Death of a Gentle Lady

walked up.
    ‘You can take a look over the edge,’ said Jimmy, ‘but the sea’s still too rough for anyone to go down there. We’ll need to wait until low tide. It’ll take ages to find the body between the ruin of the castle and the fact that the whole of the clifftop went down with it. Come to think of it, to get to the pillock’s body will probably take more money than if there had been a trial.’
    Hamish approached the cliff edge and ducked under the police tape. ‘Careful,’ shouted a policeman. ‘It’s still not safe.’
    Hamish gingerly approached the edge, lay down on his stomach, and looked over. Below, a mass of stones, earth, and grass was being pounded by the waves.
    He eased his way back again and stood up and went to join Jimmy. ‘Can’t we just leave him there? It’s going to be difficult to get to him. There was a bit of a beach at low tide, but I don’t know whether that will be still there.’
    ‘We’ll see what we can do. Here’s our lord and master.’
    Daviot strode towards them. ‘I read your report, Hamish,’ he said. ‘That was good work.’
    Blair stared at his feet scowling horribly. He hadn’t had a drink in what seemed like ages, and the craving was strong. He felt that without Macbeth around, he would be restored to the full dignity of his position. It was humiliating for a detective chief inspector to be outclassed by the village bobby.
    Hamish Macbeth was behind all his troubles. Hamish Macbeth was the reason he drank.
    There must be a way to get rid of him.

Chapter Thirteen

    Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers canst thou make us scorn!
Wi’ tippenny, we fear nay evil;
Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!
– Robert Burns

    Three days afterwards, the body of Cyril was found washed ashore in a cove north of the castle. The experts judged he must have thrown himself clear when the castle began to fall into the sea.
    ‘That’s saved us a lot of money,’ said Jimmy, relaxing in Hamish’s kitchen. ‘It’s nice to get back to normal: drugs, prostitution, and gang fights. What will you be doing?’
    ‘Getting around to repairing the storm damage,’ said Hamish. ‘There are a few tiles off the roof. The henhouse needs fixing.’
    ‘Have the press gone?’
    ‘Thank goodness, yes, apart from a bloke from one of the Sundays, planning an article on Save Our Coastline. Won’t make any difference. They don’t care much in Edinburgh or London about what goes on in the very north.’
    ‘Did that girlfriend of yours come back up?’
    ‘If you mean Elspeth, she iss not my girlfriend, and she iss mad at me because I didn’t give her the story.’
    ‘She’ll come round. She always does. Has Blair been to see you?’
    Hamish looked alarmed. ‘No. Why?’
    ‘He’s been trying to reform me. I thought he might have a go at you. He says drink is the devil’s tool. He rants at me, clutching a large Bible. I think he’s losing it.’
    ‘He’ll get over it. He’ll soon be back on the drink again and his old grumpy self.’
    ‘The trouble is, he’s even grumpier sober. I’d better get off and leave you to your chores. I just called in to see how you were.’

    Hamish worked on the roof, replacing slates that had been blown off in the storm. Then he decided to walk along and visit Angela.
    It was one of those white days in the Highlands, veiled behind thick misty cloud. Although the day was quite bright, no sun shone. The waters of the loch had subsided into a glassy calm as if the storm had never existed. The little whitewashed cottages along the waterfront looked as trim as ever, and columns of peat smoke rose from chimneys straight into the white sky.
    Two seals floated on their backs in the loch, the idle flapping of their flippers sending out little ripples over the calm. A lot of the old people still believed that the dead came back as seals.
    Hamish paused at the stone wall over the beach and watched them. It wouldn’t be a bad life, he thought. Just float around and catch fish. He thought maybe he’d take a boat out later and catch some fresh mackerel.

    Angela looked pleased to see him and anxious to hear all the details of the death of Cyril. As Hamish talked, it all seemed very far away – the image of the castle tumbling into the sea like something remembered from a film at the cinema.
    When he had finished talking, Angela said, ‘Poor Harold Jury. The sales of his last book have rocketed. Maybe that’s the writer’s recipe for