They heard the key in the door. Roger loomed up in front of them. When he saw the two animals he raised his gun but Sonsie, the wild cat, flew up at his face and tore her sharp claws down it while Lugs bit his leg. He howled and dropped the rifle.

Hamish came running in. He picked up the rifle and ordered, “Stay there or I’ll shoot.”

He scrabbled in the pocket of his coat hanging on the back of the door and produced a pair of handcuffs. “Over on your back,” he shouted.

Roger rolled over, yelling, “I can’t see.”

“It’s the blood,” said Hamish, clipping on the handcuffs. He grabbed his mobile from the kitchen table and called for help.

It was to be a long night. The deep scratches on Roger’s face were tended to by the medical officer before he was judged fit for questioning. But Roger remained silent apart from saying he was going to sue Hamish Macbeth for the damage to his face. He would not say that anyone had hired him to kill Hamish. Hamish waited in the detectives’ room because Blair would not allow him to be part of the interview. He had asked them to find out Roger’s address so that the place could be searched before anything was destroyed but Blair had snarled at him that he was not in charge of the case and to type up his report.

When Jimmy finally appeared, Hamish said desperately, “Have you an address? We’ve got to get round there. There may be something in his place that connects him to Barry Fitzcameron.”

Jimmy rubbed the bristles on his foxy face. “I’m tired. We’ve been up all night, Hamish.”

“Let’s just do it ourselves,” pleaded Hamish.

“Oh, all right. It’s a house in Boroughfield, that suburb at the edge o’ the town.”

But when they got there, it was to find the blackened shell of what had been Roger’s home being checked by a fire inspector.

“I’m sorry, Hamish,” said Jimmy wearily. “We should ha’ listened to you. Go home.”

Before he went to bed, Hamish locked the door. As he fell asleep, he was dimly aware of Josie shouting through the letter box.

Josie was alarmed when she did not get a reply. She phoned police headquarters and learned of the attempt on Hamish’s life. Then she was told to hold on. Police Sergeant Mary Southern came on the line.

“Get over to Braikie right now and we’ll join you. A body’s been found at the war memorial.”

Josie scribbled a note to Hamish and pushed it through the letter box before driving as fast as she could to Braikie. Trails of dark cloud were streaming in from the Atlantic, and the wind had begun to rise.

She stopped in the main street, asked for directions to the war memorial, and then set off again. As she climbed the hill to the memorial, she could see that a small crowd had gathered. She pulled a roll of police tape and some posts out of the car and set off up the hill, shouting, “Get back! It’s a crime scene.”

The little crowd backed away as she secured the site. Then she went forward and looked down at the body. Here was no horror such as she had seen when she had viewed Annie’s body. Mark Lussie lay as if at peace, his sightless eyes staring up at the windy sky.

“Who found the body?” asked Josie, walking back to the crowd.

A tall man stepped forward. “That’s me,” he said.

“Name?”

“Alec Templar. I wass up the brae looking after my sheep and I saw what I thocht was clothes by the memorial and went for a look. Poor wee laddie.”

Josie felt the experience of being in sole charge of a murder case was very exciting, but it was short-lived. Police, detectives, and SOCO headed by Superintendent Daviot came hurrying up the brae.

Daviot glared at Josie. “Why aren’t you suited up?”

“I was rushing to secure the crime scene,” said Josie.

“Don’t ever make such a mistake again. Where’s Macbeth?”

“There was an attempt on his life last night and-”

“I know that. So where is he?”

“I think he must be asleep.”

“Then get over to Lochdubh and wake him up. I need him here.”

“I know the deceased,” said Josie tremulously. “We interviewed him yesterday.”

“Name and address?”

Josie gave them to him. “Shall I go and tell the parents?”

“Just get Macbeth here!”

Josie drove miserably back to Lochdubh and hammered on the police station door. She jumped as a voice behind her said, “There’s a spare key on a hook at the back of the henhouse. He used tae leave it in the gutter, but he changed it. He telt it tae me the ither day.”

She swung round. A small man in a very tight suit stood looking at her. “I’m Archie Maclean,” he said. “Friend o’ Hamish’s.”

“I’ve got to wake him up,” said Josie. “He’s wanted over at Braikie.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Archie. “I only came for a wee crack.”

Josie found the key and let herself in. She decided that instead of shouting to wake him, she would go into the bedroom and gently shake him by the shoulder. It was an intimate scenario.

She went into the bedroom. The dog and cat were at the end of the bed. The large cat arched her back and hissed while her yellow 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

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.”