Death of a Valentine (2 page)

‘I’m Josie McSween,’ said Josie. ‘I’ll just get my things.’

‘You can’t move in here,’ said Hamish. ‘The villagers won’t have it. You’re to stay with Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife.’

‘But –’

‘There are no buts about it. The ladies of the village won’t thole a lassie living with me at the police station. I’ll get my coat and walk ye up there. When you see where it
is, you can come back for your car. Wait there, McSween, I’ll get my coat.’

McSween! In all her dreams he had called her Josie. Hamish emerged shortly and began to walk off with long strides in the direction of the manse while Josie scurried behind him.

‘Don’t I get a choice of where I want to live?’ she panted.

‘You’re a policewoman,’ said Hamish over his shoulder. ‘You just go where you’re put.’

The manse was situated behind the church. It was a Georgian building. Georgian architecture usually conjures a vision of elegance, but Scottish Georgian can be pretty functional and bleak. It
was a square three-storey sandstone building, unornamented, and with several windows bricked up dating from the days of the window tax.

Hamish led the way round to the kitchen door where Mrs Wellington was already waiting, the highland bush telegraph having noticed and relayed every moment of Josie’s arrival.

Josie’s heart sank even lower. Mrs Wellington was a vast tweedy woman with a booming voice.

‘Where are your things?’ she asked.

‘I left them in my car at the police station,’ said Josie.

‘Shouldn’t you be in uniform?’

‘It’s my day off.’

‘Off you go, Mr Macbeth,’ said Mrs Wellington. ‘I’ll just show Miss McSween her room and give her the rules of the house and then she can bring her luggage.’

Josie followed Mrs Wellington into the manse kitchen. It was vast, dating from the days when ministers had servants and large families. It was stone-flagged, and the double sinks by the window
were deep and made of stone with old-fashioned brass taps. A long dresser lining one wall contained blue and white plates. The newest item was a scarlet fuel-burning Raeburn stove. High up in the
ceiling by a wooden pulley burned a dim single lightbulb. On the pulley hung a row of Mrs Wellington’s knickers: large, cotton, and fastened at the knee with elastic. Where on earth did one
get knickers like that these days, wondered Josie. People didn’t often talk about knickers any more, preferring the American
panties.
But
panties
suggested something naughty and
feminine. In one corner stood a large fridge and, wonder of wonders in this antique place, a dishwasher.

‘Come along,’ ordered Mrs Wellington. ‘The washing machine is in the laundry room over there to your left. Washing is on Thursdays.’

Josie followed her out of the kitchen, which led into a dark hall where a few dim, badly painted portraits of previous ministers stared down at her. There was a hallstand of the kind that looked
like an altar and a Benares brass bowl full of dusty pampas grass.

The staircase was of stone, the steps worn smooth and polished by the long years of feet pounding up and down. At the first landing, Mrs Wellington led the way along a corridor painted acid
green on the top half, the bottom half being made of strips of brown-painted wood.

The wind had risen, and it moaned about the old manse like a banshee. Mrs Wellington pushed open a door at the end. ‘This is where you’ll stay. The arrangement is for bed and
breakfast. Any other meals you want you will cook yourself, but not between five and six which is when I prepare tea for Mr Wellington.’

To Josie’s relief the room was light and cheerful. The window looked out over the roofs of the waterfront houses to the loch. There was a large double bed with a splendid patchwork quilt
covering it. A peat fire was burning in the hearth.

‘We are fortunate to have a large supply of the peat so you can burn as much as you like,’ said Mrs Wellington. ‘Now, once you are settled in, you will have your tea with us,
seeing as it is your first day, and in the evening I will take you to a meeting of the Mothers’ Union in the church hall to introduce you to the other ladies of Lochdubh.’

‘But Hamish –’ began Josie weakly.

‘I have told him of the arrangements and he has agreed. You are to report to the police station tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. When you drive up, you can leave your car outside
the front door for easy access, but after that, use the kitchen door. Here are the keys. The only one you need to use is the kitchen door key.’

The key was a large one, no doubt dating from when the manse had been built.

Josie thanked her and scurried off down the stairs. The mercurial weather had changed and a squall of sleet struck her in the face. She had been to the hairdresser only that morning. On her way
back to the police station, the malicious wind whipped her hair this way and that, and gusts of icy sleet punched her in the face.

She knocked at the police station door but there was no answer. Josie got into her car and drove up to the manse.

She struggled up the stairs with two large suitcases. The manse was silent except for the moan of the wind.

In her room, there was a huge Victorian wardrobe straight out of Narnia. She hung away her clothes. Josie wanted a long hot bath. She walked along the corridor, nervously pushing open door after
door until she found a large bathroom at the end. There was a claw-footed bath with a gas heater over it. The heater looked ancient but the meter down on the floor looked new. She crouched down and
read the instructions. ‘Place a one-pound coin in the meter and turn the dial to the left and then to the right. Light the geyser and stand back.’ On a shelf beside the bath was a box
of long matches.

Josie returned to her room and changed into her dressing gown, found a pound coin, and went back to the bathroom. She put the coin in the meter and twisted the dial, then turned on the water.
There was a hiss of gas. She fumbled anxiously with the box of matches, lit one, and poked it into the meter. There was a terrifying bang as the gas lit but the stream of water became hot.

The bath was old and deep and took about half an hour to fill. At last, she sank into it and wondered what she was going to do about Hamish Macbeth. Perhaps the village women at the church hall
could fill her in with some details.

Hamish Macbeth crowed over the phone to Jimmy Anderson. ‘I’m telling you, I give that lassie two days at the most. By the time Mrs Wellington’s finished with
her, she’ll be crying for a transfer back to Strathbane.’

Josie decided that evening to dress in her uniform to give herself a bit of gravitas. She still felt hungry. She was used to dinner in the evening, not the high tea served in
homes in Lochdubh. She had eaten a small piece of fish with a portion of canned peas and one boiled potato followed by two very hard tea cakes.

To her relief, there were cakes, sandwiches, and tea on offer at the village hall. Mrs Wellington introduced her all round. Josie wondered if she would ever remember all the names. One woman
with a gentle face and wispy hair stood out – Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife – and two fussy old twins called Nessie and Jessie Currie.

Over the teacups, Nessie and Jessie warned her that Hamish Macbeth was a philanderer and to stick to her job but Angela rescued her and said, mildly, that usually the trouble started because of
women pursuing Hamish, not the other way around.

Josie tossed her newly washed hair. She had carried her cap under her arm so as not to spoil the hairstyle. She was angry with Hamish for billeting her at the manse and spoiling her dreams.
‘I can’t see what anyone would see in the man,’ said Josie. ‘He’s just a long drip with that funny-looking red hair.’

‘Hamish Macbeth is a friend of mine and, may I add, your boss,’ said Angela and walked away.

Josie bit her lip in vexation. This was no way to go about making friends. She hurried after Angela. ‘Look here, that was a stupid thing to say. The fact is I don’t really want to
stay at the manse. It’s a bit like being in boarding school. I’m angry with Hamish for not finding me somewhere a bit more congenial.’

‘Oh, you’ll get used to it,’ said Angela. ‘Hamish covers a huge beat. You’ll be out all day.’

The next morning, Hamish presented Josie with ordnance survey maps and a long list of names and addresses. ‘These are elderly people who live alone in the remoter
areas,’ he said. ‘It’s part of our duties to periodically check up on them. You won’t be able to do it all in one day or maybe two. We only have the one vehicle so
you’ll need to use your own. Give me any petrol receipts and I’ll get the money back for you.’

Josie longed to ask him what he was going to do, but had decided her best plan was to be quiet and willing until he cracked. And she was sure he would crack and realize what wife potential he
had under his highland nose.

She gave him her mobile phone number and set out, deciding to try some of the faraway addresses first. Josie drove along, up and down the single-track roads of Sutherland, lost in a happy
dream.

The hard fact was that she should never have joined the police force. But a television drama,
The Bill,
had fired her imagination. By fantasizing herself into the character of a strong
and competent policewoman, she had passed through her training fairly easily. Her sunny nature made her popular. She had not been in Strathbane long enough for any really nasty cases to wake her up
to the realities of her job. She baked cakes for the other constables, asked about their wives and families, and generally made herself well liked. She was given easy assignments.

Then one day after she had been in Strathbane only a few weeks, Hamish Macbeth strolled into police headquarters. Josie took one look at his tall figure, flaming red hair, and hazel eyes and
decided she was in love. And since she was already in love with some sort of Brigadoon idea of the Highlands, she felt that Hamish Macbeth was a romantic figure.

Hamish Macbeth began to receive telephone calls from people in the outlying crofts praising Josie McSween. She was described as ‘a ray of sunshine’, ‘a
ministering angel’, and ‘a fine wee lassie’.

As there was no crime on his beat and Josie was covering what would normally be his duties, Hamish found himself at liberty to mooch around the village and go fishing.

During the late afternoon, with his dog and cat at his heels, he strolled around to see his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. Angela was a writer, always in the throes of trying to
produce another book. She typed on her laptop at the kitchen table where the cats prowled amongst the lunch debris which Angela had forgotten to clear away.

‘You’ll need to lock your beasts in the living room,’ said Angela. ‘Sonsie frightens my cats.’

‘I’ll let them run outside,’ said Hamish, shooing his pets out the door. ‘They’ll be fine. How’s it going?’

‘Not very well. I had a visit from a French writer. One of my books has been translated into French. She spoke excellent English, which is just as well because I have only school French. I
think I upset her.’

‘How?’

‘Pour yourself some coffee. It’s like this. She talked about the glories of being a writer. She said it was a spiritual experience. She said this must be a marvellous place for
inspiration. Well, you know, writers who wait for inspiration get mental block. One just slogs on. I said so. She got very high and mighty and said I could not be a real writer. She said,
“Pouf!”’

‘Meaning?’

‘It’s that sort of sound that escapes the French mouth when they make a
moue
of contempt.’

‘I haven’t seen a tourist here in ages,’ said Hamish, sitting down opposite her. ‘The Americans can’t afford to come this far and the French are tied up in the
credit crunch.’

‘By the way she was dressed, she had private means. I bet she published her books herself,’ said Angela. ‘How’s your new copper?’

‘Rapidly on her way to becoming the saint o’ Sutherland. I sent her off to check on the isolated folks and they’ve been phoning me up to say how marvellous she is. Every time I
go back to the police station, there’s another one ringing in wi’ an accolade.’

Angela leaned back in her chair. ‘What’s she after?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A pretty little girl like that doesn’t want to be buried up here in the wilds unless she has some sort of agenda.’

‘I don’t think she has. I think she was simply told to go. Jimmy said she had volunteered but I find that hard to believe.’

‘Had she met you before?’

‘No. First I saw of her was when she landed on my doorstep.’ Hamish had not even noticed Josie that time when she had first seen him at police headquarters. ‘Anyway, as long as
she keeps out o’ ma hair, we’ll get along just fine.’

By the time the days dragged on until the end of June, Josie was bored. There was no way of getting to him. She could not tempt him with beautiful meals because Mrs Wellington
had decided not to let her use the kitchen, saying if she wanted an evening meal she would cook it and bill headquarters for the extra expense, and when, one evening, Josie plucked up courage and
suggested to Hamish that she would cook a meal for them both, he had said, ‘Don’t worry, McSween. I’m going out.’

It wasn’t that Hamish did not like his constable, it was simply that he valued his privacy and thought that letting any woman work in his kitchen was a bad idea. Look what had happened
when he had been briefly engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Without consulting him, she’d had his beloved stove removed and a nasty electric cooker put in instead. No, you just
couldn’t let a woman in the kitchen.

Josie had three weeks’ holiday owing. She decided to spend it with her mother in Perth. Her mother always knew what to do.

Josie was an only child, and Mrs Flora McSween had brought her daughter up on a diet of romantic fiction. Just before she arrived, Flora had been absorbed in the latest issue
of
The People’s Friend. The People’s Friend
magazine had grown and prospered by sticking to the same formula of publishing romantic stories. While other women’s magazines
had stopped publishing fiction and preferred hard-hitting articles such as ‘I Had My Father’s Baby’ and other exposés,
People’s Friend
went its own sweet way,
adding more and more stories as its circulation rose. It also contained articles on Scotland, recipes, poetry, knitting patterns, notes from a minister, and advice from an agony aunt.