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highland accent. Mind you, it’s one of the easiest to mimic. I wish Elspeth were here.”
    “Your ex-girlfriend? Why?”
    “She’s got a Gypsy background. I’m beginning to wonder whether Catriona was a Gypsy.”
    “Fortunately Mr. Patel at the grocery took a photo of her. He fancies himself as a cameraman. It’s a good shot, full face. It’ll be in all the newspapers tomorrow. Let’s hope someone recognises her.”
    “I hope it turns out she’s got some really nasty, ordinary criminal background,” said Hamish. “That would stop this lot in the village thinking she was a witch.”
    The picture of Catriona Beldame was featured on the front pages of nearly every newspaper in Britain. She had been photographed on the waterfront by Patel. It was a good clear shot of her standing in the sunlight.
    Hamish, avoiding the press, set off to question people in the village. He started with Willie Lamont, who was cleaning the restaurant preparatory to the lunchtime opening.
    Willie loved cleaning. His Italian wife, Lucia, often complained that Willie’s passion for new and better cleaning products took up too much space in their cottage.
    He turned and saw Hamish and grinned. “Wi’ all these press folk, it’s going to be busy,” he said.
    Hamish removed his peaked cap and sat down at a table. “Join me a moment,” he said. “I want to ask you some questions about Catriona Beldame.”
    “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Willie defensively. “I should never have gone to her, but Lucia hasn’t been much interested in martial rights since the baby.”
    Hamish wondered whether to correct Willie’s malapropism but decided to let it go.
    “I have to use a condominium,” said Willie, “and that’s no fun. Like having a bath with your socks on.”
    “Isn’t Lucia on the pill?” asked Hamish, momentarily diverted.
    “She’s a good Catholic.”
    “So what happened when you saw Catriona?”
    “She gave me some herbal tea and said to make sure Lucia took it, but Lucia wouldn’t, so I went back to the witch and she said she could make my sexual progress—”
    “Prowess,” corrected Hamish.
    “Whatever. She said I would be irresistible but all I got was the itch. She caused a lot of misery on the village. Then men who went to her said there was no point getting all fired up if the missus wouldn’t play. It’s the older fellows in the village who were the most disappointed.”
    “Like who?”
    “I shouldnae say.”
    “Come on, Willie, I’ll find out anyway.”
    “Well, there’s Fergus Braid, him that works over at the paper mill, Archie, the fisherman, Colin Framont, the builder, and Timmy Teviot, the forestry worker. That’s all I know about and don’t you go saying you got it from me. Now I’ve got to get back to my cleaning.”
    Hamish left in a haze of lavender-scented cleaner.
    He decided to start with Archie. Archie was a friend. But he doubted whether the fisherman could tell him anything more than he had already. He went back to the police station first to let his dog and cat out for a walk up the fields at the back. He knew if he appeared with them on the waterfront, there would be tales about the eccentric policeman with a wild cat as a pet and Sonsie might be taken away from him.
    The air had turned considerably colder. The loch was like black glass, the trees in the pine forest opposite reflected in the still water. The two mountains soaring above the village had snow on their peaks.
    And in the midst of all this beauty, scurrying around or talking in little groups, were the press. Hamish longed for a quick solution to the murder so that he could get the village back again to its usual quiet ways.
    Archie was sitting on the harbour wall in front of his cottage. Steam was billowing out of the open door of the cottage. His wife was a ferocious boiler of clothes, which perhaps explained why everything poor Archie wore always seemed too tight.
    “Any news?” asked Archie.
    “Nothing