He opened a drawer on the bedside table. He found a packet of hairpins, a hairnet – what woman wore a hairnet these days? – and, tucked at the back of the drawer, a packet of condoms. Randy’s?
Surely a respectable woman who had had a brief and, according to her, shameful fling, would have got rid of the things. He went to a large chest of drawers and slid the drawers open. The top drawer had papers and documents. He reluctantly left them and looked in the drawers underneath. Grimly respectable underwear, terrifying corsets, large sensible bras, wool knickers for winter, cotton knickers for summer, both of the old-fashioned kind sold in Lochdubh. Nylon petticoats, plain without lace. Thick stockings. He closed the drawers carefully after making sure that he had not disturbed anything. He turned and looked around. There was a wardrobe against the other wall. He crossed the room and swung it open. Serviceable suits and dresses, skirts and sweaters and cardigans, two tweed coats and one raincoat. On the shelf above, a selection of hats. Women in Lochdubh still wore hats to weddings, funerals, and on visits. He was about to turn away defeated and feeling ashamed of himself for having been poking around a respectable lady’s belongings when he saw that the wardrobe had two drawers at the bottom. He gave a shrug. Might as well do the job thoroughly. He knelt down on the floor and slid the top drawer open.
He stared down at a colourful jumble of sexy underwear. There were French knickers trimmed with lace, suspender belts, filmy black stockings, exotic nightgowns, and, underneath them all, three videos of the hard-porn variety. He sat back on his heels, amazed. The things that went on behind the lace curtains of Lochdubh, he marvelled. But one thing was certain. Here was a woman who would not have been alarmed in the slightest by any request to wear sexy underwear, nor would she have thrown it in the fire. But she had had a noisy fight with Duggan, because that was what she had told Blair, and that he would hear somehow and wanting to get her side of the story in. So what had really gone on? He must find a way to talk to her again without letting her know he had been in her home.
The doorbell shrilled suddenly and imperatively, making him jump. He carefully closed the drawers and tiptoed down the stairs. Through the frosted glass pane of the front door, he could see the square bulk of a woman and guessed that the minister’s wife had come calling.
He let himself out of the back door, jumped over the fence again and strolled down the lane. The lane led up the hill to the cottages at the back. In fact, if one crossed the fields from the top of the lane, one could reach Randy’s cottage.
Mrs. Wellington hailed him as he came out of the lane. “Were you up at the scene of the crime?”
“Just taking a look,” said Hamish. “I’m not supposed to be on the case.”
“And more’s the pity. I was just trying to call on poor Annie, but she’s out. Did you have a word with her?”
“Yes, I did. I told her to tell Blair that Randy had made pass at her and that was what the row was about.”
“Clever of you. Her good name must be protected.”
“Unless she’s guilty.”
“And I thought you were an intelligent man! Annie Ferguson a murderess! Don’t be so daft!”
? Death of a Macho Man ?
5
If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination.
—
Hamish decided to leave confronting Annie until he could think about it and decide how to go about it. He could hardly say to her something like, “A woman with underwear like yours would not be shocked by Randy’s suggestion.” He found he was looking forward to dinner with Betty as an escape from Blair and the case. At least he was not bothered by the press, they confining their attentions to his superior. He saw a headline in a newspaper, “Murder Village,” and shuddered. Lochdubh was getting a reputation. He was about to buy a copy and then decided against it.
He dressed carefully for dinner in a very well-tailored charcoal-grey suit and silk tie. Hamish had become a dedicated thrift-shop buyer. He brushed his red hair until it shone and then strolled along to the Italian restaurant.
Betty had not yet arrived. He let Willie Lament usher him to a table for two in a quiet corner and then looked at him in surprise. Willie’s fanaticism for cleaning was a legend. But in the candle-light, Hamish noticed that Willie’s usually neat features were marred by stubble and there was a stain on his jersey. His glance fell on the checked table-cloth. There was a splash of spaghetti sauce on it which had not been cleaned away after the previous diners had finished. He looked again at Willie. In any other man he might have decided that the unshaved face was meant to be designer stubble, but this was Willie.
“What’s happened to you?” demanded Hamish. “You look awful and there’s a stain on this tablecloth.”
“Oh, what’s the point,” said Willie wearily, but he went away and returned with a cloth and cleaned the plastic table-cloth. Hamish was then distracted by the arrival of Betty. She was wearing a white blouse with a deep V-neck and a black skirt under a loose coat and smelt of a strong, musky perfume. She had very fine eyes, he noticed, and a full, sensuous mourn.
“This is nice,” she said, hanging her coat over the back of the chair and sitting down. Hamish started to worry about Willie again. He usually took the diners’ coats and hung them up. Willie came up with the menus. There was a splash of candle-grease on the cover of the one he handed to Hamish.
Hamish looked at him in pained surprise. “I won’t have a first course,” said Betty. “I’m trying to slim.” She ordered an avocado salad and Hamish settled for lasagne and a bottle of Valpolieello.
“Priscilla all right?” asked Willie gloomily.
“She is just fine,” said Hamish crossly. His engagement to Priscilla was long over but no one in the village seemed prepared to accept the fact, and Willie always made Hamish feel guilty if he was dining with some other woman. “So how long have you worked in the bank?” asked Hamish. “Since I was seventeen.” She gave a husky laugh. “I’m not going to tell you how long ago that was. Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead,” said Hamish, stifling the irritation the reformed smoker always feels when confronted by the unreformed. She lit up a small cigar, puffed contentedly on it and then eyed him through the smoke. “So tell me all about policing. How’s the murder case going?”
“I wouldnae know,” said Hamish. “I’m just the local bobby. Strathbane’s handling it.”
“Don’t you feel left out?”
“Aye, I do, but that’s the way it goes.”
“So you just do local stuff?”
Hamish wondered whether to tell her about murder cases he had been on outside Lochdubh but decided against it. “I want a night off from police work,” he said. “Tell me about the bank.”
“Well, I’m just a teller. Whatever they might say about this age of women’s lib, it’s hard to get promotion. But I look forward to seeing some of my customers, and if the bank is quiet we can have a bit of a chat.” She told several amusing stories about her customers.
“So how did you get to know John Glover?” asked Hamish. “He was appointed bank manager from a branch in Motherwell, oh, about five years ago. We didn’t have much to do with each other until the Christmas party last year. We both got a bit drunk and started swapping stories about our unhappy marriages. We’re both divorced. And things just progressed from there.”
“If I may say so,” remarked Hamish, “neither of you looks like the kind of folks who would want to come to the Scottish Highlands for a holiday.”
“Why?”
“You’re a pretty sophisticated pair.”
“Why, thank you, sir. I don’t know what your friend Priscilla would think about that. You mean sophisticated people don’t holiday in Scotland?”
“I meant, I see the pair of you in some five-star Continental hotel with a beach.”
“Oh, we like the Highlands, John particularly. I think it was because his ex hated coming up here that he
