Death of a Charming Man Read Online Free Page B

one beauty.
    ‘I got tired of it,’ she said with a little sigh. ‘Don’t make a fuss about trivia, Callum. It wearies me.’ And she went on sewing.
       
    Harry Baxter drove his battered old truck down the winding road to Drim. He was a fisherman. There had been a bad-weather forecast and so the fishing boat at Lochdubh that he worked on had decided not to put out to sea. He was chewing peppermints because he had spent part of the morning in the Lochdubh bar, and like most of the men in Drim he liked to maintain the fiction that he never touched liquor. Just outside the village he saw a shapely woman with bright-blonde hair piled up on her head tottering along on very high heels. Her ample hips swayed as she walked. He grinned and rolled down the window and pursed up his lips to give a wolf whistle. Then he realized there was an awful familiarity about that figure and drew his truck alongside.
    ‘Hello, Harry,’ said his wife, Betty.
    ‘Oh, my God,’ he said slowly in horror. ‘You look a right mess.’
    ‘It was time I did something tae masel’,’ she said, heaving her plump shoulders in a shrug. She was carrying a pink holdall.
    ‘We’d better go home and talk about this,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’
    ‘Can’t,’ she said laconically. ‘I’m off to Edie’s exercise class.’ And she turned on those ridiculous heels and swayed off.
       
    There was a fine drizzle falling by early evening. Stripped to the waist and with raindrops running down his golden chest, Peter Hynd worked diligently, as if oblivious to the row of village women standing silently watching him. Rain dripped down on bodies sore from unaccustomed exercise and on newly dyed hair. Feet ached in thin high-heeled shoes. And beyond the women the men of the village gathered – small sour men, wrinkled crablike men, men who watched and suddenly knew the reason for all the beautifying.
    ‘Men’s Paws,’ sneered Jimmy Macleod, spitting on the ground.
    *    *    *
    Several days later, Hamish was strolling along the waterfront with his dog at his heels and his cap pushed on the back of his head. A gusty warm wind was blowing in from the Gulf Stream and banishing the midges for one day at least. Everything danced in the wind: the fishing boats at anchor, the roses and sweet peas in the gardens, and the washing on the lines. Busy little waves slapped at the shore, as if applauding one indolent policeman’s progress.
    And then a car drew up beside him. Hamish smiled down and then his face took on a guarded, cautious look. For the driver was Susan Daviot, wife of his Chief Superintendent. She was a sturdy woman who always looked as if she was on her way to a garden party or a wedding, for she always wore a hat, one of those hats that had gone out of fashion at the end of the fifties but were still sold in some Scottish backwaters. This day’s number was of maroon felt with a feather stuck through the front of it. She had a high colour which showed under the floury-white powder with which she dusted her face. Her mouth was small and pursed. ‘Ai’ll be coming beck with Priscilla to pick you up,’ said Mrs Daviot.
    ‘I am on duty,’ said Hamish stiffly.
    ‘Don’t be silly. I told Peter I was taking you off for the day. There is this dehrling house just outside Strathbane I want you and Priscilla to see.’
    Hamish opened his mouth to protest that he had no intention of moving to Strathbane or anywhere near it, but realized that would bring a lecture about his lack of ambition down on his head, so he said, ‘But didn’t you hear? Trouble over at Drim.’
    ‘What sort of trouble?’
    Hamish looked suitably mysterious. ‘I would rather not be saying at the moment.’
    Mrs Daviot grunted and drove off. Not for the first time did she think that Priscilla was not making a most suitable marriage, but on the other hand, had her husband not been Hamish Macbeth’s boss, then she would never have had the opportunity to go house-hunting with