Read an Extract from Hamish Macbeth: Death of a Smuggler, M. C. Beaton with R. W. Green

Chapter One

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,

Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street;

Them that ask no questions isn’t told a lie.

Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Rudyard Kipling, ‘A Smuggler’s Song’ (1906)

 

At first it seemed there was silence. When the small boat’s outboard motor stopped, for a brief moment there was nothing else to be heard. Then, as if creeping into the night air to take the place of motor’s buzz, the lapping of the water against the prow of the wooden dinghy made itself apparent to the young woman perched on the bench seat. Then came the splash of the ripples against the nearby rocks and the gentle rush of waves breaking on the beach ahead.

Looking back out across the loch, she could see the dark shape of a larger boat, a fishing boat, lying at anchor in deeper water. The fishing boat’s lights were extinguished, but it was still clearly visible in the moon- light, casting a shadow that dulled the ribbons of silver drifting on loch’s surface. On a second bench, facing forward, sat a dark-haired man huddled in a bulky black jacket against the chill night air. Just behind him, an older, grey-bearded man was hunched at the tiller, guiding the dinghy to shore. Between them was stacked a cargo of cardboard boxes.

Unlike the men, the woman sat tall, her back straight. In the moonlight, her pale features and forlorn expression made her look almost ghost-like, her sadness sharpened by the tear threatening to tumble from the corner of her eye. She gave her head a shake to banish the tear. The men would surely never notice if she were to break down and cry but she was determined that they should never have even the slightest chance of seeing her do so. She gripped a small rucksack she was holding in her lap, clenching her fists around its straps, gazing out into the blackness beyond the fishing boat. Somewhere out there, across almost 3,500 miles of ocean, lay America. New York – that’s where they said she would start a new life. A visa, an apartment, new clothes and a modelling contract were what she had been promised. That was what she had paid for, not a furtive landing on a dismal beach in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. Where were they anyway? Scotland? What did that mean to her? What did she know of Scotland? Nothing – except that it was not New York!

The bow of the dinghy crunched on the beach, grinding to a halt, and the young woman swayed a little as the boat lurched.

‘You, Kira, or whatever your name is,’ grunted the man in the black jacket, glowering at the young woman and jerking his thumb towards the water, ‘ower the side, now!’

Kira could see only the bow of the dinghy had grounded. The rest was still floating free in water that looked at least knee-deep.

‘What? In water?’ Kira said, frowning at him.

‘Aye, it’ll no’ kill you,’ the man snapped. ‘Get a move on!’

Flinging her rucksack over the bow and clear of the water onto the beach, she lowered herself over the side. The water was bitterly cold, and the jeans she was wearing offered no protection, soaking through immediately. She’d been wrong about it being knee-deep. It came up almost to her waist.

‘Take this,’ the man ordered, standing in the boat to pass her a large cardboard box, the clink of glass betraying its contents as bottles.

Kira reached up to accept the heavy box from the man and then, just as he turned to take another box from the bearded man, she staggered sideways as if by accident, slamming her shoulder into the side of the dinghy, causing it to rock violently.

‘Be careful, you clumsy . . . ohhhhh!’ the man let out a groan of dread, then pitched backwards into the water, still clutching the box. A little further out than the woman, in slightly deeper water, for a moment he submerged completely then broke the surface again, howling with fury and struggling to find his balance, the box gone. Kira cast her box aside, took two steps towards him and grabbed him under the arms, man- handling him towards the shore.

‘Never mind me!’ he roared, glancing from her sinking box to where his had disappeared. ‘Save the whisky!’

She abruptly let him go and he sank even faster than the cases of whisky. Once he’d found his feet again, he steadied himself with a hand on the side of the boat. The bearded man looked down at him with concern.

‘Are you all right there?’ he asked slowly.

‘Och, aye!’ the man in the water spluttered, his teeth chattering. ‘I’m fair enjoying a wee midnight dip!’

‘Ahh . . .’ said the man in the boat, nodding wisely. ‘That would be yon sarcasm I’m ay hearing about.’

‘We need to get those boxes afore they start falling apart! You can . . .’ He turned towards Kira, but she was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where the hell has she gone?’

‘No sign o’ her on the beach,’ reported the bearded man, craning his neck. ‘Looks like she’s scarpered.’

‘Stupid bitch! She’ll no’ get far without . . .’ He patted his breast pocket and cursed. ‘Damn her! She’s lifted my wallet and the passports from inside my coat!’

‘I guess we’ll no’ be seeing her again, then.’

The man in the water rested his head on the side of the dinghy and ran a hand through his hair, the wet gold of the rings on his fingers glinting in the moonlight. Water drained off his head to run down his face. He sighed, then looked out towards the fishing boat.

‘We’ll be seeing her again, all right,’ he grumbled, stripping off his jacket. ‘We still have the other girl out there on the boat. She’ll no’ abandon her wee friend. Now, let’s get that whisky ashore afore I freeze to death.’ In a small copse of trees close to the shore, Kira crouched behind a thicket of alder, shivering as she watched the men bringing the cases of whisky ashore, stacking them on the beach. When the dinghy headed back out to the fishing boat, she took the opportunity to kick off her white sports shoes, then stripped off her jeans, underwear and socks. She rubbed her legs vigorously to dry them and to try to warm herself before taking dry clothes from her rucksack. Dressing quickly, she stuffed the wet clothes into the bag, then crammed her feet back into the sodden shoes. She knew they would take some time to dry out and, in the meantime, her feet would be damp, but she had to be ready to move – ready to make a run for it if necessary. Suffering the discomfort of cold, wet feet was better than falling back into the hands of those men.

She could hear them reach the fishing boat, the dinghy’s motor cutting out again, although she wasn’t able to see the bigger boat from her hiding place. She thought about moving to find a better vantage spot, then dismissed the idea. She wasn’t familiar with the territory and she didn’t want to risk being spotted. She would wait. The boxes were on the beach and she knew the men would soon be back with more. Just a few minutes later, she heard the drone of the outboard motor pushing the dinghy back towards the beach. In the still of the night, it sounded disturbingly loud, the sound clamouring across the water. Surely someone would hear them? On this quiet stretch of coast, however, it seemed there were very few who might hear. She could see what appeared to be a large house some way off on the higher ground beyond the beach and a couple of small cottages even further away. In the weak moonlight it was difficult to tell how far they were, but there were certainly no lights shining from distant windows. The countryside was dormant.

When the dinghy reappeared, making its way back towards the beach, she could see the dark shapes of the two men and, sitting in the bow just where she had been, a slimmer figure – Elena. The two women had endured a long, arduous journey from Latvia together to reach this shore. She watched in silence, then cursed the men for forcing Elena into the water to help unload even more cases of whisky. When they were finished, the bearded man walked off up the beach and she heard the sound of a car being started. A four-wheel-drive pick-up truck then appeared from where a track cut down onto the beach, crossing the sand and pebbles to the stacked whisky cases, which were duly loaded onto the truck. Elena was then bundled into the passenger seat. From her hiding place in the trees, Kira saw her friend look round in panic. Even from a distance the desperation on Elena’s face was obvious. She wanted to call out, to wave, to tell Elena not to be frightened, to tell her that she would come for her and everything would be fine, but all she could do was watch and wait.

The man in the black jacket climbed back into the dinghy, the bearded man pushed it off the beach and the motor started, taking it out again towards the fishing boat. The bearded man then got behind the wheel of the truck, driving it up onto the track in the direction of the large house where it disappeared from sight, although a light soon appeared in one of the building’s windows. Kira stared at the window. Was Elena being held there? Was that house the reason why they had come ashore on this particular stretch of beach? She had to get to the house to find out.

At that moment, she heard the fishing boat’s engine start up. Tentatively, she crept out of the woods and, on seeing the boat heading towards the mouth of the loch, trailing the dinghy behind it, she broke cover and made for the track. Keeping low and moving swiftly, she stayed close to the drystone wall edging the track, trying to sink into its darkest shadows. While she moved, all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and an alien squelching noise from her shoes. When she paused to listen, there was nothing to hear but the waves sweeping the beach and the distant rumble of the fishing-boat engine.

It took just a few minutes to reach the open gate leading to the large building. She could now see that it was some sort of pub with a sign above the door that read: LOCH MUIR INN. Treading lightly, she inched towards the building, flattening herself against the wall beside the window showing a light. She risked a glance inside and saw Elena standing at a kitchen worktop side-by-side with the bearded man, who was preparing a meal. Her friend had changed out of her wet clothes, now looking dry and warm.

Kira slunk back to the gate, sinking down into the shadows. Elena had looked like she was about to be fed and the inn seemed warm and comfortable. They had been shipped across Europe together in trucks and vans, then transferred from one boat to another. Elena was as exhausted as she was herself. She would leave her there, at least for tonight. Right now, she had to find somewhere she could shelter. She looked up at the moon, watching a cluster of light clouds drifting across its face. It was starting to feel like it might rain.

 

Only a few miles further north, in Lochdubh, Hamish Macbeth stood in his small back garden, looking up at the clouds mustering their strength, determined to obscure the moon.

‘Looks like we could have a spot o’ rain afore morning, Sonsie,’ he said, smiling at his wildcat, which gazed back at him with wide, yellow eyes. Sonsie was relaxing on the roof of his shed, enjoying the nervous clucking of the chickens tucked away safely inside for the night. It always amazed him that Sonsie never went for his birds. She was a wildcat, after all, although every- one in the village preferred to think of her simply as an overgrown tabby. Keeping a wildcat, an endangered species, was strictly against the law, so the local police- man surely wouldn’t have one, would he? Whatever anyone else thought, Hamish was devoted to Sonsie. He reached out to stroke her sleek fur. He was one of only a select few she permitted to touch her. ‘You wouldn’t want one o’ those daft chickens, would you, lass? You like your food to come from the kitchen, and there’s no point going for a chicken when you’ve a full belly, eh? Come on, then. Time for bed.’

Hamish strolled into his kitchen and the big cat leapt down from the shed, following at his heels, waiting patiently while he closed the back door, then falling in behind him again as he climbed the stairs.

‘I thought you were never coming up,’ came a voice from the dimly lit bedroom when he opened the door. ‘Come to bed, Hamish. I’ve to be out early in the morning.’

Claire was a paramedic Hamish had met through work. The two had grown close over the past few months and their romance had become the talk of the village.

‘Aye, I was just taking a last wee look out across the loch,’ Hamish said, undressing and lifting a reluctant, sleepy Lugs off the bed. The dog opened his eyes just long enough to give Hamish a weary look, a soft ear-lick and a heavy sigh. Hamish laid Lugs on the floor where he curled up beside Sonsie.

‘We’ll maybe no’ have so many nights like this when we’ve no’ got the place to ourselves,’ Claire said, snuggling in to his side once Hamish had switched off the bedside light and settled beneath the duvet. ‘It won’t be the same once your new constable gets here.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Hamish replied, chuckling. ‘He’ll be in the other bedroom, no’ in here wi’ us!’

‘Aye, but it might be a wee bit embarrassing,’ Claire said, laughing softly. ‘We’ve no idea who he is or what he’ll be like. It will be a “he”, won’t it?’

‘Seems it’s a bloke,’ Hamish admitted. ‘The message I got earlier this evening only said the one who was coming here had been reassigned, no’ who was coming in his place, but it did say “he” would be here in the morning.’

‘Then we’d best make the most o’ our last night alone,’ Claire said, reaching across to kiss him.

 

When the sun rose the following morning, the waters of Loch Dubh reflected a sky full of clouds that bore the dark grey and blue bruises of an Atlantic storm. Trundling towards the yellow light in the east, the clouds dragged across the summits of the mountains surrounding the loch, tearing themselves apart on the rocky summits and spilling the last of their rain in the forested slopes.

By the time Claire trotted downstairs just after seven, Hamish was already in the kitchen. Having fed Lugs and Sonsie, he was preparing a breakfast of sausage, bacon and eggs that Claire reluctantly had to refuse as she started her shift at Braikie Hospital at eight. She gave him a kiss, a smile and a promise to make it up to him later. When she hurried outside to her car, she saw a tall, well-built, young police officer in uniform walking in from the street, carrying a couple of large holdalls. At first, she thought only that Hamish’s new constable was reporting bright and early. Then she frowned a little, wondering why she felt she knew him. Then, when she saw him smile, she knew exactly who he was and immediately wished she could stay for breakfast, if only to see the look on Hamish’s face.

‘I’ve got to rush,’ she said, treating him to a huge, welcoming smile and reaching up to give him a hug, at which point he dropped his bags, ‘but you’re in luck – he’s got breakfast on the go.’

The young man grinned, made her promise to meet later for a drink and a catch-up, then straightened his black Police Scotland top, picked up his bags and headed for the kitchen door.

‘Sergeant Macbeth,’ he said, standing in the doorway to introduce himself. ‘Constable David Forbes. I believe you’re expecting me.’

In a whirlwind of delight, Lugs suddenly transformed himself from a politely seated, food-begging statue of a dog into a bounding, tail-wagging lick-monster, joyously planting his big paws on the newcomer’s chest in a desperate effort to reach high enough to slobber all over his face and ears. Laughing, the young man set his bags down to try to defend himself. Sonsie, curled comfortably in her basket, looked up from her third snooze of the morning, blinked twice to check she recognised the young man then gave a sedate nod of welcome. She was pretty sure she remembered him as a friend, but it simply wouldn’t do for her to go bananas like the idiot dog.

‘Davey!’ Hamish dropped the wooden spatula he was using to turn the sausages in the pan and wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘I was not expecting you, but I am right glad to see you, laddie!’

He crossed the kitchen in a single stride, reached out to shake Davey’s hand then hesitated, laughed and engulfed the young man in a bear hug.

‘Steady on, Hamish!’ Davey laughed. ‘You’re making poor Lugs properly jealous!’

‘I see you’re still into pumping iron and making muscles,’ Hamish said, slapping Davey’s bulging biceps. ‘Aye, and I got back into the rugby again down south for a while,’ Davey replied. ‘It wasn’t all hard work and

no play.’

‘Come away in and sit yourself down, Davey,’ Hamish said, returning to his spitting frying pan. ‘I’ve some breakfast just about ready and there’s coffee made fresh.’ ‘I saw Claire on my way in,’ Davey said, sitting at the kitchen table and ruffling Lugs’s ears. ‘So you two are . . .’

‘She’s very special to me,’ Hamish said with a hint of a warning that Davey should be careful what he said next.

‘I’m glad,’ Davey said, grinning. ‘The whole village was talking about what a fine couple you made just before I left.’

‘Aye, well, a lot’s happened since you left,’ Hamish said, serving up two steaming plates of sausage, bacon and eggs. ‘You were in plainclothes back then. You were a detective constable set on a career wi’ the CID in Edinburgh. What on earth brings you back up here, in uniform?’

‘Maybe I wasn’t ready for the Edinburgh job,’ Davey said, his grin collapsing into a half-hearted smile. ‘Being a detective isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There’s an awful lot of sitting about, watching CCTV footage and the like. I felt like I needed a proper spell of frontline policing before I started down the detective path.’

Hamish knew he was lying. He had been lied to by some of the most devious scunners ever to draw breath and he had a finely tuned sense of what was true and what was not. Like all good lies, there was a grain of truth in what Davey had just said, but it couldn’t disguise the fabrication. Davey’s smile was begging Hamish not to press him further and, in less than a heartbeat, Hamish decided to move on. Davey would give him the truth sooner or later.

‘Well, I’m no’ sure anyone would call Lochdubh the “frontline”,’ Hamish said, laughing, ‘but there will be plenty of work for us once the winter starts to take hold, so I’m right pleased to see you.’

‘And I’m very happy to be back,’ Davey said, tucking in to his breakfast.

 

Kira woke when the thin light of dawn filtered through the grime on the window of the shed in which she had taken shelter the night before. She yawned, rubbing her eyes, and flung off the musty blanket she had found. She couldn’t wait to get out in the fresh air to banish its smell from her clothes. Her shoes, sitting on the floor near the door, seemed almost to have dried out, so she slipped them on. Walking would rid them of their lingering dampness. Then she heard a noise outside and opened the shed door a crack so she could peek out. A man was standing at the back door of a small cottage, talking to a woman Kira assumed was his wife. He turned to walk towards the shed. Kira glanced round her hiding place. The shed was piled high with tools, gardening equip- ment, boxes and pieces of old furniture. There was nowhere she could conceal herself. She looked back out at the man. He was quite slim and not very tall. He wasn’t one of those who had brought her and Elena to this place. She had to get past him to reach the road. She couldn’t afford to be trapped in the shed. It was now or never. Gripping her rucksack in front of her, she burst out of the shed and charged at the man, roaring as loud as she could.

‘What in the name o’ the wee man . . . ?’ mumbled the startled man before Kira crashed into him, knocking him aside. He started to cry out, staggered backwards and landed squarely on his backside. ‘Stop!’ he blurted. ‘Come back here, you wee . . .’

But Kira was now sprinting along the road and, by the time he had dragged himself back to his feet and made it to the road himself, where his wife joined him, the young woman was nowhere to be seen.

‘What was that all about?’ asked the man’s wife. ‘Some lassie was in our shed,’ the man explained. ‘She

ran off when she saw me coming.’ ‘Did she steal anything?’

‘Steal anything? Don’t be daft. What’s worth stealing in that shed? It’s full o’ rubbish. She’d have done us a favour taking some o’ it away.’

‘What was she doing in there then?’

‘I think she maybe slept there last night.’

 

‘In yon manky shed? Poor soul,’ said the woman. ‘If only she’d knocked on the door, I’d gladly have given her a bed.’

‘Aye but there’s some no’ as caring as us,’ the man said, turning back to the cottage, ‘and some that would do her harm. She was a lovely looking lassie. I’ve a mind to let yon Sergeant Macbeth in Lochdubh know she’s sleeping rough. I’ll phone him later.’

‘That’s probably best,’ the woman said, linking her arm into his. ‘Now, how about a wee cup o’ tea afore we start work?’

‘That would be just braw,’ he said, brushing mud off the seat of his trousers as they walked up the path together. ‘She minded me o’ you when we first met, Meg. A pretty young thing . . .’

‘Give over, you old fool,’ Meg said, nudging him and giggling.

 

Kira lay out of sight in a field behind a drystone wall, listening until she was sure the couple had gone indoors. She then sat up, taking care to stay hidden, and took stock of her situation. She could see the inn some way down the road towards the beach where they had landed the previous evening. Now that it was light, she could also see that there were a few other small cottages like the one where she had slept scattered around the area. To get back to the inn where Elena was without being seen, she would have to double back, taking a route higher up the hillside where there were some bushes and trees for cover.

Then she had to get Elena away from that place . . . but where could they go? From what she had understood of what the couple had said, they sounded nice, but she and Elena couldn’t immediately put their trust in complete strangers. They had to get as far from here as possible, but where should they start? She had heard the couple mention Sergeant Macbeth. What could he be? A border guard? A soldier? A policeman? They said he was in Lochdubh. Would that be a town, or a military base? Whatever it was, that seemed as good a place to start as any. Even if it was a military base, there might be a train station. Escaping from here by train seemed like a good idea, but they would need tickets. She took out the wallet, leaving the passports zipped safely in the inside pocket of her puffer jacket. The wallet contained a wad of £50 notes. She was used to using euros but knew that £50 would be worth more than €50. There was also a bank card and a credit card in the wallet. For now, at least, they had plenty of money.

It took her more than an hour to make her way back to the Loch Muir Inn where she hid herself in some bushes behind a wall and watched for any sign of Elena. Another hour passed before her friend appeared, carrying a basket of washing, which she began hanging on a clothesline in the inn’s small back garden. Kira crept closer, making sure she couldn’t be seen from any of the building’s rear windows.

‘Elena!’ she breathed in the loudest whisper she dared. ‘It’s me!’

Elena risked a glance towards her friend and gave a brief shake of her head. She carried on pegging the washing to the line and then began singing in Latvian to a tune she made up as she went along.

‘The bearded one is watching me,’ she sang, ‘and listening, but he won’t understand this. He seems nice but locks the door to my room at night, but I can force the window. Meet me here tonight when all is quiet.’

Kira smiled. Elena was smart and, now that she thought about it, she had quite a good singing voice, too!

 

Having polished off their breakfasts, Hamish dealt with some admin in the small office at the front of the police house while Davey settled in to the spare bedroom. They then set off to reacquaint Davey with Lochdubh and its environs. The weather was holding fair and they left the station without jackets, Davey wearing the modern, black, quarter-zip version of the police uniform shirt and Hamish in his preferred traditional white. Despite repeated warnings from his commanding officer, Superintendent Daviot, Hamish refused to dress in black, claiming that the modern uniform made cops look like many things, from special forces binmen to ninja traffic wardens – but never proper police officers. Daviot, however, was based miles away in Strathbane and as long as he stayed there, the black shirts with which Hamish had been issued would stay in a drawer in his bedroom, factory fresh and still sealed in their plastic wrapping.

Lugs and Sonsie joined them when they walked out of the station to head along the pavement by the seawall towards the centre of Lochdubh. Lugs trotted along the pavement while Sonsie sashayed casually along the top of the low wall, but only until they saw that the tide was out and there were gulls to chase on the beach. They both then raced off for some fun.

‘It’s grand to be back walking along this path,’ Davey said, making a show of breathing in great lungfuls of fresh air.

 

‘Better than Auld Reekie, any day,’ Hamish said. ‘The sea air by the loch ay gives you that braw whiff o’ the freshest ozone.’

‘Two things to pick you up on there, Sergeant,’ Davey said, laughing. ‘Edinburgh’s not as “reekie” as it used to be – there’s no smog from thousands of coal fires nowadays. The other thing is that the “ozone” scent is actually dimethyl sulfide produced naturally by bacteria in the water that—’

‘Enough o’ your science malarkey!’ Hamish smiled, holding up a hand to stop Davey in mid-sentence. ‘As far as the locals and the tourists are concerned, it’s ozone and it’s good for you.’

‘It’s certainly good for you,’ Davey agreed, breathing deeply, ‘and way better than the air down south. Now, where are we headed first?’

‘To the pub,’ Hamish said.

‘Hang on a wee minute,’ Davey said, then laughed again. ‘I’m as keen to celebrate being back in Lochdubh as any man could be, but it’s not yet nine in the morning and we’re on duty.’

‘Aye, but we’re no’ going on a bender,’ Hamish assured him, ‘and you’re no’ the only recent newcomer in town. The auld pub has been refurbished, renamed and has a new landlord. We need to have a word wi’ him and find out what he’s like.’

 

Lochdubh’s only pub lay on the waterfront just beyond what one of Hamish’s previous constables, Willie Lamont, proudly described as Lochdubh’s finest Italian restaurant, the Napoli. Like the pub, the Napoli was the only Italian restaurant in the village, although that never seemed to trouble Willie when he was talking about the place he ran with his wife, Lucia. Approaching the Napoli, Hamish and Davey spotted Willie walking towards them from the direction of the pub.

‘Davey!’ Willie gave the young officer a heartfelt greeting. ‘Good to see you, man! What are you doing back here in Lochdubh? I thought you were down in the capital robbing soldiers wi’ the high and mighty!’

‘Robbing soldiers . . . ? Ah, right,’ Davey said, shaking Willie’s hand and immediately recalling that Willie regularly got his words mixed up. ‘You mean rubbing shoulders . . . Well, I needed a bit more time on the frontline before I concentrated on the detective side.’

‘Have you been down to take a look at the pub, Willie?’ Hamish asked.

‘Aye, and I’m just after meeting the new landlord,’ Willie replied. ‘He’s a big lad, Hamish. Looks like a tough nut, you know – and a bit intimate.’

There was a short pause before Hamish spoke. ‘Intimidating,’ he said, finally working out what Willie

meant. ‘Well, I’m sure a landlord sometimes has to look a bit fierce to keep a rowdy crowd in order.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t want to get rowdy wi’ him around, that’s for sure!’ Willie said, laughing. ‘He’s coming in for dinner tonight, so I need to get back and make sure everything’s up to scratch.’

Hamish sometimes missed having Willie around as his constable. The man was obsessed with cleaning and the police station had never looked so neat and tidy as when Willie had lived there. Davey was always willing to get stuck into the chores but Willie had turned house- work into an art form. The two police officers walked on to the pub where an imposing figure was holding a ladder steady while another man balanced on it, attempting to hang a new pub sign – a stylised image of a highlander playing the bagpipes. Below the image was the pub’s new name – THE PIPER.

‘Good morning!’ Hamish called, announcing their presence rather than risking startling the two men at work. It didn’t do to surprise a man up a ladder.

The big man holding the ladder looked round, noted that two policemen had arrived, nodded and turned back to the ladder. Only when the man hanging the sign had finished and climbed down did he turn back to Hamish again.

‘Sorry,’ he said bluntly, reaching out a massive paw to shake hands, ‘but Ronnie’s a bit feared o’ heights and my knees are no’ up to climbing ladders these days. I’m Hector MacCrimmon, the new landlord.’

‘Good to meet you,’ Hamish said, introducing himself and Davey. ‘I thought we might drop by to see how you were settling in.’

‘We’re near ready to open tomorrow night,’ said MacCrimmon. ‘Come ben and I’ll show you what we’ve been doing wi’ the place.’

Hamish and Davey followed MacCrimmon in through the main entrance, Davey noting that the publican was tall enough to have to duck slightly to avoid cracking his head on the door frame. Davey was tall, and Hamish slightly taller, but both could make it through a standard doorway without having to stoop. Unlike Hamish, who was solidly built but long-limbed, Davey had a muscular physique earned through countless hours spent in a gym. Hector MacCrimmon, however, had the look of a man who was naturally powerful, even though he was now well into his sixties. The big man led them into the pub where they were impressed to find a freshly refurbished, immaculately clean main bar area. The wooden bar counter stretched across most of the back wall and was shining under multiple coats of glossy varnish. The floor, previously covered by a dark, patterned carpet that had been further darkened and patterned by years of spilt beer, was now bare wooden boards, sanded smooth and gleaming almost as deeply as the bar.

‘I mind back in the bad old days when my boots used to stick to the manky carpet on the floor here!’ Hamish said, laughing.

‘Aye, we’ve made quite a few improvements,’ MacCrimmon said, looking round the bar with obvious pride.

‘Is this you, Mr MacCrimmon?’ Davey asked, having crossed the room to examine some of the framed sporting photographs hanging on the newly painted white walls. The one he stopped beside showed a boxer standing in fighting pose.

‘Aye, I fought a bit as an amateur when I was younger,’ the landlord answered. ‘Had a few profes- sional fights down south, too, afore I started having trouble wi’ the knees.’

‘And the pipes behind the bar,’ Hamish said, pointing to a magnificent set of bagpipes on display next to the optics, ‘would they be yours? It would go wi’ your name.’

‘They’re mine, sure enough, and you’re right to say they go wi’ the name,’ said MacCrimmon, looking impressed that Hamish was knowledgeable enough to have made the connection. ‘MacCrimmons have been personal pipers to the chiefs o’ Clan Macleod for ower four hundred and fifty years.’

While Hamish and MacCrimmon chatted, Davey took the opportunity to study the older man. His hair was grey and thinning and his brow, like everything else about the man, was heavy and strong, making his dark eyes look as though they were perpetually half closed. Unlike most boxers Davey had ever met, MacCrimmon’s nose was neither flattened across his face nor bent out of shape. Clearly not many of his opponents had managed to lay a glove on him.

‘I’d offer you a drink, gentlemen, but you’re both in uniform . . .’ MacCrimmon said, frowning at Davey’s black shirt, ‘. . . of sorts, and we’re no’ actually open until tomorrow.’

‘It’s a shame you’ve missed most of the tourists,’ Hamish said. ‘The season’s just about past.’

‘Well, I’ll still be around when the tourists choose to come back,’ MacCrimmon said. ‘I’m here for the rest o’ my days. This is my wee retirement project, so I’ll see a good few tourist seasons come and go.’

‘Good to hear it,’ Hamish said. ‘The locals will be delighted to see the pub looking so grand.’

‘Aye, I’ve met a few and asked them in for the opening night,’ said MacCrimmon, ‘including Willie from the Italian. I’m in there for my supper tonight. Is it any good?’

‘The food there is amazing,’ Davey said. ‘You’ll eat well tonight, Mr MacCrimmon.’

‘He was a bit funny, yon Willie,’ the publican said, with a slight frown of confusion. ‘Said we should be friends because we were the village intraparoors. What was he blethering about?’

 

‘Sounds like he meant “entrepreneurs”,’ Hamish said, smiling. ‘You’ll get used to Willie mixing things up, but he’s a good man. His wife, Lucia, is the chef. Her food is delicious.’

‘Aye, so I’ve heard,’ MacCrimmon said, nodding. ‘You’ll both be coming along for the opening night o’ the Piper, I hope?’

‘We will,’ Hamish assured him. ‘I’ve seen the posters you’ve been putting up around the village. A piper’s parade from the bridge, through the village, to the pub and the first drink free for anyone who joins the parade. You’ll have a lot o’ parade followers wi’ that offer.’

Hamish and Davey left the Piper, promising to be there for the opening, and headed off back to the police station to complete Davey’s refamiliarisation with the area by taking a tour up the coast to visit the farthest- flung corners of their patch. Davey didn’t speak until they were well clear of the pub.

‘I see what Willie meant about MacCrimmon being intimidating, Hamish. He’s a big man, but there’s something else bothering me about him. All those photographs on the walls were signed by top sports stars – football players, athletes, tennis players, golfers, all sorts – and all dedicated to Hector. Seems he had some seriously high-profile contacts down south.’

‘And down south is where the real money is,’ Hamish said, nodding in agreement. ‘So why didn’t he choose to open a bar down in Glasgow or Edinburgh where his famous friends could help to draw in customers? Why set himself up in a place where he knows no one and no one knows him? That’s what I want to find out, Davey – what exactly is Hector MacCrimmon doing up here in Lochdubh?’

 

‘Maybe he’s here to get away from something in the south,’ Davey suggested.

‘Aye, and he’d no’ be the only one, would he, Davey?’ Hamish looked Davey straight in the eye and there was an awkward moment before the young man swiftly turned away, quickening his pace towards the police station.

 

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