When Charlie returned to the hotel, he asked the night porter if he had a key for the door at the top of the basement stairs.
“I’ll look in the office,” he said. He was only away a few minutes before coming back and handing Charlie an old-fashioned rusty key. He had a job turning the key to lock the door but at last succeeded.
Half an hour later, the night porter looked up from the sports page of the newspaper he was reading to find Fiona Herring in front of him. She held out an imperious hand. “I need the key to the basement,” she said. “The door is locked.”
“Mr. Carter locked it,” he said. “But there’s nothing down there but old rubbish apart from Mr. Carter’s wee flat. Can I get you anything?”
“No. I can wait until morning,” said Fiona harshly.
Charlie awoke very early the next morning to get down to the police station before Fiona. The night porter was about to go off duty. “Oh, Mr. Carter,” he said. “Thon inspector wanted the key to the basement last night, but I told her you had it.”
Charlie blushed red. “Oh, it’s nothing but work with that woman,” he said, and made his escape.
Hamish was up early as well and listened in dismay to Charlie’s news. “The trouble is,” said Charlie, “she might want to get her own back by saying I wasnae living in the station.”
“I think she’d be too frightened to do that,” said Hamish, putting a frying pan on the stove. “If she’s got her wits about her, she might be worried you’d bring a case of sexual harassment. Sit down. What we both need is a good breakfast.”
After a large fry-up of haggis, black pudding, eggs, and bacon, Charlie took a saucer and poured milk into it, and then salt into another.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Hamish.
“I’m putting this out for the fairies,” said Charlie stubbornly. “I’m going to ask them for another blizzard. That way, we cannae go up there and I’ll hae another day where I don’t have to look at her.”
“You’re daft.”
Charlie disappeared. When he came in, he tripped over the dog, clutched the kitchen table, and fell down in a rain of crockery.
“Och, get a dustpan and brush,” said Hamish, helping him to his feet. “You should have asked the wee folk to help you stop breaking up my home. Hurry up, man. It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
Charlie hurriedly cleaned up the mess and had just finished when Fiona walked in.
“Any sign of snow, ma’am?” asked Charlie.
“No. Make me a strong coffee, Macbeth, and then we’ll get off. You can both follow my car.”
They had just crossed the humpbacked bridge leading out of Lochdubh when a great gust of wind rocked the Land Rover and then the view ahead disappeared in a blinding snowstorm. Hamish gave a superstitious shiver and felt like crossing himself.
Fiona’s driver turned her car into the hotel car park. Her driver got out and rapped on the window of the Land Rover. “The inspector says we can do nothing today,” he said. “She will call you when the storm is over.”
“A reprieve,” said Charlie. “I’ll keep to the station all day.”
“I keep hoping Priscilla will be all right,” said Hamish. “I sent Lochy a photo of Harold so he knows what he looks like. I also told him what happened.”
While Harold was still stuck by his car, Priscilla had gone back to the hotel, packed her bags, taken a cab to Inverness airport, and caught a flight to London. She could not bring herself to face her parents with another broken engagement.
Upon her return, she switched on the television and settled down for a quiet evening. That whole episode with Harold seemed like a horrible dream. She switched on the news. She saw a report that an enormous blizzard had blanketed the north of Scotland and passengers had to be lifted off by helicopter from the Wick-to-Inverness train.
Harold stood outside on the pavement, swaying slightly, for he was very drunk. He wondered if Priscilla had changed the locks, for she had given him a set of keys. He thirsted for revenge. He walked into the entrance hall of the flats.
Priscilla had been so glad to be back in her flat that she had failed to either change the locks or to tell the porter to stop Harold from entering.
Harold nodded to the porter and made his way up the thickly carpeted stairs to Priscilla’s flat on the first floor.
The porter stared as a huge man like a heavyweight boxer strode into the hall.
“Here! Where are you going?” he demanded.
Lochy flashed a fake warrant card and growled, “Police.” He strode up and listened at the door. Silence. He took out the keys he had been given and quietly opened the door.