“Get out of your car. I am impounding it,” ordered Blair. “You will come with me to headquarters, where you will be formally charged.”
Peter was a florid middle-aged man, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. He took out his wallet. “Maybe we can settle it here,” he said.
“Are you trying to bribe a police officer?” roared Blair.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ossifer,” slurred Peter, putting his wallet away.
Blair liked bullying. And bullying posh people was something he really enjoyed.
Peter was locked up in the cells for the night to sober up and was told he would be up before the sheriff in the morning.
During the night, Blair began to wonder if he could put this drunk to use. The man would be staying at the hotel. As a guest, he could talk to the staff and find out if there had been anything going on between Fiona and Charlie Carter.
A sober and frightened Peter listened to Blair’s suggestion. “If you do this for me,” said Blair, “you can have your car and licence and we’ll say no more about it.” Peter readily agreed.
Blair stared at him out of his piggy bloodshot eyes. “Talk to anyone about this arrangement,” he said, “and I’ll have ye. Get it?”
“Yes, yes,” said Peter. “Just get me out of here.”
By the time Peter had checked into the hotel and was settled in the bar with a large whisky, he began to look back on the adventure as a bad dream. The day was sunny. The luxury hotel soothed his rattled nerves. He would make this his one drink, get some fishing, and try to lead a healthy life. The fees for fishing on the Anstey were steep, but he was a rich man. But one drink led to another and by the time he got to the river, he was unsteady on his feet.
Charlie, fishing downstream from Peter, looked along the sparkling peaty waters of the Anstey just in time to see Peter falling off the bank and into a salmon pool. He hurried along and pulled Peter out and dumped him on the bank. The smell of whisky coming off the man, thought Charlie, was polluting the very air. Charlie had the benefit of free fishing and the use of the hotel’s Land Rover to get to the river. He heaved Peter up and, escorting him to the Land Rover, dumped him in the passenger seat, then drove back to the hotel. He found where Peter’s room was and took him along. He stripped off his wet clothes and tossed them on the floor, got him into his pyjamas, and threw him on the bed.
Charlie was turning to leave when a mobile phone on the bedside table began to ring. Charlie picked it up and stared down at the number on the screen. Strathbane! He decided to answer it.
“This is Blair,” snarled the familiar voice. “What have you found out?”
Charlie was a good mimic. He put on an upper-class English voice and said, “I’ve only just got here.”
“You’ve had time enough, laddie,” said Blair. “I want proof that the inspector was being bonked by Charlie Carter and I want it soonest or I’ll have you.”
Charlie sat down on a chair beside the bed, his superstitious highland soul telling him that he would never, ever get away with that night with Fiona.
He rose stiffly and went out into the hall and phoned Hamish, asking him to come quickly because Blair was on the warpath.
Then Charlie went out into the car park and waited for Hamish to arrive.
Hamish listened carefully to what Charlie had discovered. “Blast the man!” he said. “You’d better phone Fiona.”
“I cannae!” wailed Charlie. “Every time I look at her, I see her with no clothes on.”
“Some men have all the luck,” said Hamish. “Phone her. She’s got the clout to deal with this.”
Miserably, Charlie phoned Inverness and told Fiona that Blair was trying to find out about their affair through some drunk called Peter Tuck. He obviously had some hold on him. “The man’s a chronic drunk,” said Charlie. “Maybe Blair let him off on a charge in return for spying.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Fiona. “You’ll hear from me later.”
Blair was glad it was a quiet day. He had enjoyed a liquid lunch and was leaning back in his chair with his feet on his desk, his hands folded over his paunch, his eyes slowly closing.
His feet were suddenly swiped off the desk. He sat up, blinking his eyes, to see Daviot and Fiona looming over him. “My office. Now!” snapped Daviot.
Blair climbed up the stairs to Daviot’s office, terror gripping him.
When they were seated, Fiona began. “There is a man called Peter Tuck, staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel, who has orders from you to find out if I had been having an affair with policeman Charlie Carter.”
“He must be fantasising,” said Blair. “As if I waud do such a thing.”