Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [43]
‘Well, now, I think you should rest your eyes. I’ll just switch on the telly.’
‘It’s broken down.’
‘You need to be firm with these machines.’ Mrs Wellington brought her fist down on the top of the machine, and it flickered into life. ‘There! That’ll soothe you.’ She handed him the remote control.
Mrs Wellington tiptoed out. Dr Brodie looked at a programme where two men were beheading a third. He switched it off. He was feeling marginally better. Maybe now was the time to read his wife’s book.
* * *
Angela rallied for the book signing. To Hamish’s relief, she seemed to be signing quite a lot of books. He bought one himself and retreated to a quiet corner. As he read, his eyebrows practically vanished up into his thick flaming red hair. He skimmed through the book rapidly. It was the story of a bored doctor’s wife in a highland village who embarks on a steamy affair with the village policeman. The sex scenes were graphic. Either Angela had a vivid imagination or Dr Brodie was more of a stud than anyone could have guessed. He blushed all over. Angela’s ambition had made her blind to the effect her book would have on Lochdubh. Hamish could imagine the gossip spreading across the whole of Sutherland.
Henry Satherwaite came up to him. ‘Good book, eh? Are you from Lochdubh?’
‘I am.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘I’m the village policeman.’
Henry grinned.
‘No, I am not Angela’s lover, and this book is going to cause me one shedload of trouble,’ said Hamish. ‘I …’ He suddenly saw a familiar face. Simon Swallow, the author, was signing books, and sitting beside him, opening books for him to sign, was the receptionist from Scots Entertainment. She saw him and got to her feet. Hamish tried to catch her but she vanished into the ladies’ toilet. He waited outside, then opened the door and went in. Two women at the hand basins let out a screech of protest. Hamish flashed his warrant card before checking the cubicles. Then he noticed a blast of cold air. The room was L-shaped. He turned the corner. A window was standing open. He leaned out. There was a fire escape to the car park. As he watched, a black BMW went roaring off.
He returned to the signing and picked up a copy of Simon Swallow’s book. There was now only one woman in front of him. When it was his turn, Simon asked, ‘Who’s it to?’
Hamish showed his warrant card. ‘Who was that girl who was opening the books for you?’
‘Oh, Sonia. Where’s she gone and what do you want with her?’
‘Just a wee chat.’
‘She’s probably gone to the toilet.’
‘Sonia took one look at me and ran off and escaped out the toilet window. How do you know her?’
‘We met up in a pub this lunchtime and she offered tae come along.’
Hamish retreated to a corner of the room and phoned John McFee. ‘Concentrate on a firm called Scots Entertainment,’ he said. ‘There’s something fishy about it.’
‘Will do.’
‘And get back to me as soon as possible.’
He waited until Angela had signed her last book. ‘They’ve booked rooms here for us for the night,’ said Angela, ‘but I must get home.’
‘All right. But I’ll drive.’
In the car, as he drove off out of Edinburgh and took the long road north, Hamish said, ‘Angela, I don’t want to add to your distress, but have you any idea what’s waiting for us in Lochdubh? You wrote about a doctor’s wife having an affair with a policeman. You’re going to be damned as the whore of Lochdubh.’
‘But they all know me!’ wailed Angela. ‘They cannot possibly think—’
‘Oh, yes they can. Oh, dinnae greet. You must have cried a bucketful already,’ said Hamish heartlessly.
Angela snivelled, blew her nose, and said, ‘I must have gone mad. What’s it like, Hamish, to have no ambition whatsoever?’
‘It makes a man enjoy the day. Ambition can cause envy and resentment. Chust look at the mess you’re in. Try to get some sleep.’
* * *
As Hamish drove up the steep road which wound through the hills towards Lairg, he glanced in dismay at the petrol gauge. He hoped there was just enough fuel to get them home.