Death of a Policeman (19 page)

“Our first guest,” said the man, “is T. J. Leverage, whose detective story
A Very Highland Murder
is climbing up the charts. Come and join us, T. J.”

Angela appeared dressed in the full evening outfit she had worn for the sofa awards.

The woman presenter laughed. “Do you always wear full evening dress in the middle of the day, T. J.?”

“From time to time,” said Angela calmly. “I find standards of dress have slipped badly. Men and women seem to dress alike these days.”

“That's my girl,” laughed Hamish. “She's got herself a new backbone. I love that woman!”

“She's married,” said Dick sharply.

“Oh, drink your drink and shut up,” said Hamish, feeling trapped again. He did not hear the rest of the interview because he became lost in a Walter Mitty dream where someone had taken lewd photographs of Dick and he, Hamish, was saying, “Leave my police station or these photos go to the press.”

As he walked along the waterfront later, he had a superstitious feeling that the old capricious gods of Sutherland were going to make him pay for his bad behaviour. He had involved Dick with a prostitute who had subsequently taken her life. He had just blackmailed his boss.

As he reached the doctor's house, a cab drove up and Angela, still in full evening dress, got out.

“Did you see the show, Hamish?”

“Aye, all of it,” lied Hamish, who felt he could hardly tell her he had missed practically all of it, fantasising about blackmailing Dick out of the police station. “See you put the lot on.”

“I had to,” said Angela, paying off the cabbie. “It was hanging in my closet, accusing me of extravagance. I'd help that lassie with her rucksack if I were you.”

Outside Mrs. Mackenzie's, a slight young woman was bent under the weight of a heavy rucksack.

Hamish walked up to her. “Help you with that?”

“Please. I've been walking and I am so fatigued.”

She had a French accent. Hamish helped her lift the rucksack from her shoulders. “Visiting?” he asked.

“Yes, I am tired of sleeping in the outdoors and someone told me that I could rent a room here.”

“Are you French?”

“Yes, from Lyons. But my mother was English.”

She smiled up at him. She had a little triangular face and big brown eyes. From her sensible walking gear drifted the aroma of some French perfume.

“All I need,” she said, “is a drink and a meal that I don't have to cook.”

“Why don't I help you in,” said Hamish. “I'll take you for a meal. I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.”

She dimpled up at him. Her eyelashes were very thick and long. “And I am Michelle Dulange. Is this a part of the local police service?”

“Oh, definitely,” said Hamish happily.

He helped her in and then waited outside.

Hamish was just beginning to think she had forgotten him when after twenty minutes she appeared wearing a white sweater over a short skirt and high heels.

In the Italian restaurant, waiter Willie Lamont ushered them to the table at the window. “A friend o' Hamish's?” asked Willie.

“I am a French tourist, and this policeman is kindly taking me for lunch.”

“The amount o' French letters I've had,” said Willie, leaning against the table.

“We don't want to know about your sex life, Willie,” said Hamish sharply.

Willie looked surprised. “Nothing to do with sex. I had a pen pal in Dijon when I was at school. I mind…”

“Go away and bring the menus,” ordered Hamish.

They ordered avocado and prawns followed by escalope Marsala. Hamish poured out wine and smiled at his pretty companion. “Tell me about yourself,” said Hamish.

She looked towards the window. “Who is that lady?”

Hamish followed her gaze. Priscilla stood outside, looking at them. He gave her a long, flat stare, trying to signal, don't dare come in here. Priscilla walked on.

During the next few days, Hamish neglected his duties and took Michelle for long drives around the countryside. On her last night, Dick made them dinner. He noticed that Michelle showed no signs of leaving. He collected the dog and cat, drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel, and begged a cheap room for the night.

In the morning, Hamish turned over in bed but Michelle was gone. It had been a night to remember. He quickly washed and dressed and hurried along to Mrs. Mackenzie's. To his amazement, he learned that Michelle had left. He rushed back, got into the Land Rover, and drove out of Lochdubh. Just beyond the Tommel Castle Hotel, he saw her small figure under the large rucksack walking along the road. He parked and jumped out. “Michelle! Why did you leave just like that?”

“It was fun, wasn't it?” she said. “Such a good time. But now I must keep to my schedule.”

“Marry me!” said Hamish desperately.

“Oh, my dear Hamish. I do love you.”

“Then marry me.”

“How can I say it? What is it people say? It's a nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to stay there. Besides, I have a
cher ami
waiting for me in Lyon. A good catch. His family has vineyards. Au revoir.”

Hamish miserably watched her go. He drove back to Lochdubh, got down from the Land Rover, and leaned on the wall overlooking the loch.

“Grand day,” said Archie Maclean, joining him.

“Do you understand women, Archie?”

“Never have, never will. Where's your French friend?”

“Gone off on her travels.”

“Aye, weel, some o' the lassies are like that. They've become chust like us fellows. Easy come, easy go. Better get hame afore the wife comes looking for me.”

Hamish watched him walk away. He suddenly found that he was not suffering. The episode with Michelle seemed to be fading fast.

He looked around at the village of Lochdubh and at his police station.

He laughed. “My kingdom,” he said. “I wouldnae change it for the world.”

M. C. Beaton has won international acclaim for her bestselling Hamish Macbeth mysteries, and the BBC has aired twenty-four episodes based on the series. Also the author of the Agatha Raisin series, M. C. Beaton lives in a Cotswold cottage with her husband. For more information, you can visit www.MCBeaton.com.

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