the makeshift office. “Take a seat, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “You’ve got a lot to go through.”
After a long day, Hamish was disappointed. The bare facts were these. Time of death could not be pinpointed, but then it rarely could. The warmth of the body due to the central heating plus the two-bar electric fire put death at any time from five in the evening until after ten at night. Chloral hydrate had been found. The contents of the stomach revealed that he had lunch of hamburgers and then tea and coffee but no dinner. The chloral hydrate could have been given to him in a drink, but all glasses and cups in the kitchen were clean. Hamish frowned. He could not imagine such as Randy keeping a clean kitchen, or a sink free of dirty dishes. He had a shadowy picture of a murderer who could calmly kill and then take his or her time about cleaning up, for there had been no fingerprints at all, apart from Archie’s. Everyone knew about fingerprints, but usually only the very cold-blooded managed to get rid of every trace. He thought of Rosie Draly. But surely this was no crime of passion, no outburst of rage. This had been a cold and calculated murder. But a scorned woman would have had time to think and brood and plot and plan. The statements revealed as little as possible, with the exception of the retired school-teacher, Geordie Mackenzie, who had bragged that he could have well killed Duggan because he, Geordie, “was a lion when roused.”
“Silly wee man,” grumbled Hamish, rising and stretching. He glanced at his watch. Just time now to eat and visit Priscilla.
¦
“Pay attention,” admonished Priscilla that evening. “I’ll go through it again. You put in the Logoscript disc and when it is loaded, take it out and put in the disc you want to read.”
“Stop flicking your fingers over these damn keys. I cannae see what you’re doing,” complained Hamish, who was feeling stupid and backward and resenting it. “Okay, now you’ve taken your programming disc out, put in that one, with the side you want to the left…the left, Hamish! Now press ‘e’ for edit and then press ‘enter’. There you are. Simple.”
But somehow Hamish could not get the hang of it. “You’re suffering from technofear,” said Priscilla. “I’ll type out a simple list of instructions and leave you to it. You’ll learn easier if you do it yourself.”
She switched off the word processor after she had typed out a list of instructions. “Now start at the beginning.”
Left to his own devices, Hamish stared gloomily at the blank monitor. It was all the fault of modern society, he reflected, where people credited computers with independent brains. He couldn’t, say, get the seat he wanted on a Glasgow-bound bus at the Strathbane bus station because the girl in the booking office said The Computer had allocated him another seat entirely. A cheque for a prize he had won for hill-running at one of the Highland Games took ages to arrive, and it was at a time when he needed the money badly.
But every time he phoned the Games Committee, some official would say, “It’s in the computer,” as if only the computer could decide when one Hamish Macbeth would get paid?
He straightened the monitor with a vicious pull, pulled forward his chair, and switched it on. Nothing happened.
He looked at the macnine in a panic and then struck the top of the monitor. The black screen stared back at him, reflecting his worried features. He tried switching it on and off. He found be was sweating slightly and marvelled that a mere machine could upset him so much. He did not want to call Priscilla. He was frightened that she would come and do something childishly simple and make him feel even more of a fool man ever. Time passed as he tried again switching it on and off. At last the door opened behind him and Priscilla came in. “How are you getting on?” she asked.
“Fine. Chust fine,” said Hamish through gritted teem.
“If I could make a suggestion…”
“No, I’m telling you, I’m getting the hang o’ this thing chust great.”
“Suit yourself. But, my darling, I think you would get on chust fine if you put the plug back in at the wall which you have pulled out.”
She smiled at the back of his rigid neck and went out again.
Hamish plugged in the machine, which had become disconnected when he had jerked the monitor, and switched it on. The monitor shone greenly. Painstakingly following Priscilla’s instructions, he worked away until he began to master it, and when she finally returned, he felt quite triumphant.
“You’re not finished yet,” she said to his dismay. “If you want to print something off, you’ll need to learn to do that.” Hamish groaned. It was half past eleven at night before he finally rose and stretched, thanked Priscilla and made to take his leave.
“Sit down, Hamish,” she said quietly. “Now tell me why this sudden interest in the workings of a word processor?”
“Oh,” he said shiftily, “the police force is all computerized these days. Got to keep abreast of the times.”
Priscilla looked at him thoughtfully, at the open, honest expression on his face, and said, “You’re lying. You’re up to something. Out with it.”
“Oh, all right. That writer, Rosie Draly, is off to London tomorrow and I want to get a look at what she’s been writing.”
“Didn’t you read one of her books?”
“Aye, she gave me one, but, och, it could hae been written by a machine. I have a feeling in my bones that she had started work on a detective story. There might be something there.”
“Hamish, you were as near as that” – she held up a finger and thumb to measure a tiny distance – “from getting fired. What if you’re caught?”
“I won’t be.”
Priscilla surveyed him. She was worried in her mind about John Glover. She had enjoyed his company immensely. Despite the arrival of his fiancee, she knew he was still very attracted to her. She could feel herself being drawn to him. And yet there was Betty. They weren’t married yet but still…
“I’ll come with you and keep guard,” she said.
“That iss not necessary.”
“I think it is. If you are caught I will say that I thought I saw a light in the cottage and knew Rosie was away and so I called you in to investigate.”
Hamish hesitated only for a moment. He knew Blair was frightened of Priscilla and her influence in high places. “All right’ he said. “I think about one o’clock in the morning the day after tomorrow. That’s about as dark as it gets up here in the summer. I’ll call for you.” They suddenly smiled at each other and Hamish felt that big treacherous tug at his heart-strings. “Good night’ he said gruffly.
¦
He spent the next day making various calls on people in the village, drinking endless cups of tea, listening to gossip, but the verdict was always the same. Someone from outside must have done it. He was relieved that no one seemed to have heard any gossip about Lucia and then wondered if he had been too soft on that pair. That prim Willie Lament was still madly in love with his beautiful wife was evident. Would Willie crack out of his cleaning and orderly encased shell and commit murder?
He went reluctantly along to the restaurant. Willie was cleaning the brass rail which ran along the front windows and whistling to himself.
But his face darkened when he saw Hamish and he said, “I hope this is a social call.”
“No, it’s not,” said Hamish crossly. “I wass that upset that you and Lucia were fighting that I couldn’t think clearly. I want to know if you visited Randy at any time. I want to know if you threatened him.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
Willie was a bad liar. “You did!” said Hamish. “My God, if Blair gets to hear this. You silly wee man, what did you do?”
“Mind your own business.”
“Put down that rag and stop polishing and listen to me,” howled Hamish. “If Blair gets wind o’ the fact that you threatened Randy – and you cannae lie to me, Willie, you did, I can see it on your face – you’ll need a friend.”
Willie suddenly sat down at a table and covered his face with his long, thin, bony fingers. Hamish sat down opposite him. “You willnae tell Lucia?” said Willie at last.
“I’m not so worried about Lucia as about you. Out with it it.”
