After he had left her, Hamish walked across the hotel carpark to the police Land Rover. A small energetic-looking woman hailed him. “Where do you go in this burg for some fun?” she asked.
He pushed back his cap and scratched his hair. “It depends what you mean by fun,” he said. “Are you here on holiday?”
“Yes.” She held out a well-manicured hand. “I’m Betty John. I’m John Glover’s fiancée.”
Now here was sexiness compared to Rosie, thought Hamish. Betty exuded a sort of animal energy. “The banker?” he asked.
“The same.”
Hamish smiled. “And why would you be here looking for fun when you are on holiday with your fiancé?”
“I’ve just arrived and the unromantic bugger’s gone off somewhere on business. He never stops working. I work in the same bank. I tell you what, have dinner with me this evening. I’ve never had dinner with a copper before.” A malicious light gleamed momentarily in Hamish’s hazel eyes. He wondered what Priscilla would think when she found out that he had been dining with John’s fiancée. He wondered whether she even knew that John had this fiancée. But she was bound to know. Still, it would be nice if she didn’t like the idea.
“That would be grand,” he said. “There’s an Italian restaurant in Lochdubh which is pretty good.”
“I’ll find it. Eight o’clock suit you?”
“Great.”
“See you then.” Hamish went off, whistling.
Promptly at three in the afternoon, and keeping a sharp look but for Blair, he strolled along to Annie’s cottage, going up the lane at the side and then vaulting the back gate. Randy could have come this way often without being seen. There was only old Mrs. Biggar on the one side of the lane and she was deaf, and then there were Mr. and Mrs. Gilchrist on the other side and they were unusual in that they never minded their neighbours’ business.
As he had expected, the back door was unlocked. Lochdubh was one of the few remaining villages where people often do not bother to lock their doors or, for that matter, their cars.
He went through the neat, tidy kitchen and up the stairs to the bedrooms. He found one single one which had an unused air, a bathroom, gleaming with peach plastic, and then a double bedroom which was obviously where Annie slept. The bed was made, blankets tucked in hospital fashion. There was a photo of the late Mr. Ferguson beside the bed and a large Bible.
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.
—Thomas de Quincey
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.