Death of a Village (21 page)

‘The whisky’s from Andy Crummack and the pie is from the minister’s wife.’

‘I’ll pop it in the oven. What’s been happening? Any more bodies?’

‘Aye, four more. German. But listen to this. The divers have found the wreck of a German submarine. They found some papers sealed in oilskin. Seems the gold was bound for Russia, when
Russia had that Non-Aggression Pact with Germany and got a bit of Poland and the Baltic States in return. I don’t know what’ll happen to the gold but that’s up to the receiver of
wrecks. I suppose it belongs to the German government. Still, it’s up to the powers-that-be to sort things out.’

‘How did the submarine get wrecked?’

‘Straight into a big underground rock in Scorie Bay.’

‘But couldn’t they have escaped? The water’s not deep.’

‘One man got to shore and then died, so the locals say, them that are old enough to remember. For some reason the others stayed too long. And it happened in the middle of winter, so the
water must have been freezing. It depends on the Germans whether the skeletons are left down there as a sort of war grave or brought up for burial.’

‘They must have been heading up the coast of Britain to go round the top and over to Russia that way,’ said Hamish. ‘But why come in so near to the shore?’

‘Maybe they lost their bearings. Who knows? Oh, well, who cares anyway?’ said Jimmy callously. ‘Won’t that pie be ready by now?’

‘Give it time. It’s a stove, not a microwave.’

‘Why don’t you get a microwave, you old-fashioned thing?’

‘Never got round to it.’

Jimmy grinned. ‘Blair’s real sore at you for getting all the limelight. He’ll push Daviot to promote you. Maybe even get you sent down to Glasgow.’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘The only thing that’s going to rescue you this time from promotion is death or a nervous breakdown.’

Hamish got to his feet. ‘I’ll check that pie now. If I had a nervous breakdown, they might pension me off and I wouldnae like that either.’

‘Maybe just a wee nervous breakdown.’

‘I’d need to get a certificate from Dr Brodie, and he’s an honest man and he wouldn’t be taken in by an act.’

‘You could put it to him this way. If they take you out of Lochdubh, they may just close down the police station here. They’ve closed down village police stations all over the
country. Tell him it’s his duty to the village to certify you temporarily daft.’

‘I’ll maybe give it a try. Pie’s ready.’

Hamish divided it up. He placed a large section on a plate for Jimmy, a small slice for himself, and a small slice for Lugs.

‘You’re never feeding good pie to that dog!’ exclaimed Jimmy. ‘Have you never heard of dog food?’

‘Lugs likes people food,’ said Hamish defensively. ‘Besides, he’s been left on his own a lot recently. He deserves a treat.’

‘Ach, get yourself a woman.’

Lugs let out a menacing growl.

‘It’s all right. He was only joshing,’ said Hamish quickly, and Lugs bent his head and began to eat.

‘Talking about women . . . this is delicious,’ said Jimmy. ‘Aye, on the subject of women, what about that pretty reporter lassie?’

‘If she ever speaks to me again, it’ll be a miracle,’ said Hamish. ‘She found the chap to set up the hologram. She found me the maps. She went down the cliff with me to
that cave. I should have taken time to tell her about the search today.’

‘Buy her some roses.’

‘In Lochdubh?’

‘There’s a grand florist’s in Strathbane.’

Hamish looked at him. ‘I tell you what: if I give you the money, could you send a bunch of roses to her?’

‘Will do. What’s the message?’

‘Just say, “I’m sorry, Hamish.” That should do it.’

The following day, Jimmy went to the florist’s. Next door to the shop was a newsagent’s with papers with black headlines about the find of the gold and in some, in
a smaller box on the front, headlines trumpeting BRAVE PC RESCUES CHILD. Jimmy went into the florist’s and ordered a dozen red roses to be sent to Elspeth at the newspaper office in Lochdubh.
‘What message?’ asked the assistant.

‘I’ll write it for you,’ said Jimmy.

He chewed the end of the pen. Hamish’s message was too blunt. The man needed some romance in his life. In block capitals, he printed: ‘I am very sorry. All my fondest love. Your
Hamish.’

The next day, Hamish got out of the police station by way of the kitchen window at the back after having lifted his dog out. The press were hammering on the door at the front.
He made his way up the hill through the field where his sheep grazed and by a circuitous route went round the back of the village, down the lane next to the Currie sisters’ cottage, and so to
Dr Brodie’s surgery.

The surgery was full and Hamish began to feel more hopeful. He knew half the layabouts were there for certificates about their fictitious bad backs, and if Dr Brodie could go along with them, he
could go along with his supposed nervous breakdown.

He read the romance stories in several old numbers of the
People’s Friend
to pass the time. Forestry workers and people who worked in offices in Strathbane filed in clutching their
backs and came out walking upright and with smiles on their faces.

At last it was his turn.

‘Sit down, Hamish,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘What’s up with you? I can’t remember the last time you were ill. Have you seen the papers? You’re being hailed as a
hero.’

‘In a way, that’s why I’m here,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s like this: I know they’re going to offer me a promotion, which means moving to Strathbane or, worse,
maybe even Glasgow.’

‘Maybe it’s time you moved on. But what’s this got to do with me?’

‘I want you to certify that I am having a nervous breakdown.’

‘I can’t do that. That would be an outright lie.’

‘So what about all the certificates you’ve been writing out for bad backs?’

‘That’s different. Some do have bad backs. Some have psychosomatic bad backs because they hate their work but can’t afford to be unemployed. A couple of days off every so often
keeps them employed.’

‘Then to ease your conscience, look at it this way: if they move me, they’ll probably close down the police station in Lochdubh.’

‘You can’t get me with that,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘Look at all the cases you’ve solved recently.’

‘They’ll argue that Sergeant Macgregor, who’s a lazy hound, could well cover the extra area with help from Strathbane, and the reason they’ll do it is because Blair is so
anxious to get me into the anonymity of a large police force, he’ll back any proposal to move me. You won’t have a policeman in Lochdubh.’

‘Maybe. But if I lie and say you’ve had a nervous breakdown, they might get a trained psychiatrist to look you over.’

‘I could handle that. I could just sit there and look vacant.’

‘Then they might not notice the difference from your usual self. Okay, let’s handle it this way. You’ve done a lot recently, no one can deny that. Let’s say you are
suffering from a mild depression and exhaustion. I will recommend rest and a break from your duties. That’s the best I can do. And if I were you, I would take a holiday and clear off. I will
send a report to Strathbane along with a certificate.’

‘Grand. I owe you. There’s one more thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘Could you phone the wife and ask her to stroll along to those pressmen outside the police station and tell them all if they want to find me, I’ll be down in Strathbane at police
headquarters?’

‘I’ll do that.’ Dr Brodie picked up the phone and rang his wife. When he rang off, he said, ‘She’s on her way to the police station now. Wait here and she’ll
ring back when the coast is clear. You are my last patient, aren’t you?’

‘Very last one.’

‘Are you leaving today?’

‘I’d better do that. But I’ll go to Stoyre first.’

‘You’ll find press there as well.’

‘Not if I leave it until later. There’s nowhere for them to drink in Stoyre now the pub’s wrecked and nowhere to settle down for the night.’

Dr Brodie studied the lanky red-haired policeman. ‘It’s odd to know a truly unambitious man.’

‘You’re one yourself,’ said Hamish defensively. ‘You could have a large practice in the city but you stay here.’

‘That’s different. I have a loyalty to my patients.’

‘And I have a loyalty to the people of Lochdubh,’ said Hamish gently.

‘Well, let’s hope my explanation about your ill health works.’

The phone rang. ‘It’s Angela,’ said the doctor. He listened to what his wife had to say and then rang off. ‘She’s got rid of the press for you. What will you do for
transport? If you are officially on holiday, you can’t drive around in the police Land Rover.’

Hamish smiled. ‘I took it when the balance of my mind was disturbed. Besides, I don’t think they’ll come looking round the police station.’

He left and hesitated outside the newspaper offices and then noticed the florist’s van driving up. Better leave seeing Elspeth until later, much later.

Back at the police station, he packed a rucksack and typed out a notice referring all calls to Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan. He then opened a cupboard and got out a tent and camping equipment.
‘Going to live rough, Lugs,’ he said. ‘No phone calls. No one to bother us.’

He loaded up the Land Rover and waited for evening. From time to time, someone knocked at the door but he did not answer it. It might, of course, be Elspeth but he would phone her after he had
been to Stoyre.

Stoyre was in darkness when he drove down into it. The electricity had not yet been restored to the ruined village. He parked the Land Rover and with Lugs at his heels walked
up to the manse and knocked on the door.

Fergus Mackenzie answered and smiled when he saw Hamish. ‘Come in. What brings you?’

Hamish followed him through to a living room where his wife was sitting bent over a piece of embroidery by the light of an oil lamp.

‘Sit down,’ said the minister. ‘Would you be so good as to make us some tea, dear? Or maybe you would like something stronger?’

‘Nothing for me,’ said Hamish. ‘I wanted to ask you how things were. Everyone got insurance?’

‘No, a lot of them never bothered. The fishing boats are wrecked but at least they were insured. This village has turned bitter. The newspapers all got the story about how we were tricked
with holograms. They won’t speak to the press now.’

‘I thought something like that might have happened. I want you to get on to Strathbane Television . . .’

‘I know you’ve done a lot for us. But everyone feels they have suffered enough ridicule at the hands of the press.’

‘I’ll speak to them. Any way of rounding them up and getting them into the kirk?’

‘I could ring the bell. That would bring them.’

‘Do that,’ said Hamish, ‘and I’ll speak to them.’

They walked together to the small stone church and Hamish rang the bell. The villagers began to straggle up the hill towards the church. Hamish waited until they were all in the pews. Then he
stood up and addressed them.

‘I know the press have made you all look like fools but a lot of you are in sore need of money. You can make the media work for you. You’ve done nothing to excite the sympathy of the
great British public. Do you want to be crippled by money worries for the rest of your days, or do you want help?’

‘We could all do wi’ a bit o’ help,’ shouted Andy Crummack.

‘Then the minister will get Strathbane Television along here tomorrow and we’ll set the stage. The minister will hold a brief service down at the
harbour . . .’

‘We’re sick o’ religion!’ shouted a woman.

‘You’re sick o’ false gods,’ reproved Hamish. ‘Now, while the minister is giving his brief – and I mean
brief
– service, some of you must be
crying. You’ve got to look really pathetic.’

‘Shouldn’t be hard,’ said Andy, and several people laughed.

‘Now, I need a pretty lassie with a good voice.’

‘That’s Elsie Queen,’ shouted a woman. ‘That’s my Elsie. She’s won medals at the Mod.’

The Mod is the annual Gaelic singing festival.

‘Is she here? Bring her forward.’

A slim teenager was pushed up to the front by a small aggressive woman whom Hamish judged to be the girl’s mother. Elsie was tall and slim with a long white Modigliani-type face and long
straight white-blonde hair. Her eyes had the slightly oriental cast you see in some Highland faces.

‘Have you got a white dress?’ asked Hamish.

‘I’ve got a grand one I wore at the Mod,’ said Elsie.

‘Good. Now, all gather round and this is what you’ve all got to do.’

Sharon Judge had not been working as a reporter for Strathbane Television for very long. She wondered as the television van drove towards Stoyre if she would ever get a real
break. Stoyre had been covered. She had heard that the locals had clammed up again. There would be nothing to film and it would be a wasted day.

The minister had said something about a service. The cameraman would film it, she would do her report, and the whole thing would be scrapped. She was often amazed at the wasted money spent on
stories which were destined never to appear on the screen.

Sharon knew she was not aggressive enough – or sexy enough. She was cursed with a friendly open face under a mop of curls. Men teased her and said she looked like a schoolgirl but she was
not the sort of girl they made passes at. Her glamorous friend Elena said that she was the kind of girl men liked to marry but Sharon found that to be little consolation.

The soundman, who was driving, stopped the van down at the harbour. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘After I set up, ten minutes should be enough.’

They all climbed out. Villagers were gathering at the harbour. They were all dressed in black apart from a fey-looking girl who was wearing a long white gown. A piper was standing by the harbour
wall in full Highland dress.

‘Hey, this might be good,’ said the cameraman, brightening.

‘I’ll wait until the service is over and do some interviews,’ said Sharon.

The cameraman, Jerry Mathieson, looked at her sympathetically. He knew she was always landed with lousy jobs. He had a fondness for her. She wasn’t like the other hardbitten women at the
television station. He had volunteered to go on this job with her in the hope of getting to know her better.