“What is this place?” asked Hamish.
“It used to be a wee apartment for the butler,” said Charlie. The Tommel Castle Hotel had once been the Halburton-Smythes’ private residence. When Colonel Halburton-Smythe had fallen on hard times, Hamish had persuaded him to turn the place into a hotel.
Hamish looked round. There was a small living room, furnished simply with a dusty gate-leg table and two hard chairs. By the side of the living room was a small kitchen with a tiny Belling cooker on a counter and some cups and plates covered with dust on the draining board beside a sink.
“The bedroom’s through here,” said Charlie eagerly. “Priscilla says that the butler, old Mr. Sweeney, was a great tall man.”
The bedroom held a long single bed covered in an old mattress stuffed with ticking, flanked by two small chests of drawers.
“How do I square it wi’ Strathbane?” asked Hamish.
“They don’t need to know,” said Priscilla.
Hamish suddenly realised that this could mean he would get his station back, all to himself. Perhaps he could even persuade one pretty nurse to join him there. He went off into a rosy dream.
Priscilla looked with some irritation at the tall sergeant with the flaming-red hair.
“Hamish! Wake up!”
“Oh, aye, grand,” said Hamish quickly. “But make sure your phone works down here, Charlie. And God forbid we should have any more major crime, but if we do, you’ll need to move back to the station.”
“A home of my own!” cried Charlie, sitting down on one of the hard chairs, which promptly splintered under his weight. He turned scarlet as he scrambled to his feet. “I’ll repair that, Priscilla. I promise.”
“Charlie, it was riddled with woodworm. There’s plenty of furniture in the basement for you to choose from. I’ll get a couple of the maids to help you.”
“No,” said Charlie firmly. “I’ll do it all myself. I just need some cleaning stuff.”
There were some cupboards under the sink. Priscilla bent down and looked into them.
“Well! Look at this. Our old butler seems to have nicked some of the best wines. And here’s a bottle of vintage champagne. We’ll have a glass each to celebrate.”
“You mean the butler was a thief?” asked Charlie.
“It’s called butler’s privilege. He’s dead anyway. I’ve found some glasses. I’ll just rinse them out.”
Hamish collected three sturdy chairs from an area of the basement outside, crowded with discarded furniture. Priscilla had just opened the bottle and was pouring out three glasses of champagne when Detective Jimmy Anderson walked into the apartment.
“What’s this?” he demanded. “I was on my road to see you, Hamish, when I saw your Land Rover in the hotel car park. You know what I feel about drinking on duty. Got any whisky, Priscilla?”
Priscilla went to the cupboard and brought out a bottle of twelve-year-old malt.
“This do?”
Jimmy’s blue eyes gleamed in his foxy face. “Pour it out, lassie.”
“What brings you?” asked Hamish.
“Strathbane prison, that’s what. I’m rounding up manpower. The search starts this afternoon. The number of weapons, drugs, and mobile phones has doubled in Scottish prisons.”
“You could have phoned me,” said Hamish.
“Och, I wanted a trip out. Blair is in charge and he’s shouting and bullying already. We’ve got mobile phone detection equipment and drug dogs, so the main search will be for weapons.” Detective Chief Inspector Blair was the bane of Hamish Macbeth’s life, always trying to get him transferred to Strathbane.
“You should be looking for bent screws,” said Charlie. “If it’s weapons, then the prison officers must be getting paid to sneak them in.”
“Hard going,” said Jimmy. “They all cover for each other.”
His phone rang. He looked gloomily at the dial. “Blair,” he said. “We’d best get going. Man, this whisky is heaven.” He slipped the bottle in his pocket.
“You can stay,” whispered Hamish to Charlie. “I’ll get Jimmy to say you couldnae leave the station unmanned. But collect Sonsie and Lugs. I don’t want them left alone too long.”
As they approached Strathbane, the skies darkened and a smear of drizzle clouded Hamish’s windscreen before he switched the wipers on and looked down the long road to where what he thought of as a boil on the Highlands appeared in the distance.
It had once been a thriving fishing port, but the fishing stock had declined and with it any heavy industry, leaving the town a sink of crime and drugs. The prison was a Victorian one, built to the same design as Wormwood Scrubs.
As they drove up to the entrance, the rain had become a torrent and the wind was rising, moaning in the turrets of the old prison. After they had been through security, a wooden-faced prison officer told them to report to the governor’s office.