Geordie brightened. “I’ll look around and keep my ear to the ground,” he said. “But I think a woman did it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The chloral hydrate. That’s a woman’s trick.”
“Not necessarily. A man, a small man, a weak man would just as easily have wanted a quiet and silent Randy to shoot.”
♦
He made his way up to Tommel Castle in the rain, which increased from a drizzle to a downpour. The castle, floodlit against the dark sky, loomed up as if under water. The windscreen wipers were barely coping with the flood. As soon as he had stopped outside the castle, Priscilla darted forward to join him. “What a night!” she gasped, shaking raindrops from her hair. “At least there will be no wandering poacher to see us.”
They drove to Rosie’s cottage. “Did you make sure she had left?” asked Priscilla.
“I phoned at regular intervals this evening, but there was no reply.”
“How are you going to break in? If you smash the windows, that’ll cause a fuss.”
“I’ve got a wee gadget for picking locks.”
“And where did a respectable policeman get this wee gadget from?”
“Fergie, over at the ironmonger’s in Cnothan, made it for me. He’s fair fascinated wi’ lock-picking. People who forget their keys and can’t get into their houses always come to him. I hope it’s an easy lock, mind. If she’s got a dead bolt or any thing like that, I’m stuck.”
He parked and they both got out. “I should have brought an umbrella,” mourned Priscilla as the rain bucketed down on them.
“I’m glad the efficient Priscilla has slipped up for once in her life,” he said.
“But don’t you see, it means if we get in there, we’ll drip all over the floor?”
“I’ll deal with that problem when I get to it,” said Hamish, starting work on the lock. Now he felt so close to finding out what was hidden in the word processor, he was determined to go ahead with his plan.
It was a simple Yale lock and he dealt with it quickly. They both crept inside, Hamish lighting a pencil torch. Then each put on gloves.
“Draw the curtains,” hissed Priscilla. “When we switch on the machine, if anyone even passes in a car, they’ll see the light from it.”
He jerked the curtains closed. Floppy discs were scattered over the table. “Give me the torch,” said Priscilla. “She’s written titles of books on each one. Lady Jane’s Fancy. Hardly the title of a detective story. This one’s marked ‘Letters’ and this one ‘Tax.’ No good. Hamish, maybe she told the truth and never even got started.”
“She didn’t cultivate such as Archie and Andy for nothing. I do believe she did want local colour. Any notes, papers?”
There were notes and papers and bundles of manuscript but nothing relating to Lochdubh or its inhabitants.
The table which was supposed to serve as a dining one was where she worked. “Damm it,” said Hamish after an hour’s futile searching. “I’m going to put on the light. If anyone comes to investigate, we’ll use your story about having seen a light. We’ll say we found a door open.” Priscilla switched on the light and they looked around the bleak room.
“She’s been burning something in the fireplace,” muttered Hamish, crouching down in front of it. “Come here, 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.