by M C Beaton
“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 ca
rdigan. 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 ma
keshift 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.”
