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cheekbones, and eyes as grey as the North Sea.
    â€œDo you know a policeman called Cyril Sessions?” asked Hamish.
    â€œWho are you?”
    Her accent was Scottish. Because of her appearance, Hamish had expected her to have an Eastern European accent.
    He produced his warrant card, which Daviot had neglected to confiscate. “I am a policeman from Lochdubh,” he said. “I am investigating the murder of Cyril Sessions. He had a note of your phone number.”
    â€œWhy aren’t you in uniform?”
    â€œPlainclothes,” said Hamish, desperately beginning to wish he had turned his information over to Jimmy. “Who are you?”
    â€œI am Anna Eskdale. I work for Mr. Bentley.”
    â€œMay I speak to Mr. Bentley?”
    â€œWait there. I will see if he is available.”
    She shut the door. Hamish waited patiently. A watery sunlight was gilding the cobbles, and the air was full of the noise of builders’ radios and grinding machinery.
    A seagull landed on the ground at Hamish’s feet and surveyed him with prehistoric eyes. “Go away. I havenae anything for you,” said Hamish.
    â€œDo you usually talk to the birds?”
    Hamish swung round. Anna had quietly reopened the door. “Mr. Bentley will see you now.”
    He followed her down a narrow passage and into a study at the back. A plump middle-aged man sat behind an antique desk. He had thinning hair combed over a pink scalp and small pale blue eyes half buried in creases of fat. The study was lined with books from floor to ceiling.
    â€œI am Murdo Bentley,” he said. “I gather you are the policeman from Lochdubh.”
    â€œYes, I am investigating Cyril Sessions’s murder. He had your phone number in his belongings.”
    â€œI do not read the newspapers,” he said. “Was he a good-looking man?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI think that would be the policeman who called here a few weeks ago. He said that there had been a report that someone in Sheep Street was dealing drugs and asked if I knew anything. I said I travelled a lot and did not know my neighbours, the few that are left.”
    â€œWhat is your job?” asked Hamish, moving from foot to foot. Murdo was in the only chair.
    â€œI am a restaurateur. I own the Seven Steps outside Strathbane.”
    Hamish recalled that the Seven Steps was a very expensive restaurant, popular for weddings and conventions.
    He felt uneasy. The study was very quiet. He thought there must be some sort of soundproofing as no noise from outside filtered into the room. Also, in depressed Strathbane, there was a gulf between the haves and have-nots, and the haves were a small group who mostly knew each other. Daviot belonged to the haves.
    â€œIf you do hear of anything, let me know,” said Hamish.
    The door opened and Anna appeared. Hamish thought that Murdo must have pressed some sort of bell or buzzer on his desk, possibly just under his desk.
    â€œShow the constable out,” said Murdo.
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    Over lunch, Shona told Dick that she had been at Hetty’s party when Hetty had got drunk and had thrown herself at Hamish. “She told us all afterwards that Macbeth had been coming on to her,” said Shona. “None of us believed her.”
    â€œDoes she tell lies?” asked Dick.
    â€œOnly when it comes to men. She thinks everything in trousers fancies her. When she began to talk about Cyril, well, we all thought she was fantasising until we saw them one evening in the pub and he had his hand on her knee and Hetty looked as if she’d just won the lottery. I still wonder what he saw in her.”
    â€œHe was spying on Hamish,” said Dick.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThere’s this awful detective inspector in Strathbane who wants proof to close down the police station.”
    â€œPoor Hetty. Look, thanks for lunch. I’d better get back.”
    â€œMaybe we could do this again?”
    â€œThat would be