Death of a Gentle Lady

returned to the station, changed into his uniform, helped his pets into the police Land Rover, and set off over the hills.
    As he drove down the long slope that led to Strathbane, he thought the town really was a blot on the beauty of the highland landscape with its decaying docks, crumbling tower blocks, vice and crime.
    Steady rain was beginning to fall as he walked up the steps of headquarters and made his way up to the detectives’ room.
    Detective Sergeant Jimmy Anderson cried, ‘Well, if it isn’t señor back from Spain! Bring me a present?’
    ‘Some duty-free whisky.’
    ‘Got it with you?’
    ‘Back at the station.’
    Hamish noticed that Jimmy’s usually sharp foxy face was getting blurred round the edges and his blue eyes were watery. The amount the detective drank was at last beginning to show.
    ‘What’s all this about burglaries?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘Lot of them at wee post offices.’
    ‘What’s been done about it?’
    ‘Nothing much. The territory’s huge and we never know where they’ll hit next. Blair wants to see you.’
    The man himself lumbered out of his office. He was a thickset Glaswegian who loathed Hamish.
    ‘There you are, you teuchter,’ he snarled. ‘Anderson, gie him what we’ve got on thae burglaries. I want a quick result.’
    Blair went back into his office and slammed the door.
    ‘I’ve printed off all the reports for you,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s always the same. Three men, masked wi’ balaclavas. One wi’ a sawn-off shotgun. Nobody’s been hurt so far.’
    ‘Any undercover cops been sent out to hide in the post offices?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘Aye, for a bit. But the villains always chose the one there wasn’t a cop in.’
    Hamish pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Now, there’s a thing. Could it be possible that some cheil here was giving them information?’
    ‘Aw, come on, Hamish. It’s hardly the Great Train Robbery we’re talking about.’
    ‘Who’s the newest policeman on the force?’
    ‘Policewoman. Wee Alice Donaldson.’
    ‘Where is she right now?’
    ‘Off duty today. Och, Hamish. You just can’t think …’
    ‘Of anything else,’ said Hamish. ‘Let me have her address.’
    Jimmy applied himself to the computer and then said, ‘Here it is. Write it down. Eight Bannoch Brae. That’s down near the docks. Not a tower block. There’s a row of wee houses just before you get to the tower blocks on the Inverness Road.’
    ‘And what’s she like?’
    ‘Neat, quiet. Come on, laddie. You’ve had too much sun.’
    ‘It iss worth a try,’ said Hamish angrily, the sudden sibilance of his accent showing he was uneasy. ‘I haff nothing else to go on.’
    ‘Suit yourself. Did you get laid?’
    But Hamish was already walking away.
    When Hamish left headquarters, the wind had risen. Rain slashed into his face as he hurried to the Land Rover.
    He found Bannoch Brae and parked outside number 8. ‘Won’t be long,’ he said to his animals. ‘Sit there and shut up and I’ll buy ye a fish supper on the road home.’
    There was a weedy garden in front of a small stone house. Hamish went up to the front door and rang the bell.
    The door opened and a girl stood looking up at him. She was not very tall. Two wings of black hair hung on either side of a thin face.
    ‘Alice Donaldson?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘Yes, that’s me. It’s my day off. Am I wanted back on duty?’
    ‘No, I chust wanted to be having a wee word with you.’
    ‘Come in.’
    She stood aside to let him past and then closed the door and ushered him into a small front room.
    The room seemed rather bleak. It was simply furnished with a three-piece suite and a paraffin heater in front of the empty fireplace.
    ‘Sit down,’ said Alice. ‘Tea?’
    ‘No, thank you. I’m chust back from Spain and I haff been asked to investigate the burglaries of the post offices,’ said Hamish, nervously wondering why his imagination had leapt to the conclusion that some member of the force had been tipping off the gang.
    ‘Oh, yes? How can I help? I haven’t had anything to do with any of the cases.’
    Hamish could not see much of her face because of those wings of hair. Didn’t they irritate her?
    She was wearing a man’s shirt tied at the waist and a pair of worn jeans. His hazel eyes suddenly sharpened.
    ‘What are you staring at?’ she demanded.
    ‘That looks like a cigarette burn on your neck,’ said Hamish.
    Her hand fluttered up to the burn. ‘It’s nothing. I’m