Death of a Village by M.C. Beaton

The way propaganda works, as every schoolboy knows, is that if you say the same thing, over and over again, lie or not, people begin to believe it.

Hamish Macbeth, police constable of the village of Lochdubh and its surroundings had been until recently, a happy, contented, unambitious man. This was always regarded by even the house bound and unsuccessful as a sort of mental aberration. And he had been under fire for a number of years and from a number of people to pull his socks up, get a life, move on, get promotion and forsake his lazy ways. Until lately all comments had slid off him. That was until Elspeth Grant, local reporter, joined the chorus. It was the way she laughed at him with a sort of affectionate contempt as he mooched around the village that got under his skin. Her mild amazement that he did not want to better himself, added on to all the other years of similar comments, finally worked in him like the end result of a propaganda war and he began to feel restless and discontented.

Had he had any work to apart from filing sheep dip papers and ticking off the occasional poacher, Elspeth comments might not have troubled him. And Elspeth was attractive, although he would not admit it to himself. He felt he had endured enough trouble from women to last him a lifetime.

He began to watch travel shows on television and to imagine himself walking on coral beaches or on high mountains in the Himalayas. He fretted over the fact that he had even taken all his holidays in Scotland.

One sunny morning, he decided it was time he got back on his beat, which covered a large area of Sutherland. He decided to visit the village of Stoyre up on the west coast. It was more of a hamlet than a village. No crime ever happened there. But, he reminded himself, a good copper ought to check up on the place from time to time.