Death of a Macho Man

∨ Death of a Macho Man ∧

6

Never make a defence of apology before you be accused.

—King Charles

Priscilla was closing up the gift shop at lunch-time the following day when John Glover suddenly appeared. “Back from your travels?” she said, feeling awkward because she felt that he might at least have told her he was engaged when he first took her out for dinner.

“Just got back, and pretty hungry.”

Priscilla looked at her watch. “They’ll be serving lunch in the dining-room.”

“I don’t want lunch in the dining-room and it’s actually sunny. Come with me and we’ll drive someplace.”

“And what is Betty doing?”

“I don’t know. She told me she had dinner with that copper friend of yours last night and then she disappeared.”

“I suppose I could go,” said Priscilla. That is, if Betty wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, she won’t mind. I told her we were friends.”

Priscilla knew she should not go with him, but if Hamish had become friendly with Betty, then Hamish would get to hear of it, and she suddenly wanted Hamish to know that other men wanted her company.

“If you tell me where we’re going, I’ll leave a message at reception.”

“I was hoping you’d suggest somewhere.”

“There’s a hotel in Crask which serves quite good food in the bar and it’s not too far. I have to be back here by two o’clock.”

“Crask it is.”

Priscilla left a message in reception that she could be contacted in Crask.

♦

Hamish Macbeth opened the door to a thirsty-looking Jimmy Anderson. The detective sighed with pleasure as he downed his first whisky of the day and then smiled at Hamish. “I’ve a wee bit o’ news that might make you sit up, Hamish.”

“What’s that?”

“Our local pathologist’s in trouble. They’re getting another one up from Glasgow.”

Hamish looked interested. “He missed something important?”

“Very important. Duggan had had plastic surgery at some time, so all these pictures of him that have been running in the press with headlines ‘Do You Know This Man?’ are nae good at all.”

“Who discovered the plastic surgery?”

“That’s what was so shaming. A wee bit o’ a lassie who works in the lab.”

Hamish heaved a sigh of relief. “That begins to put the murderer outside Lochdubh.”

“I don’t get your reasoning.”

“Plastic surgery, man! That puts Duggan in the big-class criminal league.”

“But the man was vain!”

“Well, he cannae have been that vain because plastic surgery didn’t exactly make him pretty.”

“Maybe he thought it did. Then if it was a gangland killing, Hamish, surely they’d just blast him. A woman, now, would drug him first.”

Hamish looked stubborn. “I still think it was done by someone outside. Any news on the chloral hydrate?”, Jimmy shook his head. “Could have come from anywhere. Brodie didn’t prescribe it. There’s another wee bit o’ news.”

“What?”

“We got the impression that Randy had nothing to do with the women. How could he? we thought, him bragging away in the pub at all hours.”

“So there’s a woman?”

“Aye, a writer, Rosie Draly. Some little bird told Blair that Randy had been seen going into her cottage.”

Jimmy’s foxy features suddenly sharpened with alarm at the sound of a heavy tread outside. He dived under the desk. Hamish opened the bottom drawer and put the bottle and Jimmy’s half-full glass into it just as the door swung open and Blair walked in.

“If you tried knocking,” said Hamish mildly, “I might know to expect you.”

“This place stinks o’ whisky,” grumbled Blair. “Then come ben to the kitchen,” said Hamish quickly before Blair could sit down on the side of the desk under which Jimmy was crouching. He walked off and Blair followed.

“I’ve a wee bittie o’ a problem.” Blair sat down on a kitchen chair which squeaked in protest under his bulk. “Now you know you’re not to be on the ease. Daviot said so.”

“And you liked that,” commented Hamish.

“But as your senior officer,” said Blair heavily, “and seeing as how you’ve naethin’ to do but sit in yer office and drink whisky, I want you to do a wee job for me.”

“If it’s to do with the case, why should I bother?” Hamish leaned his back against the kitchen counter and folded his arms. “You tried to get me off the force.”

“I was only doing my duty,” said Blair belligerently. “Do you want to help or not?”

Hamish longed to be able to say no, but curiosity would not let him.

“All right,” he said. “What do you want?”

“You should address me as ‘sir’ when you speak to me.”

“Aye, but I think this is in the way of an unofficial chat.”

“Here’s what it is,” said Blair. “Duggan was seeing that writer. Rosie Draly. I’ve tried to have a word with her, but all she does is tell me she was using him for local colour and then threatens me with a lawyer. You have sneaky ways with the women. Why not pay a call on her and see what you can find out? You let me know what you’ve got and I’ll see if I can wheedle Daviot into letting you in on the case.”

Hamish naturally did not want to say he had seen Rosie already and did not think he could get much further with her. He was also itching to be privy to all the research already done.

“Anything in her background?” he asked.

“She was married and got divorced ten years ago. No children. Schoolteacher who started writing and then found she could make enough at it to free-lance and give up teaching. Doesn’t earn all that much but works hard. Sells in America and Germany as well. I thought all thae writers earned a fortune, but not in her case. Agent says she’s quiet and efficient and delivers her manuscripts on time.”

Hamish said, “I’ll go and see her now and when I get back, I’ll report to you and I expect you to fill me in on the background to the case.”

Fury gleamed for a moment in Blair’s piggy eyes. He wanted to use Hamish’s flair for getting people to talk. And he would figure out a way somehow to make sure Hamish did not get any credit. He rose to his feet. “Get to it. Hae ye seen that layabout, Jimmy Anderson?”

“Aye,” said Hamish, “he was walking past a while ago in the direction of the harbour.”

“I’d better find him. See you later.”

Hamish went into the office after Blair had left. “He’s gone off looking for you, Jimmy, you can come out now.”

Jimmy crawled out from under the desk, stood up and brushed himself down with his hands. “You could do with a woman to clean for you, Hamish.”

“Well, I didnae think anyone would be crawling around under my desk. Blair wants me to have a word wi’ Rosie Draly.”

“That’s because he’s stuck as usual. He bullies and blusters and puts people’s backs up and then he tries to be oily and wheedle, but by that time the damage has been done. Which way did he go?”

“I sent him off towards the harbour.”

“I’ll go that way myself, men, and say I was looking for him.”

After Jimmy had left, Hamish was about to get into the Land Rover when he became aware that someone was watching him and swung round. Betty John was standing there, smiling at him.

“We all have telepathic powers,” she said. “They say if you stare long enough at the back of anyone’s head, sooner or later they’ll sense you’re there.”

“And what brings you here?”

“Looking for you,” said Betty. Once again he was struck by the sheer force of her personality, of her sexuality. There she stood, small, compact, plump, swarthy-skinned and black-eyed, and yet radiating femininity.

“And where’s John?”

“John, the reception tells me, is off having lunch with Miss Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, and so I thought I’d come along here and see if you were free for lunch.”

“I can’t. I’m off on police business, and even if I weren’t, Blair would not enjoy the sight of me entertaining a fascinating woman.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things in my time but never fasci nating. I rather like it. What about dinner tonight?”

“What about John?”

“I don’t like him going off with Miss Toffee-Nosed Priscilla. I want to get even, if you want the truth.”

“And here wass me thinking you wanted me for my beautiful body.”

“That, too, copper.”

“Och, well, a bit of dinner wouldn’t harm anyone,” said Hamish, who would not admit to himself that he wanted to get even with Priscilla. “Will I call for you at eight, say?”

“No, I’ll call for you and leave a message at reception for John.”

They both suddenly grinned at each other, two adults who knew they were behaving like children.

“See you,” said Hamish, and drove off whistling.

♦

Perhaps because the day was sunny and he still remembered the seemingly endless days of rain, perhaps because he was on the case, he exuded cheerfulness and goodwill when Rosie answered the door to him.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. She turned away and he followed her in. The monitor of the word processor shone greenly in the dismal room. He looked for a place to sit down. The chairs were covered with magazines, books, papers and discarded clothes. She stood looking at him, her tight little features as closed as ever. Then she scooped up a handful of magazines and papers from a chair and said abruptly, “Sit down.” Hamish sat down and she leaned against the mantel of the fireplace. She was wearing a long skirt and those Edwardian tart’s boots which had come into fashion, a shirt blouse and a cardigan. Her eyes, he noticed, were grey-blue with thin fair lashes.

“I don’t suppose this is a social call,” she said with a trace of weariness in her voice.

“In a murder investigation,” said Hamish, “anyone who had anything to do with the murdered man is questioned over and over again. That’s the way it works. I’d like to try a different kind of questioning because we don’t know anything about Randy Duggan other than the tall stories he told about himself.”

“I don’t think I can tell you anything other than what you have already observed and heard. He came across as a braggart and a liar.”

“Would you say he could be attractive to women?” She shrugged her thin shoulders, turned round and threw a peat from a bucket beside the fireplace onto the smoking fire. She took a packet of cigarettes from the mantel and lit one and then turned back wreathed in smoke from the cigarette and smoke from the peat fire behind her. “There’s no accounting for taste,” she said. “There’s someone for everyone, or so they say.” She crossed to the window and stared out. The Lochdubh bus lurched past on the road and whined off into the silence of moorland which lay for miles around the cottage.

“Let me put it this way,” pursued Hamish, “you’re a writer – and you claim to have had Archie Maclean and Andy MacTavish up here as well as Duggan to get local colour. There must have been something about him you wanted.”

“I told you. He was real material for a villain.”

“And did you use it for a detective story?”

“I’ve got a historical to finish and a deadline to meet. The detective story was only an idea in the back of my head.”

Hamish cast a covert look at the word processor from under his eyelashes. He would love to get a look at what was stored in there. But he could not go on burgling houses. That close shave where he had nearly lost his job had frightened him. From now on he would tread a strictly legal path. And then she said, “I’ve got to go down to London tomorrow to see my agent. Could you tell your superior that? As long as they know where I am, they cannot hold me here.”

It was not that fate was tempting him from the straight and narrow, reflected Hamish, it was merely just too good an opportunity to miss.

“When folks are away,” he said, “they often leave the house key at the police station. And I can keep an eye on the place for you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t want you or any of the locals snooping around.” She handed him a card. “That’s my agent’s name, address, and phone number. I’ll only be gone four days.”

“Did you get the impression that Randy Duggan might be a criminal?”

“I have led a sheltered life,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what criminals are like. That’s your job.”

Hamish sighed. He was going to have little to report to Blair.

He decided to go for the jugular. “But you had an affair with him. You must have known him better than anyone.”

“Be very, very careful,” she said in a thin voice, “or I’ll sue you.”

“But you did,” said Hamish stubbornly.

“That’s my business and none of yours. Now get out!”

Hamish rose to his feet. At least he had something to tell Blair. She had as good as admitted it. He did not feel like protecting her from Blair’s questions either. On the other hand, if he gave Blair this nugget of information, then Blair would pull her in for further questioning and she would not leave for London and he would not have an opportunity to look at the word processor.

Her eyes were hard, implacable, and he realized with surprise that she hated him. Why? He was only another policeman doing his job. It was only when he was driving away that he realized he didn’t know anything about word processors. Even if he succeeded in breaking in, he wouldn’t know what to do with the damn machine. But Priscilla knew all about word processors and computers. He looked at his watch. It was nearly two o’clock and she was due back at the castle gift shop to open it. As he drove up the castle drive, he felt the air damp against his cheek through the open Rover window. Rain was coming in from the west to put an end to the brief glimpse of summer.

He parked outside the gift shop and waited. A car drove up. John was at the wheel and Priscilla was sitting beside him. She laughed at something he said. John stopped outside the gift shop and then drove on and into the castle car park. She did not know that Hamish Macbeth was too keen to pick her brains about computers to feel any former anger at her date with John and so felt somewhat piqued to be met by a smiling Hamish who said he hoped she had enjoyed her lunch.

“Very much, thank you,” said Priscilla, unlocking the shop door. “He’s an amusing companion. I hope Betty doesn’t mind when she finds out.”

“I don’t think she will, but I’ll ask her over dinner tonight,” said Hamish with a little spurt of malice.

Her eyebrows rose. “Lunch with an engaged person is one thing, dinner another.”

“Oh, iss that a fact?” demanded Hamish. “Never heard o’ love in the afternoon, Priscilla?” Her face took on a tight, closed look which suddenly reminded him of Rosie Draly. It also reminded him that he needed her help.

“Priscilla, the shop’s quiet and I see you have the computer over there. I wouldnae mind a few lessons.”

“It’ll take ages, Hamish. That’s the one for the shop and the way I check out what’s needing to be replaced. Why the sudden interest?”

“I need to hae a look at someone’s word processor and I want to know how to load the discs and read what’s on them.”

“What make?”

“A Harbley.”

“That’s the cheapest on the market. Did you see any number on it?”

“PCW921.”

“That’s their bottom-of-the-range model. I have one upstairs. It was the first one I got I used it for business letters and simple accounts.”

“Could you show me?”

Priscilla straightened some goods on the counter. “The only time I’ve got free is from eight o’clock this evening ”

“All right.”

“What about your date with Betty?”

“That can wait. I’ll tell her I’m off on police business.”

“Then I’ll see you at eight. What’s it for? I mean, whose word processor?”

“I’ll tell you later,” said Hamish quickly, frightened she would refuse if he told her the truth.

He left a message for Betty at the reception desk of the hotel and drove back to Lochdubh and up to Randy’s cottage. A few local reporters were standing around, the ones from the nationals having given up and gone home.

Blair came out of one of the mobile units and went to join Hamish as he climbed down from the Land Rover.

“Well?” he demanded. “Get anything?”

Hamish decided to improvise. “For a start she said to tell you she’s off to London tomorrow to see her agent.” He showed Blair the card Rosie had given him. “That’s the agent’s address and phone number. She’ll only be gone four days.”

“I don’t like it,” growled Blair.

“There’s nothing for us to keep her. But there’s a wee bit o’ hope,” said Hamish, looking at his superior and radiating honesty. “She’s taken a bit o’ a fancy to me and she said she would think of everything Randy had told her and give me a typewritten statement when she got back. She said if she had a few days to think about it, she might remember something useful.”

Blair’s face cleared. “Good work,” he said reluctantly.

“So can I see some of the background?”

Blair looked for a moment as if he was going to refuse. But then he shouted, “Anderson, come here!”

Jimmy Anderson came slouching up. “Show Macbeth here the statements and background.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” Blair looked at him sharply for signs of insolence but Jimmy’s watery blue eyes only showed respect.

Jimmy led Hamish into one of the mobile units where two policewomen and two policemen were working in the makeshift office. “Take a seat, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “You’ve got a lot to go through.”

After a long day, Hamish was disappointed. The bare facts were these. Time of death could not be pinpointed, but then it rarely could. The warmth of the body due to the central heating plus the two-bar electric fire put death at any time from five in the evening until after ten at night. Chloral hydrate had been found. The contents of the stomach revealed that he had lunch of hamburgers and then tea and coffee but no dinner. The chloral hydrate could have been given to him in a drink, but all glasses and cups in the kitchen were clean. Hamish frowned. He could not imagine such as Randy keeping a clean kitchen, or a sink free of dirty dishes. He had a shadowy picture of a murderer who could calmly kill and then take his or her time about cleaning up, for there had been no fingerprints at all, apart from Archie’s. Everyone knew about fingerprints, but usually only the very cold-blooded managed to get rid of every trace. He thought of Rosie Draly. But surely this was no crime of passion, no outburst of rage. This had been a cold and calculated murder. But a scorned woman would have had time to think and brood and plot and plan. The statements revealed as little as possible, with the exception of the retired school-teacher, Geordie Mackenzie, who had bragged that he could have well killed Duggan because he, Geordie, “was a lion when roused.”

“Silly wee man,” grumbled Hamish, rising and stretching. He glanced at his watch. Just time now to eat and visit Priscilla.

♦

“Pay attention,” admonished Priscilla that evening. “I’ll go through it again. You put in the Logoscript disc and when it is loaded, take it out and put in the disc you want to read.”

“Stop flicking your fingers over these damn keys. I cannae see what you’re doing,” complained Hamish, who was feeling stupid and backward and resenting it. “Okay, now you’ve taken your programming disc out, put in that one, with the side you want to the left…the left, Hamish! Now press ‘e’ for edit and then press ‘enter’. There you are. Simple.”

But somehow Hamish could not get the hang of it. “You’re suffering from technofear,” said Priscilla. “I’ll type out a simple list of instructions and leave you to it. You’ll learn easier if you do it yourself.”

She switched off the word processor after she had typed out a list of instructions. “Now start at the beginning.”

Left to his own devices, Hamish stared gloomily at the blank monitor. It was all the fault of modern society, he reflected, where people credited computers with independent brains. He couldn’t, say, get the seat he wanted on a Glasgow-bound bus at the Strathbane bus station because the girl in the booking office said The Computer had allocated him another seat entirely. A cheque for a prize he had won for hill-running at one of the Highland Games took ages to arrive, and it was at a time when he needed the money badly.

But every time he phoned the Games Committee, some official would say, “It’s in the computer,” as if only the computer could decide when one Hamish Macbeth would get paid?

He straightened the monitor with a vicious pull, pulled forward his chair, and switched it on. Nothing happened.

He looked at the macnine in a panic and then struck the top of the monitor. The black screen stared back at him, reflecting his worried features. He tried switching it on and off. He found be was sweating slightly and marvelled that a mere machine could upset him so much. He did not want to call Priscilla. He was frightened that she would come and do something childishly simple and make him feel even more of a fool man ever. Time passed as he tried again switching it on and off. At last the door opened behind him and Priscilla came in. “How are you getting on?” she asked.

“Fine. Chust fine,” said Hamish through gritted teem.

“If I could make a suggestion…”

“No, I’m telling you, I’m getting the hang o’ this thing chust great.”

“Suit yourself. But, my darling, I think you would get on chust fine if you put the plug back in at the wall which you have pulled out.”

She smiled at the back of his rigid neck and went out again.

Hamish plugged in the machine, which had become disconnected when he had jerked the monitor, and switched it on. The monitor shone greenly. Painstakingly following Priscilla’s instructions, he worked away until he began to master it, and when she finally returned, he felt quite triumphant.

“You’re not finished yet,” she said to his dismay. “If you want to print something off, you’ll need to learn to do that.” Hamish groaned. It was half past eleven at night before he finally rose and stretched, thanked Priscilla and made to take his leave.

“Sit down, Hamish,” she said quietly. “Now tell me why this sudden interest in the workings of a word processor?”

“Oh,” he said shiftily, “the police force is all computerized these days. Got to keep abreast of the times.”

Priscilla looked at him thoughtfully, at the open, honest expression on his face, and said, “You’re lying. You’re up to something. Out with it.”

“Oh, all right. That writer, Rosie Draly, is off to London tomorrow and I want to get a look at what she’s been writing.”

“Didn’t you read one of her books?”

“Aye, she gave me one, but, och, it could hae been written by a machine. I have a feeling in my bones that she had started work on a detective story. There might be something there.”

“Hamish, you were as near as that” – she held up a finger and thumb to measure a tiny distance – “from getting fired. What if you’re caught?”

“I won’t be.”

Priscilla surveyed him. She was worried in her mind about John Glover. She had enjoyed his company immensely. Despite the arrival of his fiancée, she knew he was still very attracted to her. She could feel herself being drawn to him. And yet there was Betty. They weren’t married yet but still…

“I’ll come with you and keep guard,” she said.

“That iss not necessary.”

“I think it is. If you are caught I will say that I thought I saw a light in the cottage and knew Rosie was away and so I called you in to investigate.”

Hamish hesitated only for a moment. He knew Blair was frightened of Priscilla and her influence in high places. “All right’ he said. “I think about one o’clock in the morning the day after tomorrow. That’s about as dark as it gets up here in the summer. I’ll call for you.” They suddenly smiled at each other and Hamish felt that big treacherous tug at his heart-strings. “Good night’ he said gruffly.

♦

He spent the next day making various calls on people in the village, drinking endless cups of tea, listening to gossip, but the verdict was always the same. Someone from outside must have done it. He was relieved that no one seemed to have heard any gossip about Lucia and then wondered if he had been too soft on that pair. That prim Willie Lament was still madly in love with his beautiful wife was evident. Would Willie crack out of his cleaning and orderly encased shell and commit murder?

He went reluctantly along to the restaurant. Willie was cleaning the brass rail which ran along the front windows and whistling to himself.

But his face darkened when he saw Hamish and he said, “I hope this is a social call.”

“No, it’s not,” said Hamish crossly. “I wass that upset that you and Lucia were fighting that I couldn’t think clearly. I want to know if you visited Randy at any time. I want to know if you threatened him.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Willie was a bad liar. “You did!” said Hamish. “My God, if Blair gets to hear this. You silly wee man, what did you do?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Put down that rag and stop polishing and listen to me,” howled Hamish. “If Blair gets wind o’ the fact that you threatened Randy – and you cannae lie to me, Willie, you did, I can see it on your face – you’ll need a friend.”

Willie suddenly sat down at a table and covered his face with his long, thin, bony fingers. Hamish sat down opposite him. “You willnae tell Lucia?” said Willie at last.

“I’m not so worried about Lucia as about you. Out with it it.”

“I went to see him,” said Willie from behind the shield of his hands.

“When?”

“The evening of the day afore the murder.”

“And?”

“I told him if he ever went near Lucia again I’d break him in half.”

“Go on. Take your hands away from your face!”

Willie slowly lowered his hands. To Hamish’s dismay, Willie’s eyes were shining with tears. “He just laughed and laughed. He said awful things about Lucia. That she was hot for it and she’d be back. I tried to punch him and he just swung me round, got me by the scruff of the neck and threw me out. I’ve never been so humiliated in ffl my life. I shouted I’d kill him.”

“It’s a mercy nobody saw you or heard you.” Willie let out a broken little sob. “Only Geordie Mackenzie, and he won’t be saying anything.”

“Geordie! What was he doing?”

“He was walking past. I didnae think to ask him what he was doing, I was that upset. He made me feel more of a wimp than ever because he said he wasn’t going to take any more rubbish from Randy. I said, ‘The big ape’ll massacre you,’ and he said something about a man with brains could always get even with a man who was only brawn.” Hamish leaned back in his chair, digesting this new information. He had discounted little Geordie, had never even considered him. What a mess! He had initially thought that Randy was only dangerous as a man who bragged too much in the bar. Now all these nasty episodes were surfacing. He had humiliated Geordie, Annie, Andy, Willie and Archie, and probably Rosie Draly.

“But I didn’t kill him, Hamish,” said Willie. “I just didnae have the guts.”

“I’m beginning to think it took guts not to kill Randy,” said Hamish moodily. “If we could get something on the man, on his background, anything to move the suspicion away from Lochdubh. What’s Blair doing? He’s probably put up the backs of the Glasgow police so much they’re dragging their heels. I’ll have another word with you, Willie, but I won’t be saying anything to Blair unless I absolutely have to.”

Hamish went along to the bar in search of Geordie Mackenzie. The retired schoolteacher was drinking whisky and water and chatting to a group of fishermen. Hamish tapped him on the shoulder. “Outside, Geordie.”

Geordie looked up at him nervously but he obediently put down his drink and followed Hamish outside. “Walk away with me a wee bit,” said Hamish. “I want a private chat.”

Geordie brightened visibly and trotted eagerly after Hamish, like a small terrier trying to keep pace with an afghan hound.

“You need my help solving this case?” he panted.

“Aye, you could say that.” Hamish stopped by the harbour wall. Neither man noticed the rain. The short period of sunshine was forgotten and so both had settled back into living with the rain and ignoring it. It was what the Irish with their usual talent for euphemism would call ‘a nice, soft day.”

Drizzle was blowing in from the Atlantic, veiling the hills and forests across the loch. The air smelted of a mixture of pine and tar, wood-smoke and fish.

“This’ll do,” said Hamish, resting one arm along the wall.

“Now, Geordie, what’s this hear about you saying you could get even with Randy? You said something like that to Willie Lament.”

“He’s got no call to shoot his mouth off,” said Geordie angrily. “I’m disappointed in you, Hamish. A man of my intelligence could be of good help to you in finding the murderer.”

“Aye, well, a man of your intelligence should know that the police most certainly want to talk to everyone who had anything to do with Randy, and that means people who threatened him in particular.”

“It was just words,” said Geordie sulkily.

“I think you had something in mind. Come on, Geordie. What was it?”

“I’m good at accents,” said Geordie. “When he was drunk, Randy’s voice became Scottish and I recognized a Glasgow accent. I’ve got a wee bit put by. I was going to hire a private detective in Glasgow to find out all about him.” I’ Hamish looked at him with interest. “But you didn’t?”

“I didn’t have the time. Someone killed him, and good riddance,” he said venomously, “and I hope you never find out who did it!”

“Was that why you offered to help me with the case?” demanded Hamish. “So that you could make sure I didn’t find anyone?”

“Och, no,” said Geordie. “You do twist a man’s words.”

“You twist them yourself. You must have hated the big man.”

“Here now. It’s no use trying to pin it on me,” said Geordie, getting flustered.

“I’m simply trying to get at the truth,” retorted Hamish drearily. If you would all realize in this village that if you didn’t do the murder, then you’ve nothing to fear. If you think of anything, come to me.”

Geordie brightened. “I’ll look around and keep my ear to the ground,” he said. “But I think a woman did it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The chloral hydrate. That’s a woman’s trick.”

“Not necessarily. A man, a small man, a weak man would just as easily have wanted a quiet and silent Randy to shoot.”

♦

He made his way up to Tommel Castle in the rain, which increased from a drizzle to a downpour. The castle, floodlit against the dark sky, loomed up as if under water. The windscreen wipers were barely coping with the flood. As soon as he had stopped outside the castle, Priscilla darted forward to join him. “What a night!” she gasped, shaking raindrops from her hair. “At least there will be no wandering poacher to see us.”

They drove to Rosie’s cottage. “Did you make sure she had left?” asked Priscilla.

“I phoned at regular intervals this evening, but there was no reply.”

“How are you going to break in? If you smash the windows, that’ll cause a fuss.”

“I’ve got a wee gadget for picking locks.”

“And where did a respectable policeman get this wee gadget from?”

“Fergie, over at the ironmonger’s in Cnothan, made it for me. He’s fair fascinated wi’ lock-picking. People who forget their keys and can’t get into their houses always come to him. I hope it’s an easy lock, mind. If she’s got a dead bolt or any thing like that, I’m stuck.”

He parked and they both got out. “I should have brought an umbrella,” mourned Priscilla as the rain bucketed down on them.

“I’m glad the efficient Priscilla has slipped up for once in her life,” he said.

“But don’t you see, it means if we get in there, we’ll drip all over the floor?”

“I’ll deal with that problem when I get to it,” said Hamish, starting work on the lock. Now he felt so close to finding out what was hidden in the word processor, he was determined to go ahead with his plan.

It was a simple Yale lock and he dealt with it quickly. They both crept inside, Hamish lighting a pencil torch. Then each put on gloves.

“Draw the curtains,” hissed Priscilla. “When we switch on the machine, if anyone even passes in a car, they’ll see the light from it.”

He jerked the curtains closed. Floppy discs were scattered over the table. “Give me the torch,” said Priscilla. “She’s written titles of books on each one. Lady Jane’s Fancy. Hardly the title of a detective story. This one’s marked ‘Letters’ and this one ‘Tax.’ No good. Hamish, maybe she told the truth and never even got started.”

“She didn’t cultivate such as Archie and Andy for nothing. I do believe she did want local colour. Any notes, papers?”

There were notes and papers and bundles of manuscript but nothing relating to Lochdubh or its inhabitants.

The table which was supposed to serve as a dining one was where she worked. “Damm it,” said Hamish after an hour’s futile searching. “I’m going to put on the light. If anyone comes to investigate, we’ll use your story about having seen a light. We’ll say we found a door open.” Priscilla switched on the light and they looked around the bleak room.

“She’s been burning something in the fireplace,” muttered Hamish, crouching down in front of it. “Come here, Priscilla. What’s this?”

She knelt down on the hearthrug beside him. He pointed to some black melted plastic stuck to the grate. “That looks as she’d been burning discs as well,” said Priscilla.

Hamish sat back on his heels and listened to the drumming of the rain on the roof. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “There’s a bad feeling here. Wait! I’m going to look in the other rooms.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. But I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

But he rose and left the room without answering her. Throwing caution to the winds, he switched on the light in the kitchen. There was a dirty plate, knife and fork and teacup on the kitchen table. He conjured up a vision of Rosie Draly. She could hardly be called a homebody, but she would surely not go off to London and leave dirty dishes. His mouth felt dry. He opened the kitchen door, which led out to the yard at the back, and drew in his breath in a hiss of alarm. Rosie’s white Ford Escort was parked outside.

The cottage was tiny and all on one floor. What had been the parlour in the old days had been turned into this kitchen. There were only three other rooms, living-room, bathroom and the bedroom.

He went out into the small hall. Priscilla came and joined him. “You look awful,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Her car’s out the back.”

“Then we’d better go. She might be asleep in the bedroom. Hamish!”

Hamish opened the bedroom door and switched on the light.

Rosie Draly was lying across her bed. She was naked and she looked like the lurid cover of a ‘true life’ crime magazine, for there was a large kitchen knife sticking out of her back.

He went forward and picked up one limp wrist and felt her pulse. But there was no life, no life at all. And the body was cold and rigid.

Priscilla stood silently beside him, one hand to her mouth.

“We’ll need our story of having seen a light,” said Hamish. “This hass got to be reported right away. Blair’s over in Strathbane. I’ll phone him at home first.”

“We should clean up our prints,” said Priscilla.

“We’re both wearing gloves,” pointed out Hamish. “You didn’t take yours off at any time?” She dumbly shook her head.

“Do you want me to take you home first?”

“No, I’d better wait here with you, just in case anyone did see us. You’d better lie about the door and say it wasn’t locked. I’ll go and put it on the latch.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll probably have the horrors in the morning, but not now. Things have to be dealt with.”

They went back to the living-room. Hamish used his handkerchief to lift the receiver. “Silly,” he said. “There won’t be a print in the place. Maybe they’ll get something off the car. Whoever killed Rosie probably drove her car round the back of the house out of sight. Hallo, Mr. Blair?”

Priscilla stood, still wet and bedraggled. She stifled a nervous yawn. Oh, to get home to a warm bed and away from this nightmare. Hamish finished his report. “Let’s get out of here and sit in the Rover until they arrive,” he said.

Rain thudded down on the roof of the vehicle, rain streamed down the windows. Hamish switched on the engine and, after it had been running for some minutes, the heater. Priscilla began to shiver and he put an arm around her. “The ordeal is chust beginning,” he said softly. “We’re going to be here being asked questions all night. Then you’ll need to keep away from the press.”

“I’ve always found it a mistake to keep away from the press,” said Priscilla through chattering teeth. “A few pleasant words mean a lot to them. Then they don’t harry you so much.”

Soon, in the distance, they faintly heard the wail of a siren.

“Here they come,” said Hamish with a sigh. “Here they come.”