M.C. Beaton - Death of a Macho Man

“I think,” said Lucia in measured tones and with a toss of her black curly hair, “that your nose is out of joint because Blair solved the murders.”

“It wass not Blair,” said Hamish crossly. “It was me that found out Beck was guilty of Rosie’s murder. But I do not believe for a moment that he killed Duggan.”

“Of course he did,” shouted Wfflie. “It’s over, all over, and you’re just stirring up muck out of vanity.”

“I believe,” said Hamish, holding on to his temper, “that someone in Lochdubh killed Randy and I am going to find out who that someone is and my personal feelings for any of the inhabitants of Lochdubh will not get in the way.”

“Meaning you still think I might be guilty!” exclaimed Willie.

“You or Lucia.”

“Get out of my house…now!” yelled Willie, flapping the cleaning rag and filling the air with the smell of ammonia. He rushed and opened the door and stood by it. Hamish turned in the doorway and looked back at Lucia. Her eyes were wide with fear.

♦

He turned his coat collar up against the rain and went back to the police Land Rover and got in. “Time to make someone else’s life a misery,” he said to the windscreen wipers as they slashed against the streaming rain. He drove off and around the loch to where the pine forest stood and then up one of the forestry tracks, rolling down the window until he could hear the crash of falling trees.

Andy and some of the other forestry workers were in a clearing. Hamish arrived just as another of those spindly, grey-trunked forestry pines, which never looked like real trees, came crashing down. It was not like the Brazilian rain forest, thought Hamish. Because of the demand for wood, the north of Scotland was gradually being covered by forest. The companies did their best, growing ornamental trees by the sides of the roads and setting out picnic tables and benches in the clearings, but these were bastard trees, crammed together, thin and dripping in the soft air.

Andy came forward to meet him. “Just taking a break, Hamish,” he hailed him. “Going to brew up some tea.”

“Not for me,” said Hamish. “Can we have a chat?”

“Aye, come ower here. What’s up? Can’t be this murder business. That’s all solved.”

They walked slowly over a thick carpet of pine needles and sat down opposite each other on a pair of tree stumps.

“I am not satisfied it was Beck who killed Randy,” began Hamish.

He was prepared for anger, denial, but Andy looked at him with mild eyes and said surprisingly, “Now there’s the funny thing. Maybe it was because I was so sure that Randy was wan o’ thae big-time criminals that I couldnae swallow the fact that it was done by Rosie’s boyfriend. The thing is no one saw him round the village, although no one’s been watching like they do in the good weather. Folks are mostly indoors of an evening, wi’ the telly switched on. But I’ve got this feeling in my bones.”

Hamish looked at him with relief in his hazel eyes, “I thought you’d start shouting at me like some o’ the others.”

Andy grinned. “I may have had a fight with Randy but at the time I thought I had lost fair and square. I only learned about the knuckledusters afterwards. At the time, I didn’t feel mad, see. Just ashamed of myself. Told myself I should keep oot o’ fights. Maybe if the fight had been public like the one he was going to have wi’ you, I might have been madder.”

“But have you any concrete reason for supposing that Randy was not killed by Beck?”

“Och, not really. When I heard about it, I just got this idea that it was all too pat. There’s been people afore, you know that, Hamish, who’ve confessed to murders they didn’t do to get a bit of the limelight. It’s not as if we have the death penalty.”

“Aye, but the silly folk who confess to the murders they did not do are people who haven’t committed murder at all. There’s no doubt in my mind that Beck killed Rosie.”

“If that’s the case, Hamish, I don’t envy you the job o’ finding out who really did it with the trail cold and you not allowed to use any of the services in Strathbane.”

“I’ve managed before,” said Hamish mulishly, “and I’ll manage again on my own. I think I will have that cup o’ tea, Andy.”

They walked back to join the other men. “We’ll all be getting webbed feet if this goes on,” said Hamish. “And have you seen the forecasts for the south of England? Sunshine every day.”

“That’s the English for you,” said a forestry worker who had overheard Hamish’s last remark. “They take the best of everything.”

♦

Hamish drove round to Annie Ferguson’s and parked outside. As he climbed down from the Land Rover, he saw Willie outside the Italian restaurant. Willie gave an odd little duck of his head and scuttled out of view.

Annie Ferguson opened the door just as he was raising his hand to knock it. “Oh, it’s yourself, Hamish, come along in,” she said cheerfully.

“So how’s yourself?” asked Annie, once he was settled in a chair in the living room. “Isn’t it grand they’ve got someone for these murders, and an outsider, too.” Hamish clasped his hands round his knees and looked at her steadily. “Annie, it is my belief that Randy Duggan was not killed by Beck.”

Her mouth dropped open. “But…b-but…” she stammered, “it’s all over. Nothing to do with us.”

“It would be grand if I could believe that.”

“If you could believe that! And just who are you, Hamish Macbeth? You’re only a village copper. If your superiors in Strathbane are satisfied, then what’s it to do with you?”

“It’s to do with justice, Annie. I don’t like the idea of a murderer going free, and neither should you.”

“You’ve no right to come here and talk rubbish. Just because you wear a uniform, you think you can go around bullying poor widows.” She began to cry. Hamish looked at her in frustration. “Annie, Annie, pull yourself together, lassie. What’s so awful about me thinking the murderer is still at large?”

“Because you’re wrong,” she shouted through her tears. Hamish left. He had done what he had come to do, which was to start the gossip circulating fast around Lochdubh that he was still on the look-out for the murderer.

♦

Two hours later, Priscilla was arranging a new consignment of paperweights on the shelves of the gift shop when the shop bell clanged and Lucia came in. She was wearing a gleaming red oilskin with bright-red Wellington boots. “Hallo,” said Priscilla. “Come to buy something, or just a chat?”

“Just a chat,” said Lucia, taking off a scarlet rain hat and shaking out her dark curls.

“It’s quiet today.” Priscilla went behind the counter and picked up a jug of coffee. “Care to join me?”

“Thank you.”

“So what’s new in Lochdubh? Everyone must be feeling cheered up at the arrest of Beck. When these awful things happen, I’m always frightened it might turn out to be one of us.”

“Someone still might be determined to make it one of us.”

Lucia perched on a chair at the counter and took the cup of coffee Priscilla was holding out to her.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” began Lucia primly, and Priscilla reflected that not only had the beautiful Lucia lost her charming Italian accent but was rapidly assuming the mannerisms of a Scottish village housewife of the gossipy variety, “Hamish Macbeth is going around tormenting everyone and saying this man, Beck, did not murder Duggan but one of us did.”

“And why should he say that?”

“It’s his pride. He’s begun to believe he solved all those past cases himself.”

“He did!”

“We have only his word for it.”