Death of a Dustman (24 page)

‘Coffee?’ asked Hamish.

‘Please.’

‘It isn’t decaff.’

‘That’s all right. Did you think I would mind?’

‘Yes, I thought you were probably a vegetarian as well.’

She leaned her pointed chin on her hands and surveyed him. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, astrology and all that.’ He filled two mugs from the kettle that he kept simmering on top of the wood-burning stove.

‘You are a very conventional man, I think.’

Hamish gave her a mug of coffee and sat down opposite her. ‘Did you come round here at this time o’ night to give me my character?’

‘No. Did you see that programme?’

‘The one with Crystal French?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘What about it?’

‘Someone’s going to kill her,’ said Elspeth calmly.

‘Whit! Havers, lassie. Her nasty programme will run one series. Then there’ll be another and the novelty will hae worn off and she’ll either sink without a trace or go to
London.’

‘I don’t think so. I think she’ll be killed.’

‘See it in the stars?’ mocked Hamish.

‘You could say that. It’s something about her. She’s
asking
to be killed.’

‘And who’s going to do it?’

‘Ah, if I knew that, maybe I could stop it.’

‘I am afraid in the world of television, the wicked can flourish like the green bay tree,’ said Hamish.

‘Quoting the Bible, Hamish? You?’

‘Why not? I am not the heathen. Let’s see, you have come here late at night to tell me you haff a feeling.’ Hamish’s Highland accent always became more pronounced when he
was upset. ‘And yet you seem a sensible girl. I don’t trust you. I think you came along here to have a private laugh at my expense.’

And although Elspeth’s face was calm, Hamish had a feeling that somewhere inside her was a private Elspeth who found him a bit of a joke.

She drank her coffee. Then she put on her hat and swung her anorak around her shoulders. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she said.

He leaned back in his chair and looked up at her. ‘And just what wass I supposed to do about this warning? Phone up my superiors and say I have
a feeling
her life’s in
danger?’

‘You could say you had received anonymous calls from people threatening to kill her.’

‘Oh, I should think those sort of calls are already arriving at Strathbane Television.’

She gave a little shrug. ‘Well, I tried.’

And then she was gone. She left so quickly and lightly that it seemed to Hamish that one minute she was there, and in the next, she had disappeared, leaving the door ajar.

He tried to dismiss the whole business from his head, but he felt uneasy.

Rory MacBain was basking in Crystal’s success. The first two programmes were to run on national TV followed by the subsequent ones. The switchboard had been jammed with
angry calls. The mail bag was full of threatening letters. And that
was
success. Reaction was success. He was disappointed that Crystal kept rejecting his advances, but the praise he was
receiving for having thought up the idea more than compensated for any disappointment.

There would be more money, much more money for the next series. This one had been thought up on the hoof, with less than a week from the idea to the filming. On Monday, the topic was decided.
‘Behind the Lace Curtains’ was to be an exposé of what really went on in Highland villages. Researchers burrowed through old cuttings, digging up scandals that people had hoped
were long forgotten.

Crystal, who had little to do, as the research was all done for her and scripts written for her, although she preferred to put her own comments into them at the last minute, decided to head out
from Strathbane and cruise round various villages. Her path was about to cross that of Hamish Macbeth and on the very day he felt his world had come to an end.

Yesterday morning, he had read his horoscope, Libra, in which Elspeth had written, ‘You will receive news on Monday which will make you feel your heart has been broken.
But remember, no pain, no gain. This is not the end. This is the beginning of a whole new chapter.’

‘Rubbish,’ muttered Hamish. He fed his dog, Lugs, and was just getting ready to go out when the phone rang. It was Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife. ‘I don’t
suppose you know,’ she said. ‘Do you read the
Times?’

‘No,’ said Hamish.

‘I thought not. It was in the social column four days ago and it’s all round the village. I said someone’s got to tell Hamish, but then I decided that, as usual, it would have
to be me.’

‘Tell me what?’ asked Hamish patiently.

‘Priscilla Halburton-Smythe is getting married . . . Are you there?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was in the social column. She’s marrying someone called Peter Partridge.’

‘Thank you.’ Bleakly.

Hamish put down the receiver and sat staring blindly at the desk. Lugs whimpered and put a large paw on his knee. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the colonel who owned the Tommel Castle
Hotel, had at one time been the love of his life. They had even been engaged. She might have told him. He told himself that he had got over her long ago, but he still felt sad and bereft.

He remembered his horoscope and suddenly got angry. Elspeth would have heard the gossip, Elspeth heard all the gossip. She must have found out the date of his birthday. She must have found it
very amusing.

He patted Lugs on the head and said, ‘Stay, boy.’ He would go out on his rounds as usual, he would work as usual. Life would go on.

He was just getting into his police Land Rover when a bright green BMW did a U-turn on the harbour and raced along the waterfront, well over the speed limit. He jumped in the Land Rover and with
siren blaring and blue light flashing, and holding the speed camera gun, that was fortunately on the front seat, out of the window with one hand, trained on the fleeing car, he set off in
pursuit.

The BMW stopped abruptly on the humpbacked bridge that led out of Lochdubh. Hamish stopped behind it and climbed down. He leaned down and looked into the BMW and Crystal French looked back.