M.C. Beaton - Death of a Macho Man

“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.