Hamish Macbeth 12 (1996) - Death of a Macho Man (8 page)

He pushed back his cap and scratched his hair. “It depends what you mean by fun,” he said. “Are you here on holiday?”

“Yes.” She held out a well-manicured hand. “I’m Betty John. I’m John Glover’s fiancée.”

Now here was sexiness compared to Rosie, thought Hamish. Betty exuded a sort of animal energy. “The banker?” he asked.

“The same.”

Hamish smiled. “And why would you be here looking for fun when you are on holiday with your fiancé?”

“I’ve just arrived and the unromantic bugger’s gone off somewhere on business. He never stops working. I work in the same bank. I tell you what, have dinner with me this evening. I’ve never had dinner with a copper before.” A malicious light gleamed momentarily in Hamish’s hazel eyes. He wondered what Priscilla would think when she found out that he had been dining with John’s fiancée. He wondered whether she even knew that John had this fiancée. But she was bound to know. Still, it would be nice if she didn’t like the idea.

“That would be grand,” he said. “There’s an Italian restaurant in Lochdubh which is pretty good.”

“I’ll find it. Eight o’clock suit you?”

“Great.”

“See you then.” Hamish went off, whistling.

Promptly at three in the afternoon, and keeping a sharp look but for Blair, he strolled along to Annie’s cottage, going up the lane at the side and then vaulting the back gate. Randy could have come this way often without being seen. There was only old Mrs. Biggar on the one side of the lane and she was deaf, and then there were Mr. and Mrs. Gilchrist on the other side and they were unusual in that they never minded their neighbours’ business.

As he had expected, the back door was unlocked. Lochdubh was one of the few remaining villages where people often do not bother to lock their doors or, for that matter, their cars.

He went through the neat, tidy kitchen and up the stairs to the bedrooms. He found one single one which had an unused air, a bathroom, gleaming with peach plastic, and then a double bedroom which was obviously where Annie slept. The bed was made, blankets tucked in hospital fashion. There was a photo of the late Mr. Ferguson beside the bed and a large Bible.

He opened a drawer on the bedside table. He found a packet of hairpins, a hairnet—what woman wore a hairnet these days?—and, tucked at the back of the drawer, a packet of condoms. Randy’s?

Surely a respectable woman who had had a brief and, according to her, shameful fling, would have got rid of the things. He went to a large chest of drawers and slid the drawers open. The top drawer had papers and documents. He reluctantly left them and looked in the drawers underneath. Grimly respectable underwear, terrifying corsets, large sensible bras, wool knickers for winter, cotton knickers for summer, both of the old-fashioned kind sold in Lochdubh. Nylon petticoats, plain without lace. Thick stockings. He closed the drawers carefully after making sure that he had not disturbed anything. He turned and looked around. There was a wardrobe against the other wall. He crossed the room and swung it open. Serviceable suits and dresses, skirts and sweaters and cardigans, two tweed coats and one raincoat. On the shelf above, a selection of hats. Women in Lochdubh still wore hats to weddings, funerals, and on visits. He was about to turn away defeated and feeling ashamed of himself for having been poking around a respectable lady’s belongings when he saw that the wardrobe had two drawers at the bottom. He gave a shrug. Might as well do the job thoroughly. He knelt down on the floor and slid the top drawer open.

He stared down at a colourful jumble of sexy underwear. There were French knickers trimmed with lace, suspender belts, filmy black stockings, exotic nightgowns, and, underneath them all, three videos of the hard-porn variety. He sat back on his heels, amazed. The things that went on behind the lace curtains of Lochdubh, he marvelled. But one thing was certain. Here was a woman who would not have been alarmed in the slightest by any request to wear sexy underwear, nor would she have thrown it in the fire. But she had had a noisy fight with Duggan, because that was what she had told Blair, and that he would hear somehow and wanting to get her side of the story in. So what had really gone on? He must find a way to talk to her again without letting her know he had been in her home.

The doorbell shrilled suddenly and imperatively, making him jump. He carefully closed the drawers and tiptoed down the stairs. Through the frosted glass pane of the front door, he could see the square bulk of a woman and guessed that the minister’s wife had come calling.

He let himself out of the back door, jumped over the fence again and strolled down the lane. The lane led up the hill to the cottages at the back. In fact, if one crossed the fields from the top of the lane, one could reach Randy’s cottage.

Mrs. Wellington hailed him as he came out of the lane. “Were you up at the scene of the crime?”

“Just taking a look,” said Hamish. “I’m not supposed to be on the case.”

“And more’s the pity. I was just trying to call on poor Annie, but she’s out. Did you have a word with her?”

“Yes, I did. I told her to tell Blair that Randy had made pass at her and that was what the row was about.”

“Clever of you. Her good name must be protected.”

“Unless she’s guilty.”

“And I thought you were an intelligent man! Annie Ferguson a murderess! Don’t be so daft!”

If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination.

—
Thomas de Quincey

H
amish decided to leave confronting Annie until he could think about it and decide how to go about it. He could hardly say to her something like, “A woman with underwear like yours would not be shocked by Randy’s suggestion.” He found he was looking forward to dinner with Betty as an escape from Blair and the case. At least he was not bothered by the press, they confining their attentions to his superior. He saw a headline in a newspaper, “Murder Village,” and shuddered. Lochdubh was getting a reputation. He was about to buy a copy and then decided against it.

He dressed carefully for dinner in a very well-tailored charcoal-grey suit and silk tie. Hamish had become a dedicated thrift-shop buyer. He brushed his red hair until it shone and then strolled along to the Italian restaurant.

Betty had not yet arrived. He let Willie Lament usher him to a table for two in a quiet corner and then looked at him in surprise. Willie’s fanaticism for cleaning was a legend. But in the candle-light, Hamish noticed that Willie’s usually neat features were marred by stubble and there was a stain on his jersey. His glance fell on the checked table-cloth. There was a splash of spaghetti sauce on it which had not been cleaned away after the previous diners had finished. He looked again at Willie. In any other man he might have decided that the unshaved face was meant to be designer stubble, but this was Willie.

“What’s happened to you?” demanded Hamish. “You look awful and there’s a stain on this tablecloth.”

“Oh, what’s the point,” said Willie wearily, but he went away and returned with a cloth and cleaned the plastic table-cloth. Hamish was then distracted by the arrival of Betty. She was wearing a white blouse with a deep V-neck and a black skirt under a loose coat and smelt of a strong, musky perfume. She had very fine eyes, he noticed, and a full, sensuous mourn.

“This is nice,” she said, hanging her coat over the back of the chair and sitting down. Hamish started to worry about Willie again. He usually took the diners’ coats and hung them up. Willie came up with the menus. There was a splash of candle-grease on the cover of the one he handed to Hamish.

Hamish looked at him in pained surprise. “I won’t have a first course,” said Betty. “I’m trying to slim.” She ordered an avocado salad and Hamish settled for lasagne and a bottle of Valpolieello.

“Priscilla all right?” asked Willie gloomily.

“She is just fine,” said Hamish crossly. His engagement to Priscilla was long over but no one in the village seemed prepared to accept the fact, and Willie always made Hamish feel guilty if he was dining with some other woman. “So how long have you worked in the bank?” asked Hamish. “Since I was seventeen.” She gave a husky laugh. “I’m not going to tell you how long ago that was. Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead,” said Hamish, stifling the irritation the reformed smoker always feels when confronted by the unreformed. She lit up a small cigar, puffed contentedly on it and then eyed him through the smoke. “So tell me all about policing. How’s the murder case going?”

“I wouldnae know,” said Hamish. “I’m just the local bobby. Strathbane’s handling it.”

“Don’t you feel left out?”

“Aye, I do, but that’s the way it goes.”

“So you just do local stuff?”

Hamish wondered whether to tell her about murder cases he had been on outside Lochdubh but decided against it.“I want a night off from police work,” he said. “Tell me about the bank,”

“Well, I’m just a teller. Whatever they might say about this age of women’s lib, it’s hard to get promotion. But I look forward to seeing some of my customers, and if the bank is quiet we can have a bit of a chat.” She told several amusing stories about her customers.

“So how did you get to know John Glover?” asked Hamish. “He was appointed bank manager from a branch in Motherwell, oh, about five years ago. We didn’t have much to do with each other until the Christmas party last year. We both got a bit drunk and started swapping stories about our unhappy marriages. We’re both divorced. And things just progressed from there.”

“If I may say so,” remarked Hamish, “neither of you looks like the kind of folks who would want to come to the Scottish Highlands for a holiday.”

“Why?”

“You’re a pretty sophisticated pair.”

“Why, thank you, sir. I don’t know what your friend Priscilla would think about that. You mean sophisticated people don’t holiday in Scotland?”

“I meant, I see the pair of you in some five-star Continental hotel with a beach.”

“Oh, we like the Highlands, John particularly. I think it was because his ex hated coming up here that he takes a particular delight in doing everything she would have disliked. Tell me about this village and what goes on, and you must have some views on the murder.”

“I was rather hoping it would turn out to be someone like your John.”

She threw back her head and gave a full belly laugh. “John! Why on earth would John want to kill anyone?” she said when she could. “Well, maybe some of the customers with huge overdrafts and no intention of ever paying them off. Why John? He’s the least murderous person I’ve ever met.”

“I want it to be someone outside of the village,” said Hamish. “These people are all my friends.”

“I see your point. But odd things happen in villages. I wouldn’t like to be up here in the winter, when it’s hardly ever light. What do you lot do for amusement? There’s no cinema or disco or anything.”

“Oh, the kirk organizes things. They show films in the church hall. Then we hae the television and Patel rents videos.”

She leaned forward and he smelt her perfume, heavy and exotic. Her eyes flirted with him. “Anything else, copper?”

She was exuding a strong air of sexuality. Hamish smiled. “Anything else is my business and that’s private.” Her voice when she next spoke was husky and intimate.

“I’ll soon be married. It’s not only men who want a fling before they’re hitched.”

“Are you propositioning me?” asked Hamish. “It’s an idea.”

“It iss the very fascinating idea,” began Hamish, and then his eyes fell on dishevelled Willie, and again he felt a pang of alarm. “I dinnae like to go to bed on the first date,” he said.

“What about the second?”

Hamish felt his senses stirring. It had been a long time. He never wanted to go back to being in love with Priscilla. Betty had a strong, sensual body and he was sure her breasts would be magnificent. “Perhaps,” he said. “Wouldn’t John be verra hurt if he found out?”

“I’d make sure he wouldn’t.”

“Can I think about it a wee bit? You make me feel like a Victorian miss. This is so sudden.”

“Think all you like. What’s bothering you? You’re uneasy and it’s not me.”

“It’s the waiter, there, Willie Lament. He’s always so neat and clean and now he looks a miserable mess.”

“Probably had a row with the wife. Is he married?”

“Yes, to Lucia. She’s a relative of the owner. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go along after dinner and hae a word with her.”

“Suit yourself. But wait until I have a coffee and brandy first!”

§

Willie and Lucia lived in a cottage just before the humpbacked bridge at the end of the waterfront near to Annie’s.

Hamish made his way there after he had said goodnight to Betty. He found that as soon as he was out of her orbit, he was amazed that he had even considered going to bed with her. Banks must be terribly lecherous places, he thought naively. Maybe it was the monotony of the work.

Lucia answered the door to him. She had been crying recently. “It is time you came to see your namesake,” she said. Her son was called Hamish. Hamish followed her in. The baby was asleep in a small bedroom, already crammed with stuffed animals and all the signs of doting parents. Hamish made suitable, admiring noises over the cot and then followed Lucia back into the living-room.

“What’s up?” he asked abruptly.

She sat down heavily and looked up at a framed photograph of the Spanish Steps as if wishing she were back in Italy again. “Nothing’s up,” she said. “Would you like coffee?”

“I chust had some, at the restaurant. And there wass Willie, looking shabby and miserable.”

“Nothing’s up,” she repeated, looking mulish.

“Lucia, it iss verra hard to keep things quiet in a village like this. I’ll find out sooner or later.”

“No one must know,” she said, half to herself.

“Must know what?” demanded Hamish sharply.

“Go away,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m tired.”

“I don’t want to distress you further,” said Hamish, heading for the door. “I’ll always help you and Willie, you know that, Lucia.”