M Beaton: Death of a Valentine

And there was that bottle of vodka she had hidden in the garden, just waiting for her.

Lochdubh settled back into its usually lazy life as a rare fine summer spread across the Highlands of Scotland.

Hamish appreciated his life as never before. Any crimes he had to deal with were small. He covered his extensive beat, glorying in the landscape. He had only two worries. Elspeth had not returned any of his calls. And he had not been demoted, so there was still the threat of another police officer being billeted on him.

As autumn came around, he travelled down to the High Court in Edinburgh for the trial of Jamie Baxter. He endured a long cross-examination by the defence stoically. By the time it was all over and Jamie was sentenced to three life terms for the three murders, he felt tired and edgy. Elspeth came back into his mind. Glasgow was only a short distance away. He decided to call on her and see if he could find out why she had left Corsica so abruptly.

But at the television studios, the receptionist, after phoning to see whether Elspeth was available, said sweetly that he would need to leave his name and number and Miss Grant would get in touch with him-if she wished.

He knew where Elspeth lived so he drove to her flat down by the River Clyde, parked, and waited. It was a long wait but policemen were used to long waits on doorsteps.

At last at ten in the evening, he saw her drive up the street and park. She got out of the car. She looked slim and elegant, not at all like the frizzy-haired, thrift-shop-dressed Elspeth he had first met when she was a reporter on the Highland Times.

A red sunset was setting over the waters of the Clyde. Little fiery points danced on the choppy water as he climbed down from the police Land Rover feeling stiff and awkward.

“Elspeth!”

She swung round at the entrance to the flats and stared at him. “What is it, Hamish?”

“What iss it, lassie? You ran away from me in Corsica, you didn’t answer my calls, what on earth did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why?”

“Hamish, I’m tired. Do we need to go into this now? All I want to do is get to bed.”

“Yes, now. Can we go inside?”

“No. Look, Hamish,” lied Elspeth, “I phoned the studio that evening in Corsica and they said someone was trying to take my job. I panicked. I didn’t stop to think. I just rushed off to the airport.”

“But you met me for breakfast the following morning and you didn’t say a word!”

“Look, I left on an impulse. I’m sorry, okay? Now if you don’t mind…”

She turned away from him and went into the block of flats.

Hamish climbed slowly back into the Land Rover and sat deep in thought. What on earth could he have done? That evening before she left, had he said anything to put her off? He remembered that phone call to the hotel and how he’d asked for news of Priscilla. Could she have heard him? Then he remembered that the windows to his balcony had been open; and if Elspeth’s had been open; well, she could have heard him. What if she had followed him in the morning and heard him asking for an engagement ring and assumed it was for Priscilla? Was that it?

Oh, what’s the use, he thought. Just let me get back to Lochdubh.

Elspeth stood at the window. She suddenly turned and ran out of her flat and down the stairs to the street. But she was just in time to see the Land Rover turning the corner and disappearing.

Josie McSween was married. She was now Mrs. Jeffries, married to a divorced lawyer she had met at a meeting, the one who had given her his handkerchief. They had been married quietly in a registry office and had gone to Paris on honeymoon. But even in Paris there were bloody AA meetings where she sat moodily glaring at slogans with legends like LIVE AND LET GOD and wondering what God had ever done for her.

Still, a lot of sex had counteracted her cravings for drink until they were back in Perth and Tom Jeffries, her husband, was once more immersed in work. She knew she did not dare even have one drink because as Tom had pointed out, you can’t bullshit the bullshitters and he would know the minute she had lapsed.

For fear of the press, the wedding had been kept very quiet. She longed to show Hamish Macbeth and all those creeps in Lochdubh that she was now a rich, married lady.

So one Saturday, she startled her husband by proposing that they drive up to Lochdubh. “I know I had an awful time there,” said Josie. “But Sutherland is very beautiful. We could just drive along the waterfront at Lochdubh but not stop.”

Tom had been so busy since the honeymoon that he felt he had been neglecting her. He was disappointed that Josie did not seem to have made any friends amongst the women at the Perth meeting. But, he thought, it was early days. It took some people quite a long time to settle in.

Josie relaxed in Tom’s BMW and looked out the window as the car smoothly moved over the humpbacked bridge and on to the waterfront.

But to her horror, there was the tall figure of Hamish Macbeth, standing in the middle of the road, holding up his hand. Tom slid to a stop and lowered his window. “What’s up?” he asked.

“There’s a great big hole in the road ahead. You’ll need to turn round. Why, Josie? Is that you?”

“Yes,” muttered Josie.

Tom looked at the tall policeman in surprise. “Are you Hamish Macbeth?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Josie and I are married.”

“Congratulations,” said Hamish.

Tom made a three-point turn and drove off. So that was Hamish Macbeth. Josie had described him as quite old and with a sour face and little eyes. But the Hamish he had just met had been an attractive-looking man with fiery red hair and clear hazel eyes. He felt a pang of unease as he glanced at his sulky wife.

“Let’s just go home,” said Josie.

How she endured the rest of the weekend until Tom went back to work, Josie did not know. Every fibre in her body was screaming for a drink. Just one, she thought. Just one little drink.

When Tom went to work on Monday morning, Josie headed for the supermarket. She wandered down the aisle amongst the wines and liquors in a trance.

In his office, Tom phoned his AA sponsor. “I’m worried about Josie,” he said.

“You should be,” said his sponsor. “I tried to warn you. Josie hasn’t hit bottom.”

“But she hasn’t had a drink!”

“She’s white-knuckling it. That lassie’s on a dry drunk.”

Josie had meant to buy a miniature but the supermarket only sold bottles. She got herself a bottle of whisky. She would just take one little drink and pour the rest down the sink.

She carried the bottle home, opened it, sat down at the kitchen table, and poured herself a small measure. As she drank it down, she felt her screaming nerves disappear. One more wouldn’t do any harm. Those numpties at AA didn’t know what they were missing, thought Josie, unaware that they all knew exactly what they were missing, and that’s why they were there.

Jimmy Anderson called on Hamish a month later. “They’re still trying to find a copper for you. But no one wants to move to this dead-and-alive hole.”

“Suits me,” said Hamish.

“Have you heard about Josie?”

“I saw her with her new husband a month ago. Seems to have landed on her feet.”