evidence. What’s this Ruby’s alibi?”
“She lives alone. She was certainly seen out and about in Perth, shopping, visiting the church, that sort of thing. She could have driven up during the night. She’s got a car.”
“What’s her alibi for the time the fire was lit at the witch’s cottage?”
There was a rustling of papers. Then Jimmy said, “Nobody asked her. I’ll phone Perth and tell them to get on it right away.”
“The way Catriona went on,” said Hamish, “the whole of Scotland’s probably littered wi’ folks who wanted to murder her.”
“You sound quite cheerful about it. Glad suspicion’s moving away from the local teuchters?”
“Not at all,” said Hamish. Although he knew Jimmy was right.
But Timmy Teviot knew something and he wasn’t talking. Hamish decided to order him to come to the police station and make a full statement about the poachers.
Timmy turned up that evening. Try as he would to trip him up, Hamish found that Timmy stuck unwaveringly to his original story.
Hamish was to say later that not only did the case go cold, it went into deep freeze. On the day that there was a march in Strathbane against global warming, blizzards hurled down from the north, blanketing the countryside. Most of the protesters had come in from other parts of the country and soon found themselves stranded.
The snow piled up, blocking the highland roads despite the diligence of the snow ploughs. At Christmas, Lochdubh looked like an old-fashioned Christmas card with candlelight shining at the cottage windows because there had been a massive power cut. At a break in the storms, Hamish used snowshoes to visit the outlying crofts. Two weeks into the new year, and the snow was still falling.
In his kitchen, Lesley’s stew pot and cake plate lay as a mute reminder that she had never come back to collect them and that, before the snow, he had not even tried to contact her.
He suddenly remembered the brothel idea. He got out an ordnance survey map and began to map off locations in easy reach of Lochdubh where someone could run a brothel without alerting the neighbours. The spirit of John Knox still gripped parts of the north, and he was sure if it had been a large business, he would have heard of it. Someone would have reported it.
It would not, he thought, be an isolated croft house up on the moors because crofting neighbours would have reported something to him. When they were out with their sheep, they saw everything in the landscape that moved.
Then if men from Lochdubh had been visiting it, it would need to be somewhere quite close.
Perhaps Angus Macdonald, the seer, knew something. Hamish was very cynical about the seer’s psychic powers but knew that Angus collected a good deal of useful gossip.
Also, he realised, he should call on Angus anyway. The man must be in his seventies and might be in the need of food.
Hamish went to Patel’s and filled up a haversack with powdered milk—there had been no deliveries of fresh milk—locally baked bread, butter, cheese, tea, and coffee. Putting on his snowshoes and hoisting the haversack on his back, he set off to climb up the hill at the back to Angus’s cottage.
To his alarm, there was no answer to his knock at the door. He tried the handle and found the door unlocked. He walked in, calling, “Angus!”
He heard a faint croak from the bedroom and opened the door. Angus was huddled in bed. The room was freezing.
“What’s up, Angus?” asked Hamish, bending over him.
“I think it’s the flu, Hamish. Dr. Brodie came up. He said it was a bad cold and left me some pills to take my temperature down.”
“I’ll get a fire going in this bedroom for a start,” said Hamish.
He worked busily, lighting a fire and then, in the kitchen, preparing a bowl of soup and some toast and carrying the lot in on a tray to Angus. He propped the seer up on his pillows and placed the tray in front of him. “Try to get that down you,” said Hamish,
“She lives alone. She was certainly seen out and about in Perth, shopping, visiting the church, that sort of thing. She could have driven up during the night. She’s got a car.”
“What’s her alibi for the time the fire was lit at the witch’s cottage?”
There was a rustling of papers. Then Jimmy said, “Nobody asked her. I’ll phone Perth and tell them to get on it right away.”
“The way Catriona went on,” said Hamish, “the whole of Scotland’s probably littered wi’ folks who wanted to murder her.”
“You sound quite cheerful about it. Glad suspicion’s moving away from the local teuchters?”
“Not at all,” said Hamish. Although he knew Jimmy was right.
But Timmy Teviot knew something and he wasn’t talking. Hamish decided to order him to come to the police station and make a full statement about the poachers.
Timmy turned up that evening. Try as he would to trip him up, Hamish found that Timmy stuck unwaveringly to his original story.
Hamish was to say later that not only did the case go cold, it went into deep freeze. On the day that there was a march in Strathbane against global warming, blizzards hurled down from the north, blanketing the countryside. Most of the protesters had come in from other parts of the country and soon found themselves stranded.
The snow piled up, blocking the highland roads despite the diligence of the snow ploughs. At Christmas, Lochdubh looked like an old-fashioned Christmas card with candlelight shining at the cottage windows because there had been a massive power cut. At a break in the storms, Hamish used snowshoes to visit the outlying crofts. Two weeks into the new year, and the snow was still falling.
In his kitchen, Lesley’s stew pot and cake plate lay as a mute reminder that she had never come back to collect them and that, before the snow, he had not even tried to contact her.
He suddenly remembered the brothel idea. He got out an ordnance survey map and began to map off locations in easy reach of Lochdubh where someone could run a brothel without alerting the neighbours. The spirit of John Knox still gripped parts of the north, and he was sure if it had been a large business, he would have heard of it. Someone would have reported it.
It would not, he thought, be an isolated croft house up on the moors because crofting neighbours would have reported something to him. When they were out with their sheep, they saw everything in the landscape that moved.
Then if men from Lochdubh had been visiting it, it would need to be somewhere quite close.
Perhaps Angus Macdonald, the seer, knew something. Hamish was very cynical about the seer’s psychic powers but knew that Angus collected a good deal of useful gossip.
Also, he realised, he should call on Angus anyway. The man must be in his seventies and might be in the need of food.
Hamish went to Patel’s and filled up a haversack with powdered milk—there had been no deliveries of fresh milk—locally baked bread, butter, cheese, tea, and coffee. Putting on his snowshoes and hoisting the haversack on his back, he set off to climb up the hill at the back to Angus’s cottage.
To his alarm, there was no answer to his knock at the door. He tried the handle and found the door unlocked. He walked in, calling, “Angus!”
He heard a faint croak from the bedroom and opened the door. Angus was huddled in bed. The room was freezing.
“What’s up, Angus?” asked Hamish, bending over him.
“I think it’s the flu, Hamish. Dr. Brodie came up. He said it was a bad cold and left me some pills to take my temperature down.”
“I’ll get a fire going in this bedroom for a start,” said Hamish.
He worked busily, lighting a fire and then, in the kitchen, preparing a bowl of soup and some toast and carrying the lot in on a tray to Angus. He propped the seer up on his pillows and placed the tray in front of him. “Try to get that down you,” said Hamish,
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