“Out wi’ it,” he said.
“There’s this inspector o’ police called Fiona Herring. That’s her maiden name. She’s married to a high court judge, Lord Staford McBean.”
“Haud it right there, mac,” said Willie. “This is flying too high.”
“You’ll do it,” said Blair, “or I’ll have you for dealing drugs out o’ this office.”
“You wouldnae!”
“Like a shot.”
Willie knew of Blair’s reputation and that the detective would plant drugs in his office and arrest him if he didn’t do what was asked.
“Okay. Out wi’ it.”
“This Fiona is sweet on a copper called Charlie Carter, based at Lochdubh. He’s a big lummox of an islander. I’ve watched the way she looks at him. I want you to catch them in the act.”
“How the hell am I going to get into the polis station in Lochdubh?”
“No need for that. A kiss would be good enough. Does Hamish Macbeth know you?”
“No.”
“So I’ll map out for you where they are and where they go. You pretend to be a local photographer. Thon bitch is ruining my career.”
Blair opened an envelope. “Here’s a photo. I snapped it off when they werenae looking.”
Willie looked gloomily at the photo. It showed Fiona in her uniform, sitting at a desk. Charlie stood behind her. Fiona, thought Willie, looked as hard as nails.
“So,” said Blair, “you’d better start. They’re up at a site outside Kinlochbervie. Found another dead body. The press will have gathered by now. The storm’s died down.”
It was ten in the evening and the winds had charged off to plague the east. The café was open and a flushed and happy Sheena was busy serving food and drinks to the press.
Hamish, in his dry uniform but with newspaper stuffed inside his still-damp boots, was with Fiona and Charlie, waiting for the forensic team to finish their work. The pathologist, an elderly man brought all the way over from Aberdeen, could not climb up to the cave and was waiting for the body to be stretchered down to where a tent had already been erected to receive it.
“Someone up at that hunting lodge must have heard my report,” fretted Hamish.
“We’ll get over there when we’ve got the pathologist’s preliminary finding,” said Fiona.
“Perhaps Jimmy should go ahead,” suggested Hamish.
Fiona rounded on him. “I will do any interviews, Macbeth. Do try to remember who’s in charge here. Go and interview the dead woman’s neighbours.”
“Okay, let’s go, Charlie,” said Hamish.
“Charlie will stay here with me,” said Fiona. “And everyone, keep your voices down. The press are listening.”
Before he left, Hamish turned in the doorway and looked at the press. He recognised a few from the provincial papers, but there was one seedy-looking man and Hamish did not like the way he was studying Fiona.
Sheena followed him out and gave him a flask of coffee and a wrapped ham sandwich. “That’ll keep you going,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Hamish.
“Aye, well, it’s a pity you’re not the one she fancies.”
“Are you talking about the inspector?”
“She seems a hard woman, but when she looks at thon Charlie, her face goes all soft.”
“Maybe it’s just maternal instinct,” said Hamish.
“Och, away wi’ ye. Thon’s a budding romance.”
“Have you got a camera?” asked Hamish.
“Aye.”
“There’s a fellow there wi’ the press who disnae seem to belong, a ferrety wee man wi’ a big nose and a comb-over. Could you get me a photo of him and e-mail it to me? Here’s my card.”
“I can do that.”
Hamish climbed into the Land Rover and drove to Kinlochbervie. The first thing he saw were policemen going from door to door. He cursed Fiona but then remembered that Sonsie and Lugs had been locked up in the Land Rover for too long. So he drove up onto the moors and let them out and sat eating the ham sandwich and drinking coffee as his pets ran through the heather.
The trouble with winter in the Highlands, thought Hamish, was that there was so little sunshine, it was like living in long hours of darkness.