Death of a Dreamer Read Online Free Page B

Strathbane. There’s a new French restaurant opened. It’s down at the docks.’
    ‘What a place to have a restaurant.’
    ‘It’s part of the regeneration of that area. Anyone who sets up a business gets a tax break.’
    Jock came back to join them, and to his dismay, Effie followed and sat down beside him.
    Gamekeeper Henry was then called to the stage to recite a poem. After him, a little girl in a tutu tried to perform steps from Swan Lake, fell over, and burst into tears.
    The next dance was a St Bernard’s waltz. Priscilla and Hamish rose as one person and went on to the floor.
    ‘Shall we?’ asked Effie, and Jock did not have the courage to refuse. The steps were simple, and they managed very well, although Jock did not like the way Effie pressed up against
him.
    After the dance was over, she said she was going to the ladies’. Jock walked quickly to the door of the church hall and made his way outside. A fine heavy rain was soaking the
waterfront.
    Jock put up his collar and hurried back to his boarding house. He was still determined to paint Priscilla and see if he could find out what really lay behind that calm mask.
    To Hamish’s delight, the rain cleared on the following morning. He phoned Angela and asked her to keep an eye on his animals, showered, and got ready to drive up to the
hotel and meet Priscilla. They would be taking her car because he didn’t want his day spoiled by someone reporting that he was driving a civilian around in the police Land Rover. Not that
anyone in Lochdubh would do such a thing, but his beat now covered Cnothan, a sour town, where several of the inhabitants would be delighted if they thought they could put in a complaint about
him.
    He was about to leave when the phone rang. He hesitated on the doorstep. What if it was something important? But what if it were some minor complaint that might still ruin his day off?
    The answering machine picked it up, and he heard Priscilla’s voice. He rushed and picked up the receiver. ‘It’s me, Hamish.’
    ‘Hamish, I’ll need to cancel our picnic.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Mrs Tullet, who runs the gift shop on Sundays, has a bad stomach complaint. I’ll need to take over.’
    ‘Can’t someone else do it? I mean, if you weren’t there, someone would have to.’
    ‘Mother would probably do it, but she has asked me to fill in.’
    ‘What about this evening? We could drive down to that French restaurant you were talking about.’
    ‘Not this evening, Hamish. Some other time. Got to go.’
    Hamish slowly replaced the receiver. The day now stretched out before him, bleak and empty. At the best of times, there was a sad, closed air about a highland Sabbath as if the ghosts of Calvin
and John Knox still haunted the place, determined to make sure no one was enjoying themselves.
    He phoned Angela and told her his outing had been cancelled, and then he set out to walk along the waterfront with the dog and the cat at his heels.
    He saw a stranger approaching, a tall woman wearing a tailored trouser suit. She had thick brown hair with gold highlights and a strong, handsome face.
    ‘Good morning,’ said Hamish politely. ‘Grand day.’
    ‘Yes, I’ve been lucky with the weather.’
    ‘Are you staying up at the hotel?’
    ‘Yes, I’m Betty Barnard, Jock Fleming’s agent. I’ve found a gallery for Jock in Glasgow, so I’ve just been to see him. I’m sending him off for a couple of
weeks.’
    ‘I’m Hamish Macbeth. Are you going with him?’
    ‘No need. I’ve done the groundwork. I’m really in need of a holiday, but if there’s anything urgent, I can cope with it by e-mail. Those are two very odd . . .’
    ‘Animals,’ said Hamish grumpily. ‘I know. I’m tired of talking about them.’
    She had very large green eyes. Hamish reflected that it wasn’t often one saw eyes as green as hers. Might be contact lenses.
    She leaned against the waterfront wall, and Hamish joined her. ‘Is this your day off?’
    ‘Yes. I was