M.C. Beaton - Death of a Macho Man

“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.”

She turned her head away. Hamish went out into the night, feeling sad and worried. He had always considered Willie a bit of a joke but he hated to see him unhappy. He could not ask the restaurant owner what had gone wrong, for he was away. He went back to the police station and watched the clock until he decided that Willie would be closing up for the night and then made his way back to the restaurant. He peered in through the glass door. Willie, who hardly ever drank, was sitting alone at a table, his sad face illumined by a single candle. He was drinking wine. Hamish rapped on the glass. Willie looked up and waved a hand in dismissal. Hamish rapped again. Willie wearily got to his feet and went and unlocked the restaurant door.

“What is it, Hamish?” he asked. “Did you leave something?”

“Let me come in, Willie, I want to talk to you.”

“Suit yourself.” Willie returned to the table. Hamish followed and sat down opposite him.

“Come on, Willie. You know what friends are for. You look a mess. Out wi’ it, man, and get it off your chest.”

Willie, the normally abstemious Willie, took another swig of wine. “She’s adulterated,” he said.

“You mean Lucia’s been having an affair?”

Willie nodded gloomily.

“I cannae believe that. Did she tell you herself?”

“No, but I followed her and I kent.”

“Kent what?”

“That she was having the affair with Randy Duggan.”

Hamish felt a cold clutch of fear at his heart. But then reason took over. Lucia, who looked like Lollobrigida in the actress’s younger days, would hardly look at a man like Duggan.

“Havers!” he said roundly. “Chust not possible. Willie, Willie, Lucia is a bonny lassie and Duggan was an ape.”

“She had been acting strange. I followed her one night when she thought I was in the restaurant and I saw her go into his cottage.”

“But this was before the murder. You were as neat as a pin a few days ago. Why the sudden disintegration?”