The front gate was difficult to open. She finally managed and went up the short path to the door and knocked loudly.

A muffled voice from the other side of the door reached her ears. “Go round to the side door.”

Back out and round the side of the police station went Josie. Hamish Macbeth was standing by the open kitchen door looking down at her quizzically.

“I’m Josie McSween,” said Josie. “I’ll just get my things.”

“You can’t move in here,” said Hamish. “The villagers won’t have it. You’re to stay with Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.”

“But-”

“There are no buts about it. The ladies of the village won’t thole a lassie living with me at the police station. I’ll get my coat and walk ye up there. When you see where it is, you can come back for your car. Wait there, McSween, I’ll get my coat.”

McSween! In all her dreams he had called her Josie. Hamish emerged shortly and began to walk off with long strides in the direction of the manse while Josie scurried behind him.

“Don’t I get a choice of where I want to live?” she panted.

“You’re a policewoman,” said Hamish over his shoulder. “You just go where you’re put.”

The manse was situated behind the church. It was a Georgian building. Georgian architecture usually conjures a vision of elegance, but Scottish Georgian can be pretty functional and bleak. It was a square three-story sandstone building, unornamented, and with several windows bricked up dating from the days of the window tax.

Hamish led the way round to the kitchen door where Mrs. Wellington was already waiting, the highland bush telegraph having noticed and relayed every moment of Josie’s arrival.