Death of a Macho Man

Priscilla. What’s this?”

She knelt down on the hearthrug beside him. He pointed to some black melted plastic stuck to the grate. “That looks as she’d been burning discs as well,” said Priscilla.

Hamish sat back on his heels and listened to the drumming of the rain on the roof. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “There’s a bad feeling here. Wait! I’m going to look in the other rooms.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. But I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

But he rose and left the room without answering her. Throwing caution to the winds, he switched on the light in the kitchen. There was a dirty plate, knife and fork and teacup on the kitchen table. He conjured up a vision of Rosie Draly. She could hardly be called a homebody, but she would surely not go off to London and leave dirty dishes. His mouth felt dry. He opened the kitchen door, which led out to the yard at the back, and drew in his breath in a hiss of alarm. Rosie’s white Ford Escort was parked outside.

The cottage was tiny and all on one floor. What had been the parlour in the old days had been turned into this kitchen. There were only three other rooms, living-room, bathroom and the bedroom.

He went out into the small hall. Priscilla came and joined him. “You look awful,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Her car’s out the back.”

“Then we’d better go. She might be asleep in the bedroom. Hamish!”

Hamish opened the bedroom door and switched on the light.

Rosie Draly was lying across her bed. She was naked and she looked like the lurid cover of a ‘true life’ crime magazine, for there was a large kitchen knife sticking out of her back.

He went forward and picked up one limp wrist and felt her pulse. But there was no life, no life at all. And the body was cold and rigid.

Priscilla stood silently beside him, one hand to her mouth.

“We’ll need our story of having seen a light,” said Hamish. “This hass got to be reported right away. Blair’s over in Strathbane. I’ll phone him at home first.”

“We should clean up our prints,” said Priscilla.

“We’re both wearing gloves,” pointed out Hamish. “You didn’t take yours off at any time?” She dumbly shook her head.

“Do you want me to take you home first?”

“No, I’d better wait here with you, just in case anyone did see us. You’d better lie about the door and say it wasn’t locked. I’ll go and put it on the latch.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll probably have the horrors in the morning, but not now. Things have to be dealt with.”

They went back to the living-room. Hamish used his handkerchief to lift the receiver. “Silly,” he said. “There won’t be a print in the place. Maybe they’ll get something off the car. Whoever killed Rosie probably drove her car round the back of the house out of sight. Hallo, Mr. Blair?”

Priscilla stood, still wet and bedraggled. She stifled a nervous yawn. Oh, to get home to a warm bed and away from this nightmare. Hamish finished his report. “Let’s get out of here and sit in the Rover until they arrive,” he said.

Rain thudded down on the roof of the vehicle, rain streamed down the windows. Hamish switched on the engine and, after it had been running for some minutes, the heater. Priscilla began to shiver and he put an arm around her. “The ordeal is chust beginning,” he said softly. “We’re going to be here being asked questions all night. Then you’ll need to keep away from the press.”

“I’ve always found it a mistake to keep away from the press,” said Priscilla through chattering teeth. “A few pleasant words mean a lot to them. Then they don’t harry you so much.”

Soon, in the distance, they faintly heard the wail of a siren.

“Here they come,” said Hamish with a sigh. “Here they come.”

? Death of a Macho Man ?

7

Do you think my mind has matured late,

Or simply rotted early?

—Ogden Nash

When Hamish finally got home to his police station, the rain had retun to a damp drizzle. He was immensely tired but he wanted to get in touch with Rosie’s agent before Blair did and he remembered that there had been a home phone number on the card Rosie had given him. Blair could not complain when he found out because he had said Hamish was now officially on the case.

He found the card and went into the police office and pulled the phone towards him. He dialled the home number. The agent’s name was Harriet Simmonds. It rang for a long time and then a sleepy voice answered.

“Miss Simmonds,” began Hamish. “This is the police in Lochdubh, Sutherland. I am afraid I have bad news about your author, Rosie Draly.”

“What? How?” demanded Miss Simmonds. And then, by the sharpening of her voice, he realized she had come fully awake. “Come again,” she said. “You are the police? From Lochdubh? That’s where Rosie lives.”

“Lived,” corrected Hamish gently. “She has been murdered.”

“Murdered? Is this some bad joke? Who are you?”

“My name is Hamish Macbeth, and I am the police constable in Lochdubh. If you do not believe me, I will give you a number to call back.” As he said it, he realized it was a bit silly, because there was only he himself.

“No, no,” said Miss Simmonds, “I’ve got myself together now. It’s the shock. Rosie. Murdered! Why would anyone murder Rosie? How was she murdered?”

“Someone, we don’t know who yet, stuck a knife in her back.”

“Good God! I was expecting to see her today.”

“There is another thing,” said Hamish. “Did she tell you that there had been a murder here?”

“Yes, she did. She said it was interesting because she was going to write a detective story. I tried to dissuade her.”

“Why?”

“It’s a crowded market. I suppose they all are. She was competent, but I didn’t think she could do it. But she said it would be faction.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s where an author takes a real-life story and fictionalizes it.”

“The trouble is,” said Hamish, “I think that’s what caused her death. Her discs and papers have been burnt, or rather, there’s evidence of that, and I think the murderer was destroying her evidence. Did she tell you anything about it?”

“No, but she was going to…today. I told her if she knew anything, she should tell the police. But she said it was her chance to make big money. She was tired of being a library author and earning peanuts.”

“What’s a library author?”

“It’s a writer who is well liked enough but never a bestseller. The books are bought by the libraries but hardly ever bought by the bookshops. Do you know there are a legion of writers in this country who never actually see their books on sale? And she was desperate for money.”

“Was she in trouble? In debt?”

“No, but she felt very frustrated every time she read about some writer making a fortune. She wanted to travel. I’m her fourth agent. You see, at first she blamed the agent for her lack of success. I mean, she was always published, but she didn’t earn much. She was always trying to bandwagon.”

“You’ll need to explain that as well.”

“If a certain genre became fashionable – science fiction, spy, the occult, World War Two, that sort of thing – Rosie would try to write whatever she thought would hit the big time. Now when even a competent author tries to write in a field that first of all they haven’t read much of and it isn’t their thing, the writing becomes very bad