eyes blazed. The dog barked.
‘Hamish!’ screamed Josie, darting out the door and slamming it behind her before the cat could spring.
The bedroom door opened and Hamish stood there wrapped in a shabby dressing gown. ‘What’s up?’ he demanded.
‘There’s been another murder, sir. Mark Lussie.’
‘Make coffee,’ ordered Hamish. ‘This all gets nastier and nastier.’
Chapter Six
O woman, perfect woman! What distraction
Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a devil!
– John Fletcher
Josie took one look at the cheap jar of instant coffee on Hamish’s kitchen counter and ran to Patel’s to buy a packet of real coffee. Returning to the police
station, she made the coffee in a pewter jug by pouring boiling water over the grounds, sprinkling a little cold water on the top to settle them, and adding a small pinch of salt.
Then she lit the stove and put the pot on top to keep the coffee warm. Hamish shaved and showered. In the kitchen, he gulped down two cups of black coffee. To Josie’s dismay, he
didn’t seem to notice the difference from his usual brew.
Hamish had in fact noticed the difference and had seen the packet of real coffee but did not want to thank Josie in case she was encouraged to encroach on his home.
Before he left the station he phoned Jimmy, who told him that Hamish had the job of breaking the news to Mrs Lussie.
‘We’re off to see Mark’s mother,’ said Hamish as they drove off. ‘What was that boy up to? Some way he put himself in danger by not telling us all he knew. Either
that or he suddenly remembered something. Did he phone his killer and make an appointment? I wonder if he had a mobile phone. I hope we can find something to narrow the suspects down. I hate this
sort of job – breaking bad news.’
But when they arrived at Mark’s home, it was obvious the news had already been broken by the highland bush telegraph. Neighbours were crowded into a small living room, murmuring
condolences as Mrs Lussie sat and wept.
‘I would like a word with Mrs Lussie,’ said Hamish. ‘Will you all please wait outside?’
A large woman protested. ‘Cannae ye leave the wumman alone?’ she cried.
But Mrs Lussie rallied. She dried her eyes and said, ‘I’ll speak to the sergeant. I want to find out who killed my boy.’
‘Now, Mrs Lussie,’ said Hamish. ‘Did you hear Mark go out last night?’
She shook her head. ‘The baby was quiet for once so I got the first good sleep I’ve had in ages.’
‘Did he say anything at all that might be significant? Or did he look excited in any way?’
She dabbed at her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief. ‘He didn’t say anything. He was reading a fillum magazine. Then we watched a bit o’ telly and he said he was tired
and wanted an early night.’
‘Did he have a mobile phone?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t use it much. Poor lost soul. He didn’t seem to have that many friends. When we was with the church, he knew some young people, but he gave up the
church.’
‘May we see his room?’
‘It’s up the stairs, first left.’
As Hamish and Josie went up the stairs, the neighbours who had been watching through the front window crowded in again.
The room was unexpectedly neat for a young man. It was quite small. There was a narrow bed, neatly made up, with a bedside table and reading lamp. A desk by the window with a hard upright chair
in front of it held a pile of comics and film magazines. There was no computer or posters or pictures on the walls, which were covered in an oatmeal patterned wallpaper. A tall, thin wardrobe
fronted by a long glass mirror stood against one wall, and a chest of drawers against another.
Hamish put on gloves and so did Josie. ‘You search the bedside table,’ he said, ‘and I’ll have a look in the wardrobe.’
There were few clothes hanging up: one dark blue suit and black coat, three long-sleeved shirts, a puffa jacket and a tweed jacket. Underneath the clothes were a
‘Hamish!’ screamed Josie, darting out the door and slamming it behind her before the cat could spring.
The bedroom door opened and Hamish stood there wrapped in a shabby dressing gown. ‘What’s up?’ he demanded.
‘There’s been another murder, sir. Mark Lussie.’
‘Make coffee,’ ordered Hamish. ‘This all gets nastier and nastier.’
Chapter Six
O woman, perfect woman! What distraction
Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a devil!
– John Fletcher
Josie took one look at the cheap jar of instant coffee on Hamish’s kitchen counter and ran to Patel’s to buy a packet of real coffee. Returning to the police
station, she made the coffee in a pewter jug by pouring boiling water over the grounds, sprinkling a little cold water on the top to settle them, and adding a small pinch of salt.
Then she lit the stove and put the pot on top to keep the coffee warm. Hamish shaved and showered. In the kitchen, he gulped down two cups of black coffee. To Josie’s dismay, he
didn’t seem to notice the difference from his usual brew.
Hamish had in fact noticed the difference and had seen the packet of real coffee but did not want to thank Josie in case she was encouraged to encroach on his home.
Before he left the station he phoned Jimmy, who told him that Hamish had the job of breaking the news to Mrs Lussie.
‘We’re off to see Mark’s mother,’ said Hamish as they drove off. ‘What was that boy up to? Some way he put himself in danger by not telling us all he knew. Either
that or he suddenly remembered something. Did he phone his killer and make an appointment? I wonder if he had a mobile phone. I hope we can find something to narrow the suspects down. I hate this
sort of job – breaking bad news.’
But when they arrived at Mark’s home, it was obvious the news had already been broken by the highland bush telegraph. Neighbours were crowded into a small living room, murmuring
condolences as Mrs Lussie sat and wept.
‘I would like a word with Mrs Lussie,’ said Hamish. ‘Will you all please wait outside?’
A large woman protested. ‘Cannae ye leave the wumman alone?’ she cried.
But Mrs Lussie rallied. She dried her eyes and said, ‘I’ll speak to the sergeant. I want to find out who killed my boy.’
‘Now, Mrs Lussie,’ said Hamish. ‘Did you hear Mark go out last night?’
She shook her head. ‘The baby was quiet for once so I got the first good sleep I’ve had in ages.’
‘Did he say anything at all that might be significant? Or did he look excited in any way?’
She dabbed at her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief. ‘He didn’t say anything. He was reading a fillum magazine. Then we watched a bit o’ telly and he said he was tired
and wanted an early night.’
‘Did he have a mobile phone?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t use it much. Poor lost soul. He didn’t seem to have that many friends. When we was with the church, he knew some young people, but he gave up the
church.’
‘May we see his room?’
‘It’s up the stairs, first left.’
As Hamish and Josie went up the stairs, the neighbours who had been watching through the front window crowded in again.
The room was unexpectedly neat for a young man. It was quite small. There was a narrow bed, neatly made up, with a bedside table and reading lamp. A desk by the window with a hard upright chair
in front of it held a pile of comics and film magazines. There was no computer or posters or pictures on the walls, which were covered in an oatmeal patterned wallpaper. A tall, thin wardrobe
fronted by a long glass mirror stood against one wall, and a chest of drawers against another.
Hamish put on gloves and so did Josie. ‘You search the bedside table,’ he said, ‘and I’ll have a look in the wardrobe.’
There were few clothes hanging up: one dark blue suit and black coat, three long-sleeved shirts, a puffa jacket and a tweed jacket. Underneath the clothes were a
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