Death of a Valentine Read Free Page A

about their wives and families, and generally made herself well liked. She was given easy assignments.
    Then one day after she had been in Strathbane only a few weeks, Hamish Macbeth strolled into police headquarters. Josie took one look at his tall figure, flaming red hair, and hazel eyes and
decided she was in love. And since she was already in love with some sort of Brigadoon idea of the Highlands, she felt that Hamish Macbeth was a romantic figure.
    Hamish Macbeth began to receive telephone calls from people in the outlying crofts praising Josie McSween. She was described as ‘a ray of sunshine’, ‘a
ministering angel’, and ‘a fine wee lassie’.
    As there was no crime on his beat and Josie was covering what would normally be his duties, Hamish found himself at liberty to mooch around the village and go fishing.
    During the late afternoon, with his dog and cat at his heels, he strolled around to see his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. Angela was a writer, always in the throes of trying to
produce another book. She typed on her laptop at the kitchen table where the cats prowled amongst the lunch debris which Angela had forgotten to clear away.
    ‘You’ll need to lock your beasts in the living room,’ said Angela. ‘Sonsie frightens my cats.’
    ‘I’ll let them run outside,’ said Hamish, shooing his pets out the door. ‘They’ll be fine. How’s it going?’
    ‘Not very well. I had a visit from a French writer. One of my books has been translated into French. She spoke excellent English, which is just as well because I have only school French. I
think I upset her.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Pour yourself some coffee. It’s like this. She talked about the glories of being a writer. She said it was a spiritual experience. She said this must be a marvellous place for
inspiration. Well, you know, writers who wait for inspiration get mental block. One just slogs on. I said so. She got very high and mighty and said I could not be a real writer. She said,
“Pouf!”’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘It’s that sort of sound that escapes the French mouth when they make a moue of contempt.’
    ‘I haven’t seen a tourist here in ages,’ said Hamish, sitting down opposite her. ‘The Americans can’t afford to come this far and the French are tied up in the
credit crunch.’
    ‘By the way she was dressed, she had private means. I bet she published her books herself,’ said Angela. ‘How’s your new copper?’
    ‘Rapidly on her way to becoming the saint o’ Sutherland. I sent her off to check on the isolated folks and they’ve been phoning me up to say how marvellous she is. Every time I
go back to the police station, there’s another one ringing in wi’ an accolade.’
    Angela leaned back in her chair. ‘What’s she after?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘A pretty little girl like that doesn’t want to be buried up here in the wilds unless she has some sort of agenda.’
    ‘I don’t think she has. I think she was simply told to go. Jimmy said she had volunteered but I find that hard to believe.’
    ‘Had she met you before?’
    ‘No. First I saw of her was when she landed on my doorstep.’ Hamish had not even noticed Josie that time when she had first seen him at police headquarters. ‘Anyway, as long as
she keeps out o’ ma hair, we’ll get along just fine.’
    By the time the days dragged on until the end of June, Josie was bored. There was no way of getting to him. She could not tempt him with beautiful meals because Mrs Wellington
had decided not to let her use the kitchen, saying if she wanted an evening meal she would cook it and bill headquarters for the extra expense, and when, one evening, Josie plucked up courage and
suggested to Hamish that she would cook a meal for them both, he had said, ‘Don’t worry, McSween. I’m going out.’
    It wasn’t that Hamish did not like his constable, it was simply that he valued his privacy and thought that letting any woman work in his