M Beaton: Death of a Valentine

They were going to Porto Vecchio in Corsica for their honeymoon. That was Josie’s idea. Hamish had reluctantly agreed. Flora was paying for the wedding so he felt that he was obliged to pay for a honeymoon.

He got out of the Land Rover and let Sonsie and Lugs out as well. The mountains behind him soared up to a perfectly cloudless blue sky; in front of him the sea sparkled in the sunshine with myriad lights. The clean air smelled of thyme and peat smoke, wafting up from the chimneys of the town below him. Hamish gave a superstitious shiver. He suddenly felt as if he were seeing such a view for the last time.

A rifle bullet smacked into his chest. He caught a glimpse of Cora Baxter rising from the heather and hurrying off down the brae before he collapsed to the ground and blackness settled on him.

Elspeth drove through Braikie and out on the north road. Something off to her right caught her attention. She stopped and saw the police Land Rover up on the hill. She could just make out a uniformed figure lying beside it.

She ran up the hill, calling out, “Wake up, Hamish! It’s me, Elspeth!”

But when she reached him and saw the dark stain of blood on his regulation jersey, she let out a wail of despair. Sonsie and Lugs were guarding the body. She took out her phone and shouted down it for help from the emergency services. Then she knelt down in the heather beside him, feeling for a pulse. There was one, but it was faint.

She pressed a handkerchief to the wound and whispered, “Oh, Hamish.”

His eyes flickered open. He said in a whisper, “Cora Baxter,” and then lapsed into unconsciousness again.

It seemed an age before she heard the whirring blades of a helicopter overhead and the siren of an ambulance coming out from the town.

The ambulance came bumping up the hill over the heather and the helicopter landed.

“He’s been shot!” said Elspeth to the paramedics. “Cora Baxter did it.”

“It’s bad,” said the leading paramedic. “The helicopter had better take him down to the Raigmore Hospital in Inverness.”

“I’m going with him,” said Elspeth. An oxygen mask was placed on Hamish’s face. Elspeth climbed abroad the helicopter and sat beside Hamish, praying as she had never prayed before.

The news that Hamish Macbeth was in intensive care hit the village of Lochdubh like a bombshell. The whole village including Josie would have descended on Inverness had not Dr. Brodie informed them all that Hamish was not to be allowed any visitors.

Then further news came in that Cora Baxter had been arrested for the attempted murder of Hamish.

Josie fretted and worried. The wedding was postponed. If Hamish survived, he would expect her to be showing signs of pregnancy by the time he got out of hospital. She had been dieting so as to be slim on her wedding day. She decided the best thing would be to put on weight.

Because Elspeth had done such a dramatic piece on television, she was told to take as much time up in Inverness as she wanted. She was sitting in the waiting room when Jimmy Anderson arrived.

“What’s the news?” he asked.

Tears rolled down Elspeth’s cheeks. “It’s still bad. They got the bullet out. He lost a lot of blood. But the bullet seems to have missed any vital organs and gone right through the shoulder. Why did that damn woman do such a thing?”

“These small towns,” mourned Jimmy. “In a big city, to be a councillor’s wife is no great shakes. But her position in the community had been everything to her. She must be mad. She knew what her husband had done and kept quiet about it.”

The surgeon came into the waiting room and Elspeth jumped to her feet. “Any news?”

“He’s stabilised but still unconscious. He should be coming out of it. I’ve seen something like this before but only with attempted suicides when they don’t want to be rescued.”

“I’ve got to talk to him,” said Elspeth.

“I can’t see it’ll do any harm and it might do some good.”

“Wait for me, Jimmy,” said Elspeth. As they walked along the corridors towards Hamish’s room, Elspeth whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. But I think he has been conned into getting married. I’ve no proof. Just don’t let his fiancée see him.”

The surgeon was very impressed to be talking to such a famous Scottish celebrity.

“If he recovers, I’ll see,” he said.

Elspeth went into Hamish’s room and sat down by the bed. “I’ll give you ten minutes,” said the surgeon.

Taking Hamish’s hand in a firm clasp, Elspeth said, “It’s me…Elspeth. Wake up, Hamish. What would Lochdubh do without you? Listen! Do you remember the time we went poaching up on the colonel’s estate and caught that big salmon and the water bailiff nearly caught us? It was a grand day. How we laughed! And we poached that salmon for dinner. There are good times still to come.”

Hamish lay as still as death.

“Oh, wake up, you silly cowardly bastard!” shouted Elspeth.

A doctor came hurrying in. “You are not to shout at the patient. I must ask you to leave.”

“Elspeth,” came a faint croak from the bed.

“Oh, Hamish,” said Elspeth. “Welcome back.”

The next day when Elspeth called again, it was to find Josie by the bed, holding Hamish’s hand. The surgeon had felt he could hardly refuse Hamish’s fiancée a visit.

“He’s making a grand recovery,” said Josie, “so the wedding will be going ahead quite soon.”

“Are you sure, Hamish?” asked Elspeth.

“Of course,” he said blandly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“I think Hamish and I would like some time together,” said Josie.

Elspeth looked enquiringly at Hamish and he gave a brief nod.

Elspeth went back to the offices of the Highland Times in Lochdubh.

“Come back to work for us?” asked Matthew Campbell, the editor.

“No, I just wanted to borrow one of your computers and go through the local stories.”

“Help yourself. Everything’s on the computer now. All the cuttings are down in the basement.”

Elspeth sat down at the computer, switched it on, and typed in “Dr. Cameron Strathbane.”

No results.

Elspeth found a copy of the Highlands and Islands telephone directory and looked up Dr. Cameron. There was the name and address. She wrote the address down and set off for Strathbane.

The doctor’s surgery was down near the docks in a far-from-salubrious neighbourhood. Even the seagulls looked dirty. Thin, white-faced youths lurked outside.

Elspeth had donned a simple disguise in the car: a woollen hat pulled down over her hair, glasses with clear lenses, and old clothes from her thrift-shop shopping days.

She sat in her car and wondered what to tell the doctor was wrong with her. Then she thought-but what good would it do? She took out her phone and called Jimmy, glad she had kept his mobile phone number form the old days when she used to work for the Highland Times.

“Elspeth!” said Jimmy. “What’s the news about Hamish?”

“Recovering rapidly. Jimmy, have you heard anything about a Dr. Cameron in Strathbane?”

“Why?”

“Just passing the time up here looking for stories.”

“I thought you grand presenters had reporters and researchers to do the work for you.”

“Indulge me, Jimmy.”

“It’s last year’s story. Cameron was up before the sheriff on a charge o’ selling methadone to druggies. He got off because the laddie who shopped him disappeared.”

“Thanks.”

“But why…?”

“I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”

Elspeth thought hard. Before she tackled Cameron, she desperately wanted to know if the results of Hamish’s urine test and blood test were accurate. They could still be in the forensic lab. But how to get them? If Lesley were alerted, she might destroy them.