M.C. Beaton - Death of a Macho Man

The women retreated to the kitchen. “That man is not only immoral, he is amoral, Priscilla,” said Mrs. Wellington. “Priscilla?”

But the slamming of the kitchen door was the only reply.

♦

Hamish, in a most unloverlike way, told Betty to get lost. She took it with good humour, unselfconsciously pulling her discarded clothes over her sturdy, naked body. When she had left he turned his face into the pillow and groaned aloud. What a disgrace! That he had been found in bed with Betty would be all over Lochdubh. He waited until he heard Mrs. Wellington and the Currie sisters, exclaiming their way out of the police station. And Priscilla! What did that chilly lassie expect him to do? Live like a monk?

He gloomily took a scalding bath, reflecting that he was behaving like a girl who had just lost her virginity.

He had just dressed in his uniform when Jimmy Anderson arrived. “How’s the Don Joon o’ the hills?” he greeted Hamish, a leer on his foxy features.

“You heard already?”

“Man, if you stick your nose out o’ the police-station door, you’ll see wee groups of people all along the waterfront and they’re talking about nothing else.”

“Damn this place,” said Hamish savagely. “There’s been two brutal murders and all they’ve got to gossip about is my private life!”

“Well, next time, lock your doors. Blair wants your report and your presence.”

“He’ll get both. Where is he?”

“Up at the mobile unit. Any whisky?”

“How you can drink at this time of day beats me.”

“Come on, Hamish. The sun is over the poop deck, or whatever.”

“You know where the bottle is. Help yourself.” Jimmy scurried off into the police office, rubbing his hands. Hamish followed him in. “And don’t take all day about it.”

Jimmy took bottle and glass out of the bottom drawer and examined the bottle with a critical eye. “Getting low,” he commented, pouring a large slug. “You’ll need to get more.”

“I’ll see,” said Hamish. “So what’s the latest on Rosie?”

“Dead. Knife in the back. Won’t know about chloral hydrate till the results of the autopsy are through, but she certainly didn’t have a peaceful expression on her face when she died.”

“And what’s happening down in Glasgow, for God’s sake? They’re looking through the mug shots, aren’t they?”

“Sure. But the man had plastic surgery and we’re pretty sure he changed his name.”

“I would like to get down there and hae a look myself.”

“Blair won’t let you go and you must have run out of fictitious dead relatives.”

“I’ll think of something. You’ve just finished that bottle, so why don’t you go off and keep Blair quiet while I see what I can dig up.”

When Jimmy had left, Hamish plugged in the electric kettle and made himself a quick cup of coffee. He took a mouthful of it and shuddered. It was called Kenyan Delight and was being sold very cheaply at Patel’s. Now he knew why it was being sold cheaply. He poured the rest down the sink. His stomach rumbled but he could not face the idea of making anything to eat. He straightened his peaked cap, braced his thin shoulders, and marched out to face the population of Lochdubh.

To his amazement and relief the waterfront was deserted, apart from a harassed tourist mother dragging along a screaming child and shouting, “I brung you here tae enjoy yourself, and enjoy yourself you will!”

Amazing, thought Hamish. Parents always say the same stupid things. He stopped by the woman and said mildly, “Don’t be too hard on the wean, missis. It’s all this rain.”

“I wish I’d gone tae Spain,” said the woman. She was fat and blowsy, with raindrops shining in the black roots of her bleached hair. Hamish crouched down in front of the screaming child, a small boy with a red nose and streaming eyes. The child stopped screaming and stared at him. “Now, laddie,” said Hamish, “what’s the matter? You can tell me. I’m the police and you’ve got to tell me the truth.”

“I’ve peed my pants,” said the boy dismally, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“Why didn’t you tell your ma?”

“She’d wallop me.”

Hamish straightened up and looked at the woman severely. “You heard that,” he said, “and you will not be hitting the boy.”

The woman looked frightened. “Och, you’ll no’ be reporting me to the Social.”

“Take him away and let him get changed.” Hamish fished a fifty-pee piece out of his pocket. “Here, laddie, buy yourself an ice-cream.”

He stood and watched them as they went off, the woman now cooing affectionately to her small son and flashing nervous little smiles back at Hamish.

He walked along, turning over the names of the suspects in his head. He decided to have another talk to Annie Ferguson.

She greeted him with, “Oh, Hamish. It’s yourself. I don’t think you should come here. I shouldn’t be seen talking to you.”

“Why?” he demanded crossly.

“I’ve my reputation to consider, and after what you’ve been up to – ”

“Look here,” said Hamish furiously, “I am here officially on a murder inquiry, and everyone in the village knows that.”

“Everyone in the village knows something else about you now,” said Annie with a flash of pure Highland malice. “Och, come ben.”

He went into her parlour, took off his cap, placed it on the coffee-table and sat down. She sat down opposite him, tugging her skirt firmly over her sturdy knees in case the sight of them would drive this lecherous policeman into some mad act of passion.

“Now,” began Hamish, “I want you to think carefully about any conversation you had with Randy. Did he mention anywhere in the States in particular?”

“I think he seemed to have been just about everywhere. New York, New Orleans, Los Angeles, places like that.”

“Did he mention friends, any he might have known?”

She shook her head. “We didn’t talk much,” she said with a sudden roguish look, quite awful to behold.

“Did you know he had had plastic surgery?”

Her amazement looked genuine.

“Why would he do that? I mean, it’s the women who go in for that. Although you wouldn’t catch me getting any of that.”

“We believe he was a criminal who had gone to great lengths to conceal his real identity.”

“A criminal! Oh, you must be mistaken. I wouldn’t have had anything to do with anyone like that!”

“But you didn’t know he was a criminal,” said Hamish patiently.

“And you don’t either. You’re just clutching at straws.”

“Annie, try to be a bit less defensive. Think. What money did he have?”

“He always had wads of the stuff,” said Annie. “You must have heard that. And he was always flashing it about in the bar.”

Hamish asked her several more questions but could learn nothing of importance. He left and went up to the mobile unit and read the reports. The whole wrestling fraternity of America and Britain had been rigorously interviewed without success. Police artists in Glasgow were working on pictures of what Randy might have looked like before plastic surgery. Rosie’s sister, Mrs. Beck, had been contacted and was travelling up to Lochdubh. The rain was still falling, and through the smeared and misted-up windows of the mobile home, Hamish could see groups of pressmen huddled together. Some tourists were also standing about, as if waiting for another murder to happen to enliven the tedium of a rain soaked Scottish holiday.

Mrs. Beck, he learned, was due to arrive from Inverness around five o’clock. She would be staying in Mrs. McCartney’s bed and breakfast in the village. Blair was all set to interview her and Hamish wanted to be present at that interview. He knew that if he asked Blair he would be sent about his business and so he decided to wait until she arrived and just turn up.