man can’t do any work with you bothering him.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Jock cheerfully. ‘I like the company of beautiful ladies.’

Freda, the schoolteacher, giggled and said, ‘He’s giving us lessons. Why don’t you run along, Hamish?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nessie Currie. ‘Go and catch a criminal or something.’

‘I’ll see you later for that dram, Hamish,’ called Jock as Hamish walked off.

I hope that one isn’t going to turn out to be a heartbreaker, thought Hamish. He decided to visit Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife.

The kitchen door was open, so he walked straight in. Angela was sitting at the kitchen table at her computer. She looked up when she saw Hamish and gave a sigh of relief, pushing a wisp of hair
out of her eyes.

‘I can’t get on with this book, Hamish,’ she complained. ‘When the first one was published, I thought I was all set. But the words won’t come.’

‘Maybe you’re trying too hard.’

‘Maybe. Let’s have coffee.’

Angela’s first novel had been published the previous autumn. Reviews were good, but sales were modest.

‘The trouble is I am damned as a “literary writer”,’ said Angela, ‘which usually means praise and no money.’

‘Perhaps something in the village will spark your imagination,’ said Hamish, covertly shooing two of her cats off the table where they were trying to drink the milk out of the
jug.

‘Like what?’

‘Like this artist fellow. Seems to be a big hit with the ladies.’

‘Oh, he jokes and teases them. But I can’t see anyone falling for him.’

‘Why?’

‘In a funny kind of way, there’s nothing about him that gives any of them the come-on. He’s just a thoroughly nice man.’

‘Painting any good?’

‘He’s just started, but I looked his name up on the Internet. He’s considered to be a very good landscape painter. He paints pictures in the old-fashioned way, and people are
going for that. I think they’re moving away from elephant dung and unmade beds or whatever the modern artist has been exhibiting at the Tate. I don’t think he’s going to cause any
dramas. Where are your animals?’

‘I left them playing in the garden.’

‘Don’t you find it odd that a dog and a wild cat should get on so well?’

‘Not really. A relief, if you ask me. If Lugs hadn’t taken to the cat, I’d need to have got rid of it.’

‘Be careful, Hamish. It is a wild cat, and they can be savage.’

‘I don’t think there’s such a thing as a pure wild cat any more. They’ve been interbreeding with the domestic ones for years. When I found Sonsie outside the police
station with a broken leg, I didn’t think the beast would live. Someone had been mistreating that animal. I’d dearly like to find out who it was.’

‘Maybe it just got caught in a trap.’

‘I’ve a feeling Sonsie had been kept captive somewhere.’

‘Here’s your coffee. Is Effie Garrard still around?’

‘Yes. I visited her the other day and asked around about her. Patel is selling her stuff, and so is the gift shop up at the Tommel Castle Hotel. She does charge awfy high
prices.’

‘Are you going to the ceilidh on Saturday?’

‘I might drop in.’

‘You’ll need a ticket. Five pounds.’

‘Five pounds! What on earth for?’

‘The church hall needs repainting.’

‘I thought some of the locals would have done that for free.’

‘Oh, they are. But it’s to raise money for repairs to the roof, paint and new curtains.’

‘And what would I be getting for five pounds?’

‘A buffet supper. The Italian restaurant is doing the catering.’

‘That’s decent of them. I’ll go.’

‘You must be getting very bored:’ said Angela. ‘No crime.’

‘And that just suits me fine. No crime now and no crime on the horizon.’

Effie Garrard was a fantasist. Dreams were as essential to her as breathing. While Hamish sat in the doctor’s wife’s kitchen drinking coffee, Effie approached the
village of Lochdubh, wrapped in a dream of attending her own funeral. Villagers wept, the piper played a lament, famous artists came from all over to give their eulogies. She had decided to walk
instead of taking her car because the day was so fine. The twin mountains behind the village soared up to a clear blue sky. Little glassy waves on the sea loch made a pleasant plashing sound as
they curled on to the shingly beach.

A pleasurable tear ran down Effie’s cheek, and she was wondering just how long she could stretch out this splendid dream when she saw Jock at his easel.

Her dream bubble burst as she experienced a jealous pang. She wanted to be the only artist in Lochdubh. Probably some amateur, she thought, approaching him. Jock’s coterie of admiring
women had left for dinner – dinner in Lochdubh still being in the middle of the day, except in posh places like the Tommel Castle Hotel.

Effie stood behind him and studied his work. His colours were magnificent. He had caught the purplish green of the forestry trees on the other side of the loch, and the reflections in the glassy
loch had been painted by the hand of a master.

She did not want to interrupt him, but he turned round and smiled at her. ‘Grand day,’ said Jock.

‘Oh, please go on. I’m an artist myself, and I hate to be interrupted,’ said Effie.

‘I don’t mind. I was just about to take a break. What do you do?’

‘Small pictures of birds and flowers, and I’m a potter as well.’ She held out her hand. ‘Effie Garrard.’

‘I’m Jock Fleming. Wait a bit. I saw some of your pottery at the gift shop up at the hotel. You’re very talented.’

‘Thank you. I live up in the hills above the village. Drop in on me any time you like.’

‘I’ll do that.’

Jock smiled at her again.

Effie gazed up at him in a dazed way. ‘Come now,’ she said.

‘Can’t. I promised the policeman I’d drop in for a dram.’

‘I know Hamish. I’ll come with you.’

‘Not this time. It’s man’s talk. But I’ll see you around.’

Effie retreated, cursing herself. She had been too pushy. But she would act differently the next time. And, oh, there would be a next time. She hardly noticed the walk home. This time she was at
her own wedding with Jock at her side. The church bells rang out over Lochdubh, and the villagers threw rose petals. ‘I loved you that first moment I saw you,’ Jock murmured.

‘Oh, it’s yourself,’ said Hamish, letting Jock into the kitchen. ‘Where’s your stuff?’

‘In my car.’

‘You surely didnae drive the few yards from Mrs Dunne’s?’

‘No, but it’s a good place to put my paints when I’m taking a break.’

‘Sit down,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll get the whisky out.’

Jock looked around the kitchen. It was a narrow room with cupboards and fridge along one wall and a wood-burning stove, which was sending out a blast of heat.

‘I’m surprised you’ve got the fire on today,’ said Jock.

‘It’s got a back boiler. I’m heating up water for a shower.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to have an immersion heater?’

‘Thae things cost a mint.’ Hamish put a bottle of whisky, a jug of water and two glasses on the table. ‘Besides, it’ll be a long time afore we see a summer like this
again.’

He poured out two measures. ‘Water?’

‘Just a splash.’

Hamish sat down opposite him.

‘Where are your animals?’ asked Jock.

‘Somewhere around,’ said Hamish, who had no intention of telling his visitor that the dog and the cat had eaten well and were now stretched out on his bed. The Currie sisters had
started telling him he was behaving like an old maid. Even Archie Macleod had commented the other day that it looked as if Hamish was married to his dog and cat.

‘How’s the painting going?’ asked Hamish.

‘It was going fine until I got interrupted by a pushy woman.’

‘Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife?’

‘No, another artist. Effie Garrard.’

‘That quiet wee thing. I’d never have thought of her as being pushy.’

‘Oh, maybe I’m being hard on the woman.’

‘How pushy?’ asked Hamish with his usual insatiable highland curiosity.

‘Let me see. She asked me to drop in on her any time. Then she wanted me to go back with her there and then. I said I was coming to see you, and she said she would come as well. I told her
it was man talk and got rid of her.’

‘Maybe she’s lonelier than I thought,’ said Hamish.

Jock laughed. ‘You underrate my charms.’

‘I believe you’re pretty well known. More whisky?’

‘Just a little,’ said Jock. ‘My agent’s coming up from Glasgow.’

‘I didn’t know artists had agents.’

‘Well, we do. She takes her cut and finds me a gallery for an exhibition, and the gallery takes fifty percent. I used to do it myself until she found me and offered her
services.’

‘How long do you think you’ll stay up here?’

‘I don’t know. The light is fascinating, like nowhere else. I hope the good weather holds so I can make the most of it.’

For the next two days, Effie found she could not concentrate on anything. She sat by the front window, looking down the brae to Lochdubh from early morning until late at night,
waiting to see if Jock would call.

On the morning of the third day, she found that all her colourful dreams were beginning to get as thin as gossamer. This time she drove down in her little Ford Escort, not wanting to waste time
walking, suddenly anxious to see him.

Jock was sitting at his easel, talking animatedly to Angela Brodie and Freda Campbell, the schoolteacher. Both were married, thought Effie sourly, and should be with their husbands. Freda was
not long married, too, and to that local reporter, Matthew Campbell.

She waited patiently in her car for them to go. Then Jock began to pack up his things. Effie watched in dismay as they all headed for Angela’s cottage.

She sat nervously biting her thumb.

At last, she got out of her car and went to Angela’s cottage. The kitchen door was standing open, and she could hear the sounds of laughter. Squaring her small shoulders, she marched
straight into the kitchen. Three startled pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

‘Hello, Jock,’ said Effie, ignoring the other two.

‘Hello. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve got some paintings and would like your opinion. Can you come up and see them?’

‘I’m just about to get back to work,’ said Jock, getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for the company, ladies.’

Effie followed him, practically running to keep up with his long strides. ‘What about this evening?’ she panted.

‘Oh, all right,’ said Jock. ‘I’ll be up at six. I’m meeting friends for dinner.’

She gave him directions and then asked, ‘What friends?’

‘Run along, Effie. I’ll see you later.’

For the rest of that day, Effie scrubbed and dusted until her cottage was shining. She took a bath in the brown peaty water that always came out of the taps and then dressed in
a white wool dress and black velvet jacket. For the first time in her life, she wished she had some make-up. She had never worn any before, claiming it blocked up the pores.

Then she sat by the window. At five minutes past six, she was beginning to despair when she saw his car bumping and lurching over the heathery track that led to her cottage.

She flung open the door and stood beaming a welcome.

Jock ducked his head and followed her in. ‘Now, where are these paintings of yours?’ he said.

‘I thought you might like a glass of whisky first.’

‘I’m pressed for time.’

Effie had laid out a selection of her small framed paintings on the table. ‘Here they are,’ she said.

He picked one up and took it to the window and held it up to the light. ‘I’m surprised you can do anything in here,’ he said. ‘There isn’t enough light.’

The painting was of a thrush sitting on a branch of berries. The red of the berries glowed.

‘This is exquisite,’ said Jock. ‘You’re very good indeed.’

Effie blushed with pleasure.

Jock appeared to have relaxed. He admired painting after painting and then her pieces of pottery. ‘Do you have an agent?’ he asked. ‘These are much too good just to be shown in
Patel’s and the gift shop.’

‘No, I don’t have one.’

‘My agent, Betty, will be here soon on holiday. I’ll bring her along, if you like.’

‘Oh, Jock, that would be marvellous.’ She had moved so close to him she was practically leaning against his side.

He felt uneasy. ‘I’ve got to go, but I’ll let you know when Betty arrives.’

Jock made for the door. ‘Where are you having dinner?’ asked Effie.

‘The Tommel Castle Hotel. Bye.’

He walked out to his car. He stopped for a moment and breathed in deep lungfuls of air. Then he got in and drove off.

Jock was not meeting anyone for dinner. But he decided to treat himself to dinner at the hotel.

He entered the dining room. A beautiful blonde approached him and said, ‘Have you come for dinner?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve one table left,’ said the vision. ‘Thank goodness the tourists are back.’

‘You’re a very glamorous maître d’,’ commented Jock.

‘I’m standing in this evening. My parents run this hotel. I’m Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Our maître d’ is off sick.’

She handed him a large menu and said, ‘Your waiter will be along in a minute. Would you like a drink?’

‘No thanks. I’ll order wine with the meal.’

He watched Priscilla as she walked away. What a figure! And that beautiful bell of golden hair that framed her face! There was a remoteness about her which quickened his senses.