Death of a Valentine (3 page)

The arrival of her copy was the highlight of Flora’s week. When her daughter burst in the door, saying, ‘It’s no good, Ma. He’s barely aware of my existence,’ Flora
knew exactly who she was talking about, her daughter having shared her romantic dreams about Hamish over the phone.

‘Now, pet,’ said Flora, ‘sit down and take your coat off and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea. Faint heart never won a gentleman. Maybe you’ve been trying too
hard.’

‘He calls me McSween, he sends me off hundreds of miles to check on boring old people and make sure they’re all right. I’m so tired of smiling and drinking tea and eating
scones, I could scream.’

‘You know what would bring you together? A nice juicy crime.’

‘So what if there isn’t one in that backwater? What do I do? Murder someone?’

Hamish barely thought about Josie. He was cynically sure that she would not last very long.

Now that she was away on holiday, he could put her right out of his mind. He was not very surprised, however, that on the day Josie was supposed to be back at work, her mother phoned to say her
daughter had come down with a severe summer cold. She said a doctor’s certificate had been sent to Strathbane.

Hamish said that Josie was to take as long as she liked and sent his regards.

‘What exactly did he say?’ demanded Josie when her mother put down the phone.

‘He sent you his very warmest wishes,’ said Flora, exaggerating wildly.

Josie glowed. ‘I told you, Ma, absence does make the heart grow fonder.’

One of the real reasons Josie was delaying her return by claiming to have a cold was that, although she would not admit it to herself, she preferred dreams to reality. Just so long as she was
away from Hamish, she could dream about him gathering her in his arms and whispering sweet nothings. He said all the things she wanted him to say.

But that message about ‘warmest wishes’ buoyed her up so much that she decided to return in two days’ time. ‘You don’t think Strathbane will phone the doctor to
check up?’ she asked anxiously. Flora had stolen one of the certificates from the doctor’s pad when he was not looking.

‘Och, no. You’ll be just fine.’

So Josie eventually set out with a head full of dreams – dreams which crashed down to her feet when Hamish opened the kitchen door and said, ‘Hello, McSween. Are you fit for
work?’

Work turned out to be a case of shoplifting over in Cnothan. Rain was drumming down and the midges, those Scottish mosquitoes, were out in clouds, undeterred by the downpour.

The job was very easy. The shopkeeper had a video security camera and had identified the thief. ‘I’ll go right now and arrest him,’ said Josie eagerly.

‘Now, I wouldn’t be doing that, lassie,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘It’s just some poor auld drunk who took a bottle o’ cider. I won’t be pressing
charges.’

‘So why did you drag the police all the way here?’ demanded Josie angrily.

‘I didnae know it was him until I looked at the video fillum.’

The rain had stopped when Josie left the shop. She pulled out her phone to call Hamish and then decided against it. If she called at the police station to deliver her report, surely he would
have to ask her in.

Sure enough, Hamish did invite her into the kitchen, but there was a woman there, sitting at the kitchen table. She was a cool blonde in expensive clothes. Hamish introduced her as Priscilla
Halburton-Smythe. Josie knew from headquarters gossip that this was the woman Hamish had once been engaged to.

She delivered her report, saying angrily that she should have been allowed to make an arrest.

‘Oh, we don’t arrest anyone up here if we can possibly avoid it,’ said Hamish. ‘Take the rest of the day off.’

Josie stood there, hopefully. There was a pot of tea on the table and cakes.

‘Run along,’ said Hamish.

‘You could have given her some tea,’ said Priscilla.

‘I’m keeping her right out,’ said Hamish. ‘If she gets a foot in the door, before you know it she’ll be rearranging the furniture.’

‘Where’s she staying?’

‘Up at the manse.’

‘How gloomy! She must be feeling very lonely.’

‘Priscilla, she’s a grown-up policewoman! She’ll need to make friends here just like anyone else. How long are you staying?’

‘Just a couple more days.’

‘Dinner tonight?’

‘All right. The Italian’s?’

‘Yes, I’ll meet you there at eight.’

Unfortunately for Hamish, Josie decided to have dinner out that night. She stood hesitating in the door of the restaurant. To Hamish’s annoyance, Priscilla called her
over and said, ‘Do join us.’

Hamish behaved badly during the meal, sitting in scowling silence as Priscilla politely asked Josie about her work and her home in Perth. She seemed completely unaware of Hamish’s bad
mood. Josie translated Hamish’s discourtesy into a sort of Heathcliff brooding silence. Such were her fantasies about him that at one point, Josie thought perhaps he wanted to be alone with
her and wished Priscilla would leave.

The awkward meal finally finished. Priscilla insisted on paying. Hamish thanked her curtly outside the restaurant and then strode off in the direction of the police station without a backward
look.

Back in her room at the manse, common sense finally entered Josie’s brain and she had reluctantly to admit to herself that it was not Priscilla that Hamish had wanted to leave but herself.
She dismally remembered Priscilla’s glowing beauty.

She decided to give the job just two more months and then request a transfer back to Strathbane

The third of the Scottish Quarter Days, Lammas, the first of August, marks the start of autumn and the harvest season. Lammas perhaps had begun as a celebration of the Celtic
goddess Lugh, and was absorbed into the church calendar as Loaf Mass Day. Lammas takes its name from the Old English
half,
meaning ‘loaf’. The first cut of the harvest was made
on Lammas Day in the south, but in Braikie in Sutherland – a county hardly famous for its corn – it was an annual fair day to celebrate the third quarter.

For the first time, Josie was to work with Hamish, policing the fair. ‘There’s never any trouble,’ he said as he drove Josie there in the police Land Rover. ‘The gypsies
have to be watched. Make sure the coconuts are not glued down and that the rifle sights at the shooting range aren’t bent. It’s a grand day for it.’

There was not a cloud in the sky. It was Josie’s first visit to Braikie, her other trips having, apart from Cnothan, only been to the remote areas. The town was gaily decorated with
flags.

A peculiar sight met Josie’s eyes as they cruised along the main street. A man covered in flannel and stuck all over with a thick matting of spiky burrs was making his way along the
street.

‘That’s the Burryman,’ said Hamish.

‘What on earth is a Burryman?’ asked Josie.

‘Some folks say he is carrying off all the town’s shame and guilt, and others say it’s good luck for the fishermen, because all the burrs are supposed to represent fish caught
in their nets.’

He drove to a field north of the town where the fair was being held. Hamish strolled around the various booths with Josie, stopping here and there to introduce her to townspeople.

There was all the fun of the fair, from a Big Wheel and roundabouts to candy floss, hot dogs and venison burgers.

The gypsies, having spotted the arrival of Hamish, made sure he had nothing to complain about.

Josie walked along with Hamish in a happy dream as the sun shone down and the air was full of jaunty raucous music and the smells of frying food and sugary candy floss.

‘We’re walking along here like an old married couple,’ said Josie.

Hamish stopped abruptly. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘It’s a waste of manpower. You patrol the left and I’ll patrol the right,’ and with that he
walked off.

Josie sadly watched him go. Then she saw a fortune-teller’s caravan. She shrugged. May as well get her fortune told.

She entered the caravan. There was a disappointingly ordinary-looking middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa. She had grey permed hair and was wearing a blouse and tweed skirt and sensible
brogues.

‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Five pounds, please.’

Feeling very let down, Josie handed over five pounds. Where were the tarot cards, the crystal ball and the kabbalistic signs?

‘Let me see your hands.’

Josie held out her small, plump hands.

‘You’ll live long,’ said the fortune-teller, ‘and have two children.’

‘My husband? Who’s my husband?’ asked Josie eagerly.

‘I cannae see one. There’s darkness and danger up ahead. Let go of your dreams and you’ll be fine.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘You’re a fraud,’ said Josie angrily.

The gypsy’s light grey eyes flashed with dislike and then suddenly seemed to look through her. ‘Bang and flames,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘There’s danger up ahead. Look out for bombs.’

‘Glad to know the Taliban are going to pay a visit to this dead-alive dump, this arsehole of the British Isles. It might liven things up,’ said Josie furiously. She walked down the
steps of the caravan and stood blinking in the sunlight.

What a waste of five pounds, thought Josie crossly. Then she saw that the crowds were beginning to move towards the far side of the field, where a decorated platform had been erected.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked a woman.

‘It’s the crowning o’ the Lammas queen.’

Josie followed the crowd. It was very hot. She could feel the sun burning down right through her cap. This far north, she thought, there was no pollution to block any of the sun’s
rays.

In the distance she could hear the skirl of the pipes. Using her authority, Josie pushed her way to the front. The provost, the Scottish equivalent of the English mayor with his gold chain, was
already on the platform surrounded by various town worthies. Hamish was there as well, standing to one side of the platform. She went to join him. A wide gate at the side of the field was being
held open.

First came the pipe band, playing ‘Scotland the Brave’. Behind came a decorated float with the queen seated on a throne with two handmaidens. The Lammas queen was a true highland
beauty with black glossy hair and wide blue eyes fringed with heavy lashes.

The float was decorated with sheaves of corn. ‘Where did they get the corn?’ asked Josie.

‘Plastic,’ said Hamish.

The queen was helped down from the float, and two men in kilts carried her throne up on to the platform. The pipes fell silent. ‘What’s her name?’ asked Josie.

‘That’s Annie Fleming,’ said Hamish. ‘She works as a secretary ower in Strathbane. Her parents are right strict. I’m surprised they let her be queen.’

Annie was wearing a white gown covered with a red robe trimmed in rabbit fur.

She sat down on the throne. To Josie’s surprise, the crown, which was carried to the platform by a nervous little girl bearing it on a red cushion, looked like a real diamond tiara. The
gems blazed in the sunlight, sending out prisms of colour.

‘Is that real?’ Josie asked.

‘Aye,’ said Hamish. ‘It once belonged to a Lady Etherington, English she was, and right fond of the Highlands. She lent it out once and her family have got it out o’ the
bank every Lammas Day since then.’

‘Do the family live in Braikie?’

‘No. Lady Etherington’s grandson who owns the tiara lives in London but he’s got a shooting box up outside Craskie and he aye comes up for the grouse shooting.’

Gareth Tarry, the provost, made a long boring speech. It was mostly about defending the council’s decision to stop building the seawall on the road to Braikie where, in previous years, the
houses had been flooded at high tide.

It was only when an infuriated man from the audience shouted out, ‘You wouldnae be broke, ye numptie, if ye hadnae pit all your money in an Iceland bank.’

Anyone who had invested their savings in Iceland banks during the credit crunch was currently left in doubt as to whether they would get their money back.

The provost pretended not to hear but decided to get on with the crowning. He raised the glittering tiara and announced solemnly, ‘I now crown Miss Annie Fleming the Lammas
queen.’

Everyone cheered. Annie graciously waved a white-gloved hand. She was helped down from the platform and back on to the float. Her throne was carried up on to it. The pipe band struck up again
and the float, pulled by a tractor, moved off.

‘She’s off round the town,’ said Hamish. ‘You stay here and I’ll follow and keep my eye on that tiara.’

Hamish loped off. Josie miserably watched him go. She had looked forward so much to spending the day with him. But she suddenly had work to do.

People who owned houses along the shore road leading into Braikie, and who had been unable to sell their properties because of the frequent flooding from the rising sea, were gathering in front
of the platform, heckling Mr Tarry. He was a plump, self-satisfied-looking banker.

The provost saw the arrival of his official Daimler on the road outside the field and, climbing down from the platform, he tried to ignore the crowd and make his way to it. ‘You listen tae
me,’ shouted one man, and, trying to stop him, grabbed him by the gold chain.

Josie sprang into action. She twisted the man’s arm up his back and dragged him to the side. ‘You are under arrest,’ she said, ‘for attempting to steal the
provost’s gold chain. Name?’

‘Look, there’s a mistake. I chust wanted to stop him and get him to answer my questions.’

‘Name?’

‘Hugh Shaw.’

Josie charged him and then proceeded to handcuff him. She heard cries of ‘Get Hamish’, and ‘Whaur’s Macbeth?’

Hamish came running back into the field. A boy had sprinted after him and called him back.

Josie said, ‘This man, Hugh Shaw, tried to steal the provost’s gold chain.’