Daviot, tailored and barbered, was flanked on one side by Jimmy and on the other by a grinning, smirking Blair.
He made a statement saying that Mr. Harrison before his suicide had confessed to the murder of Helen Mackenzie. Mr. Harrison had found out that Helen Mackenzie had murdered his son and so he had taken his revenge after forcing her to write a signed statement.
Then came the questions. How had the police suddenly come to the conclusion that Mr. Harrison might have murdered his nurse?
Daviot smoothed back his silvery hair. “We use our intuition,” he said. “It is known as good old-fashioned policing.”
Blair pushed forward to the microphone. “I would like to say that all the credit for solving this difficult case is due to the efforts of Superintendent Daviot.”
“Northern Times,” called a reporter. “Was Hamish Macbeth anything to do with it?”
“Hamish Macbeth,” said Daviot smoothly, “is merely one of our officers on the case. He is to be commended for trying to save Mr. Harrison. That is all. No more questions.”
“And that’s that,” said Hamish. “Well, at least there won’t be any suggestions of promotion and moving me to Strathbane. Oh, damn, there’s the door. Leave it. Probably some reporter.”
“Open this door immediately, Macbeth,” called a peremptory female voice.
“Oh, God. It’s Fiona,” said Charlie.
Hamish went and opened the kitchen door. Fiona strode in.
“What the hell has been going on?” she raged. “Did you precious pair not think to keep me in the loop?”
“It’s like this,” said Hamish quietly. “There was no time to contact you in Inverness. It all happened so quickly. Sit down. Have a dram and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Hamish poured three shots of whisky and then began to talk. Fiona listened carefully until he had finished.
She said, “So because of your mistake in not guarding Harrison’s hotel room door, you get no credit at all. That must rankle.”
“It doesn’t,” said Hamish. “If I keep a low profile, then it means I can keep my police station here.”
“I fail to understand an unambitious man,” said Fiona. “Surely you, Charlie, don’t want to be buried up here forever?”
“Suits me fine, ma’am,” said Charlie.
“The pair of you are a waste of intelligence,” said Fiona. “I’m off. Coming, Charlie?”
“I’ve got stuff to type up,” said Charlie, his normally pleasant face closed down like a shutter.
Fiona stalked to the door and nearly tripped over the little poodle. “What a ridiculous dog,” she said.
“Got a name for it yet?” asked Charlie when the door had slammed behind Fiona.
“Sally.”
“That’s not French.”
“It’s a British poodle,” said Hamish. He bent down and stroked the dog’s springy fur and thought of Sonsie with a sudden wrenching pang. He almost wished the wild cat had died to spare him the agony of constantly wondering how she was.
An hour later, the kitchen door opened and Jimmy walked in. “I saw Old Iron Knickers driving away,” he said. “Bet she was in a right taking.”
“Something like that,” said Hamish. “So is everything quiet at Strathbane?”
“Aye. Daviot has almost come to believe he’s a genius. I see the whisky on the table. Don’t worry. I’ll help myself. The things that go on up here in peasantville! Murderous nurses. Old boys in wheelchairs who can walk. What next?”
“Absolutely nothing, I hope,” said Hamish.
Epilogue
I must down to the sea again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way
where the wind’s like a whetted knife.
—John Masefield
The wrapping up of the murders seemed to take an immense amount of paperwork. At some point, Hamish Macbeth began to feel he would never, ever be able to return to his lazy life.
But at last it was all over and he and Charlie spent long lazy sunny days on their vast beat or out in the loch, fishing.
Down in Strathbane, Chief Detective Superintendent Blair dreamt of winkling Hamish out of his station. Then one day he thought he had found a glimmer of hope. Blair was sure there had been something going on between Fiona Herring and Carter. If only he could get proof, then Carter would be removed and it would be one crack at least in that lazy Macbeth’s life. Opportunity finally came his way one night when he was driving home. The car in front of him, a Jaguar, was slewing across the road. He drove in front of it, forcing the driver to stop.
From his gold Rolex to his Savile Row suit, the driver was just the sort of “posh git” who got up Blair’s nose. He demanded his driving licence. The driver’s name was Peter Tuck of London. He said he was booked into the Tommel Castle Hotel for a fishing holiday.
Blair breathalysed him and found he was well over the limit.