Death of a Macho Man

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘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 had a 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 schoolteacher, 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 machine 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 he 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 than 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 teeth.

  ‘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 old 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 Lamont 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.’

  ‘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 all 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 smelled 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 I hear about you saying you could get even with Randy? You said something like that to Willie Lamont.’

  ‘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.’

  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 wearily. ‘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.’

  Hamish made his way up to Tommel Castle in the rain, which had 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 anything 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. ‘Damn 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 if 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.