"How did they know where you live?"

She looked puzzled and then she said, "Oh, you know what this village is like. Everyone knows where everyone else lives."

"Promise me you'll see them again and ask them for some proper arrangement."

A flash of Highland malice gleamed in Heather's eyes. "We all know you have a special interest in the Halburton-Smythes."

"That's enough of that," said Hamish stiffly. "Chust take my advice."

He left Heather's cottage and then stood outside the garden gate, looking down at the new hotel by the harbour. He had dismissed the proprietor of the hotel from his mind because he knew Ionides had been thoroughly interviewed by detectives. Now he was suddenly anxious to see the man for himself.

He marched down to the hotel and into the new hotel reception area. He headed for the door marked OFFICE, knocked and went in. An attractive woman was working at a computer. "Is it possible to see Mr. Ionides?" asked Hamish.

She stopped typing. "What about?"

"The murders, of course."

"Mr. Ionides is tired of his valuable time being taken up, being interviewed over two murders in this village."

"Nonetheless, I wish to see him."

She carefully saved what she had been typing on the computer and went into the inner office.

Hamish looked around at the well-equipped secretary's room. There were filing cabinets, fax machine, laser copy machine and three phones on the desk. The door opened and the secretary said, "He can spare you a few moments."

Hamish went into the inner office. Mr. Ionides rose from behind a Georgian rosewood desk. "You are...?"

"Sergeant Hamish Macbeth of Lochdubh."

"Ah, yes, please sit down."

Hamish sank his long form down into a low chair in front of the desk. He wondered if the chair was deliberately low so that anyone facing the Greek owner would be at a psychological disadvantage.

He studied the owner. He saw a small dapper man with smooth hair and liquid brown eyes. His chalk-striped suit was double-breasted, and he wore a red silk tie with a red silk handkerchief in his jacket pocket.

"I am investigating the murders in Lochdubh," began Hamish. "Have you or your staff seen any strangers in the area?"

"I have been asked this question before," said Mr. Ionides. "Apart from myself and Miss Stathos, no."

"And you plan to use local staff?"

"That is the idea. I always use local staff."

"I gather you plan to take staff from the existing hotel."

Mr. Ionides shrugged. "Why not? I need the help and all's fair in love and the hotel business. There's not that many jobs going up here in the Highlands. The Tommel Castle will soon find replacements, should they need them."

"Why here?" asked Hamish abruptly. "Why Lochdubh?"

"Fishing," said Mr. Ionides simply. "I am a pa.s.sionate fisherman-deep sea fishing, freshwater fishing, the lot."

"But the best fishing is on the River Anstey, and the colonel has the fishing rights."

"I can buy a permit. Now, is there anything else?"

"I would appreciate your help. If you can think of anything or hear anything which might relate to the murders, I would be grateful."

"I will tell Miss Stathos to let you know. Now if you don't mind, I have a busy schedule."

Hamish stared at him, his face quite vacant as he tried to think of something else. Ionides regarded him with amus.e.m.e.nt.

Hamish then struggled out of the depths of his chair and stood up. "Thank you for your time," he said.

He made his way out. Once outside and back in the hotel foyer, he suddenly stood still and listened. He heard Ionides's voice: "Anna, I think there must be inbreeding in this part of the world. That policeman looked half-witted."

Hamish strode out of the hotel and went straight to the station and into the office. He decided to try to find out more about Ionides. Then he remembered Chief Inspector Olivia Chater in Glasgow. He reached for the phone and then hesitated. They had worked on a case together, had an affair, but she had left him to go back to Glasgow. Still, business was business and Olivia was one of the best detectives he knew. He phoned Glasgow and asked to be put through to her. After a few moments, a man came on the line and said, "This is Detective Constable George McQueen. I gather you're asking for Chief Detective Chater."

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

"Sorry. I'm Sergeant Hamish Macbeth of Lochdubh in Sutherland. We worked on a case together."

"I'm afraid Olivia's dead."

Hamish clutched the phone. "Dead?" he echoed. "What happened?"

"Cancer."

"Cancer?" Hamish felt engulfed by a sad bleakness. If only she had phoned, he could have been there for her.

"When did she die?" he asked.

"Must have been about three months ago. I'm sorry to have to give you such bad news."

With a great effort, Hamish rallied. "We have two murders up here."

"Aye, so I heard."

"Now there's a hotel owner here, Ionides. Would you have anything on him?"

"Hang on, I'll check the computer."

Hamish waited and thought miserably of Olivia. He had wanted to marry her, and yet he had forgotten her so easily.

At last the detective came back on the line. "There's a smell about the man, but he's never been charged with anything."

"What do you mean, 'a smell'?"

"Well, he wanted to buy a hotel out Aberfoyle way, but the owner didn't want to sell. Then things started happening."

"Like what?"

"The hotel had a good chef. He left and subsequently reappeared working at one of Ionides's hotels, the one in Glasgow. Then the other staff started to disappear. Then the hotel was closed down after a health scare. c.o.c.kroaches found in the kitchen. The owner lost so much business he was forced to sell out to Ionides and at a cheap price, but we couldn't prove anything. Then in Stirling, there was the business of the illegal immigrants. When he started up there, it was all local staff and soon after they started work, they were replaced by foreigners-Filipinos, I think they were. Got a buzz they hadn't work permits and raided the place. Turned out to be the case. Somehow Ionides got off with it. Claimed he hadn't known, that they had said they would supply the doc.u.ments, and since they had all been recently hired, the sheriff let him off. That's all I've got."

Hamish thanked him and rang off. If, he thought, his mind racing, Ionides had been into dirty tricks before and planned some more in Lochdubh and Fergus had found out, what a ripe source of blackmail. What had he found? A letter? Perhaps a fax. Ionides wouldn't E-mail any planned campaign against the Tommel Castle Hotel in case his E-mail got hacked into.

Clarry appeared and said nervously, "I'm off to do my cooking at the hotel."

"All right," said Hamish absently.

"Do you think I can do it? I've never cooked on a large scale before."

"You'll be fine. I'll see you later, maybe. I've got to talk to the colonel. Has Lugs been fed?"

"Yes, and walked. He's sleeping in his basket."

Clarry left. Hamish phoned Mr. Johnston, the manager of the Tommel Castle Hotel. "Can you give me the address of that chef who walked out on you?"

"Wait a minute, Hamish, and I'll look for you."

Hamish waited patiently. Then Mr. Johnston came back on the phone. "He's living in that bed and breakfast, Mrs. Ryan's, down by the bridge."

"Right. What's his name?"

"Jeff Warner."

Hamish thanked him and rang off.

He got in the Land Rover and drove to Mrs. Ryan's boarding house. Mrs. Ryan answered the door to him and said that Jeff was in his room. "Just show me which one," said Hamish. She led the way up the narrow wooden staircase, her carpet slippers, worn down at the back, flip-flopping on the treads. "Is he in trouble?" she asked. "I keep a decent house."

"No, no trouble at all," said Hamish.

"That's his room."

"Right." Hamish knocked at the door and called, "Police."

A squat, burly man answered the door. He reeked of whisky. "What's up?" he asked.

"I chust want a word with you," said Hamish, aware that the landlady was listening avidly.

"Come in."

The room was small and spa.r.s.ely furnished. There was a narrow bed in one corner covered in a pink candlewick bedspread, one easy chair, a small television set, a wardrobe and a washstand basin.

"What d'ye want?" asked Jeff.

"You left the Tommel Castle Hotel?"

"So what? That a crime?"

"I want you to tell me if you have been offered a job at the new hotel."

"Why?"

Hamish was tired and Hamish was hungry. "Chust tell me!" he shouted.

"Och, well, what's the harm in it? I'm a good chef and the new lot offered me more money."

"But the new hotel isn't open yet."

"Aye, but they're paying me until I start, and it's a d.a.m.n sight more than that tight-a.r.s.ed colonel was giving me."

"I want you to come down to the station tomorrow morning to make a statement to that effect."

"Whit is this, man? I mean, whit's wrong wi' me wanting a better job?"

"Chust do as you are told."

"Oh, all right. But it seems daft to me." Hamish left him and went out to the Land Rover. He was about to climb in when he suddenly froze. Pink. The thread he had taken from the fence at the Curries' had been pink. Heather had said there were pink sheets in the new hotel rooms. Jeff's bedspread had been pink. Then he climbed in. Colonel Halburton-Smythe was going to have to talk.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death.

-William Shakespeare As Hamish returned to the police station, he could hear a whirring sound coming closer. He shielded his eyes and looked up at the sky. A helicopter was coming in to land behind the hotel. There was only the pilot in it.

He phoned Jimmy Anderson. "Look, there's been a bit of a new development. Is there any chance of getting a search warrant for the new hotel?"

"You'd need a rock solid reason. What is it?"

"It's just that I've been given the impression that Fergus thought he was onto big money, and the only big money around is Ionides, the new owner."

"And that's all you've got?"

"Well, not only that, but he's got a shady record."

"But nothing criminal. We went into all that. I told you, Hamish, you're that desperate it should turn out to be an outsider that you're clutching at straws. The answer is no, sonny, and there's something else you should be thinking of."

"What's that?"