Free Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob by M.C. Beaton

Geordie and his truck stuck on the road, Geordie, Hamish had decided, staged these breakdowns for some mad reason of his own, and so he ignored Geordie’s meanings and waitings and offered to drive him: He had been unable to borrow Jane’s jeep because it was insured to cover only her driving.
    The truck started amiably enough. “He likes you,” said Geordie, shaking his head. “An odd beast.”
    “Forget about the truck,” said Hamish. “Who uses that pillbox on the beach?”
    “Angus Macleod. Him and his son have a fishing boat. It wass the wan that brought yourselfs over.”
    “Well, last night, someone pushed Mrs. Wetherby into that pillbox and bolted the door. She could have died of exposure.”
    “Och, it’s all right,” said Geordie. “Angus wass in the bar last night and he wass saying he would let herself out at midnight when he had given her a rare fright.”
    “I’ll be seeing Angus, then,” said Hamish grimly.
    “Ye won’t be able to dae that. Himself took the boat out this morn.”
    Hamish stopped the truck. Geordie screeched, “He dis-nae like tae be stopped fur no reason at all.”
    “Forget the truck. Listen. Do you hate Mrs. Wetherby?”
    “Naw, I hivnae the time to hate anybody what with bringing the lobsters over frae the west and collecting the goods for people to deliver when the ferry comes in.”
    “Well, she’s hated nonetheless. When did it start?”
    “Och, nobody likes incomers, and the wimmen are fair scandalized with the leg show she puts on, but it must hae been recently they all started cursing and blinding. Don’t know what started it.”
    “Well, I’ll find out.” Hamish turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened, not even a choke. “I telt you he didnae liked to be stopped fur no reason,” said Geordie patiently.
    “I’m fed up wi’ your nonsense.” Hamish opened the door. “I’m walking.”
    He slammed the door behind him and strode off down the road. “Comeback!” screeched Geordie’s voice. “He’s following you!”
    Hamish turned around, and with a feeling of superstitious dread, he saw the truck rolling silently towards him. He stopped and the truck stopped beside him. He climbed in, checked the brakes, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.
    He drove silently into Skulag, vowing that once he had a bit of time, he would find a mechanic to check Geordie’s truck.
    The police station was locked. Hamish leaned on the bell for a considerable time until at last the blear-eyed constable, still in his pyjamas, answered the door.
    “And they call me lazy!” marvelled Hamish.
    “What d’ye want?” growled Sandy.
    “I want you to put on your uniform and go and charge Angus Macleod with assault.”
    “He’s awa’.”
    “Well, when he comes back.”
    Sandy looked at him with contempt. “You mean, for pushing thon Wetherby woman into the pillbox? That’s naethin’s but mischief. Look, Macbeth, I’m no’ going tae arrest anyone. When I first got here, I arrested two o’ the fishermen for stealing the council’s wire wastebaskets off the jetty to use as lobster pots. The islanders gathered around the polis station calling for ma’ blood and I had to climb out on the roof and sit there most o’ the night. If you think I’m arresting Angus for a little bit o’ fun, think again.” He slammed the police station door in Hamish’s face.
    Hamish strolled thoughtfully along the jetty. He could phone Strathbane and report Sandy, but he did not want to do that. There would be a full-scale inquiry and he, Hamish, would be made to look ridiculous. Besides, all the islanders, he was sure, would gang up and swear Angus had been with them all day. He saw one of the fishermen, and remembering Geordie’s truck, asked him if there was a mechanic on the island…
    The man stood for a long time and then decided to reply. “There’s Bert Macleod down the village! He does the MOTs and things like that,” meaning the annual