Death of a Gentle Lady

had checked himself out of rehab two days before. They had protested and told him they would send a report to Superintendent Daviot.
    He made his way up to Daviot’s office. Secretary Helen smiled at him. She liked Blair, who occasionally bought her flowers and chocolates.
    ‘We didn’t expect to see you for a while,’ said Helen.
    ‘I’m all right now.’
    ‘I’m afraid Mr Daviot is busy.’
    ‘I’ll wait,’ said Blair. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’
    ‘Of course.’
    Helen rose and went into the small kitchen next to her desk. The morning post was lying in a basket on her desk.
    Keeping an eye on the kitchen, Blair riffled through it until he found an envelope with the name of the rehab on the front. He tucked it inside his jacket and retreated as Helen returned with his coffee.
    ‘Who’s in there?’ asked Blair.
    ‘Mr Anderson and Hamish Macbeth.’
    ‘What’s up?’
    ‘Didn’t you hear? Someone tried to blow up the Lochdubh police station last night. It’s the second attempt on Hamish’s life, so they’re going to hide him away. I had to start first thing this morning, phoning estate agents to find a suitable place.’
    Blair paused, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. ‘Why’s someone trying to bump off yon loon?’
    ‘The murderer seems to think Hamish knows something or something like that,’ said Helen. ‘Really, that man is such a load of trouble.’
    ‘Where did you find a place?’ asked Blair.
    ‘It’s top secret, you know, but of course there’s no harm in telling you. I found a cottage in Grianach. Ideal place. There’s just one road down into it.’
    ‘Where is it?’
    ‘Right up in the northwest of Sutherland, near the top.’
    Hamish and Jimmy came out of the superintendent’s office. ‘You can go in now,’ said Helen.
    ‘And how are you?’ asked Daviot, looking doubtfully at Blair. ‘I thought you were going to be away for a few weeks.’
    ‘They decided I wasn’t an alcoholic,’ lied Blair. ‘It was all a result of a dirty trick played on me by that Russian.’ He described the vodka-drinking session and ended by saying, ‘You must see, sir, I couldnae do anything else, with her being a visitor and all.’
    ‘I think, however, you should go home and get some more rest,’ said Daviot. ‘Detective Inspector Anderson can cope with everything.’

    Blair left in a foul mood. He could see the day approaching when he would be forced into early retirement and Jimmy Anderson would get his job. And he would hate to leave the force without first getting rid of Hamish Macbeth.
    And then he had a brilliant idea. If some murderer was looking for Hamish Macbeth, why not help the murderer to find him?
    He checked through his notebook and then headed down to the dismal tower blocks at the docks and was soon knocking on a dirty, scarred door.
    ‘How are you, Tommy?’ said Blair to the unsavoury creature who answered the door.
    ‘I’m jist fine, so don’t you go trying tae pin anything on me.’
    ‘I want you to do something for me. I’ll pay you. Or can I put it another way: If you don’t do it, I’ll have you back inside as soon as I can.’
    ‘You’ll pay me?’
    ‘Right. I want you to go over to Lochdubh, go to that bar on the waterfront, and spread a wee bit o’ gossip around.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’

    Hamish drove an unmarked car down into the village of Grianach. Grianach , he knew, was the Gaelic for ‘sand’, and sure enough there was a small sandy beach at the front of the tiny village. He had decided to call himself William Shore.
    To the side of the beach was a jetty with a lone fishing boat bobbing at anchor. The village consisted of a few fishermen’s cottages, a small church, and a general store and post office.
    He went into the tiny dark shop. He wondered how it managed to survive. There was a musty smell of old grain and the scent of paraffin from a heater.
    A small man appeared from the back of the shop. He was almost dwarf size, and Hamish felt an unreasonable stab of superstitious unease. For the fairies, which now only the old people believed in, were not glittery little things with wings but small, dark, troll-like men.
    A half-remembered poem learned at school came into his head.
    Up the rocky mountain.
Down the rushy glen.
We dare not go a-hunting
For fear of little men.

    The shopkeeper had a thick thatch of black hair and bright green eyes. His face was sallow, his nose large, and his mouth