Death of a Dreamer (19 page)

‘No, I never did fancy her,’ lied Hamish.

‘Mackenzie’s called “Auld Iron Knickers” at headquarters. There’s a lot there tried to get a leg over but didn’t get anywhere.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘I’ll let you go to Glasgow, but make sure Daviot doesn’t hear of it.’

Hamish drove down to Inverness the next day and caught the Glasgow plane. Two women in front of him irritated him by twisting around and trying to get a look at him. Both had
newspapers, and both were giggling.

At Glasgow airport, he stopped at a kiosk to buy a copy of the
Bugle
to see if maybe Elspeth had anything to add to what he had found out. On the bus into the city, he flicked through the
newspaper and then stared in horror at a feature by Elspeth called ‘The Don Juan Policeman of Lochdubh’. It was a humorous little article claiming that one Hamish Macbeth had broken
more hearts than any in the Highlands, and the latest heart to be broken was that of Detective Constable Robin Mackenzie, who’d had an affair with the local hero, only to be tossed aside.

When he got off the bus, he went straight to the offices of the
Bugle
and demanded to see the editor. He waited almost a quarter of an hour until he was shown upstairs and into the
editor’s office, where the editor, flanked by several other men, was waiting.

‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ said the editor, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Mark Liddesdale.’

Hamish ignored his hand. ‘This article in your paper is slander and lies. I’m going to sue.’

‘What exactly is wrong with it?’ asked Liddesdale. ‘Do sit down.’

‘No, I’d rather stand. It specifically claims I had an affair with a female detective. This is a pack of lies.’

‘Our lawyers checked with our reporter, Elspeth Grant. She says that Robin Mackenzie told her so herself.’

‘Get her in here!’ raged Hamish.

The editor nodded, and one of the men left the room.

Elspeth was ushered in after a few minutes. She saw Hamish and gave a defiant little toss of her head.

‘You say in your article, Elspeth,’ said Hamish, ‘that I had an affair with Robin.’

‘She told me!’

‘Have you your notes?’ demanded Liddesdale. ‘What exactly did she say?’

‘I have them here. Let me see. She said, “I’m sick of the police. You know, I always thought policemen would be honourable, but they’re just rats like any other men. Take
you to bed one night and claim the moral high ground the next. Makes me sick.”’

‘And where in your notes does it mention Mr Macbeth here?’

Elspeth flushed. ‘It doesn’t. But, I mean, who else was she working with?’

‘Robin Mackenzie is based at Strathbane police headquarters, which is full of men,’ said Hamish. ‘You jumped to the wrong conclusion, slandered me. I’m going to
sue.’

‘Leave us, Elspeth,’ said the editor heavily. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ After she had left, Liddesdale said, ‘Please do sit down. There is no need to drag
this through the courts. We will print a full apology.’

‘I want it prominent, mind,’ said Hamish. ‘No burying it at the bottom of the sports page. And now to compensation?’

The editor rang a buzzer on his desk, and when his secretary entered, he said, ‘Take Mr Macbeth here to the executive dining room and serve him coffee or drinks. We’ll get back to
you shortly, Mr Macbeth.’

Hamish left the newspaper office an hour later with a cheque for twenty-five thousand pounds in his pocket. He felt elated. What would his mother say when he gave her the
money? The whole family could have a splendid holiday.

He heard his name being called and turned and saw Elspeth running up to him. ‘I’m sorry, Hamish. I thought –’

‘You should have asked me, Elspeth. I thought a good reporter always checked the facts.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve been fired,’ said Elspeth.

‘I’m right sorry, Elspeth. It was a grievous thing to do. Now leave me alone.’

‘Wait, Hamish. There’s danger coming to you out of the loch.’

Hamish made a sound of disgust and walked rapidly away. He knew that Elspeth often had uncanny psychic experiences, but right at that moment, he wanted to get as far away from her as
possible.

Hamish had asked Jimmy for Jock’s address before he left. The artist lived in a flat off the Great Western Road.

Hamish started by interviewing the neighbours. An elderly couple who lived above Jock said they found him a nice, cheery sort of man. No, no wild parties or anything like that. The people below
said much the same thing. But an artist, Hugh Tarrington, lived in the basement and turned out to know Jock very well.

‘Can you paint here?’ asked Hamish, looking around the dark basement.

‘This is a garden flat,’ said Hugh. ‘I’ve built a studio out back.’

Hugh was a thin, pale, bespectacled young man who looked more like an office worker than an artist. He fussed about, making tea, talking the whole time.

‘I often go for a drink with Jock. He’s great company,’ said Hugh. ‘He also used to spend a lot of time down here to get away from the wife. He said she was accusing him
night and day of having an affair.’

‘And was he?’

‘Truth to tell, I think there were a lot of women in Jock’s life. Here’s your tea. Mind you, I could swear he was actually in love.’

‘When was this?’

‘Just before the divorce.’

‘Did he talk about it?’

‘No, but he was obviously dying to. He talked a lot about love generally. His eyes were all shiny and his face soft.’

‘When did you first notice the signs?’

‘Let me think. Oh, I know. It was that time after he came back from Brighton.’

‘Brighton!’ exclaimed Hamish. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure as sure. He brought me a box of fudge with “A present from Brighton” on the lid.’

‘Do you know where I might find some folk who knew Jock well?’

‘You could try his favourite pub, the Red Hackle in Byres Road. I’ll come with you.’

They walked together along to the pub. The Red Hackle turned out to be that rare thing – a pub that had escaped gentrification. It was dark and smoky with a long bar, a few tables, an old
pinball machine and a snooker table.

They ordered drinks. ‘There’s Jerry. He knows Jock,’ said Hugh. He called Jerry over and introduced Hamish.

Jerry was a huge, shambling man with hands like hams and shaggy grey hair. ‘A policeman from the Highlands,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve been reading about the murders up there.
What’s Jock got himself into?’

‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Hamish quickly. ‘But can you both tell me if he was into drugs?’

‘Not Jock,’ said Jerry. ‘Wouldn’t touch the stuff. Said he had enough trouble with the booze.’

‘Did he talk about his trip to Brighton?’ asked Hamish.

‘That was a time ago. He said he’d had the time of his life. I asked if he’d cleaned up. He’s a gambler. He said he’d fallen in love. There was a crowd of us in
that night, and we all started teasing him and asking for the name of the lady. He clammed up tight and said he had been joking, and we couldn’t get anything more out of him.’

I’d like to get into his flat, thought Hamish, even though the police have already searched it.

He asked more questions but could not get any relevant information. He left Hugh in the pub and made his way to Jock’s flat. He went quietly up the stairs. Outside the flat door, he took
out a little bunch of skeleton keys and got to work on the lock until it sprang open.

It was a spacious Victorian flat with high ceilings. In the living room, there was a long bench filled with paints and brushes. The air smelled strongly of turpentine. There was a battered
roll-top desk against one wall. He sat down in a chair in front of it, pulled on gloves, and began to go through any papers he could find. There were the usual bank statements and gas and
electricity bills. The trouble was, thought Hamish, in these days of texting and e-mails, people did not often send personal letters through the post.

He pulled out drawer after drawer. And then in the bottom one, he found an envelope with a Brighton postmark.

He gently opened it and slid out the letter from inside.

He heard a slight noise behind him and made to swing round, but he was too late.

A heavy blow struck him on the back of his head, and he tumbled off the chair on to the floor, fighting with the blackness that was trying to engulf him, hearing soft footsteps moving rapidly
away.

When he could sit up, he felt terribly sick. He heaved himself to his feet, made his way groggily to the bathroom, and was violently ill. He splashed his face with cold water
and gingerly felt his head. There was a large lump. He couldn’t call the police because he wasn’t supposed to be in the flat – or in Glasgow, for that matter.

When he went back to the desk, it was to find that the letter with the Brighton postmark was gone.

He went out of the flat, carefully locking the door behind him. He caught a taxi in the Great Western Road and asked to be taken to the nearest hospital. It was only in books, reflected Hamish,
that the brave detective soldiered on. He knew he’d better get checked out.

He waited in the outpatients’ until a doctor was free to examine him. He was told that, yes, as he knew, he had suffered a slight concussion, but the skin wasn’t broken. ‘Been
in a fight?’ asked the doctor.

‘No. Slipped in the bathroom and banged my head on the bath,’ lied Hamish.

‘You’ll need to take it easy,’ said the doctor. ‘We’ll just take a few X-rays and send the results on to your own doctor.’

Hamish knew that the mills of the National Health Service ground exceedingly slowly and that the results would end up on Dr Brodie’s desk in about a month’s time.

He still felt sick when he left the hospital, and the light hurt his eyes. He peered at his watch. Just time to catch the plane. If only he could think clearly. Someone knew he was in Glasgow,
and that someone must have been following him.

On the bus to the airport, despite the heat of the day, he felt cold and began to shiver. I’ll go straight to bed when I get home, he promised himself.

He was queuing up at the gate for the Inverness plane when a voice behind him said, ‘It’s never Hamish Macbeth!’

Hamish turned round. ‘Harry Wilson?’ he asked.

‘The same.’

‘I haven’t seen you in ages,’ said Hamish. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘Back home to Lairg for a break.’

‘What are you doing now?’

‘Same as you, in a way. I’m a police diver.’

‘I thought you were going to be a football star.’

‘Played for Rangers for a bit but really wasn’t up to the mark. Took the police exams. I got interested in diving after I joined the Glasgow Diving Club.’

They had their tickets checked, then walked together to board the plane; ‘Are you all right?’ asked Harry. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’

‘I was investigating something. You’re not to tell anyone, mind. I wasn’t supposed to be in Glasgow as far as the police were concerned. Someone crept up on me and bashed me on
the head.’

‘You’d better go to your doctor when you get back to Lochdubh. What happened exactly?’

As they sat together on the plane, Hamish told him about breaking into Jock’s flat.

‘Someone must have been following you,’ said Harry. ‘Who knew you were going to Glasgow?’

‘Only my boss, Jimmy Anderson.’

‘I thought that one would have died of liver failure by now, and what do you mean your boss? Isn’t that old scunner Blair still in charge?’

‘He’s out of commission. Took a tumble down some steps and broke his arm and his collarbone.’

‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow.’

They parted at Inverness airport, Harry promising to visit Hamish in Lochdubh before he went back to Glasgow.

Hamish drove carefully homewards. The light hurt his eyes even more, and he put on sunglasses.

At the police station, he found the cat and dog were out. He had phoned Angela before he had left and had asked her to open the door for them at certain times during the day.

He still felt ill, so he went out again and walked to Dr Brodie’s. Angela opened the door to him, her thin face sharpening in concern. ‘You look dreadful, Hamish.’

‘Someone hit me on the head. I had it looked at in Glasgow, but I’d feel better if your man could take a look as well.’

‘I’ll get him. Sit down, Hamish.’

Hamish sat down wearily at the kitchen table. Three of Angela’s cats leapt on the table among the dirty dishes and laptop and stared at him with unblinking eyes.

Dr Brodie bustled in. ‘I’ll take you to the surgery, Hamish, and examine you.’

In the surgery, he gently examined Hamish’s head. ‘How did this happen?’

‘Someone crept up behind me in Glasgow and socked me on the head.’

‘There’s a big lump, but the skin isn’t broken.’

‘The hospital in Glasgow is sending on the X-rays.’

‘Good I’ll need to keep a close eye on you, Hamish. You may experience dizziness, headaches, and weakness in the legs. I’m surprised the hospital didn’t keep you in for
observation.’

‘I had to get away. I wasn’t supposed to be in Glasgow, and I didn’t want the police to know I had been detecting on their patch.’

‘Go home and get some sleep. Phone headquarters and tell them you are taking time off. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll have another look at you.’

Hamish left the surgery to find Lugs and Sonsie waiting for him on the road outside.

‘Come on home,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get something to eat and go to bed.’

At the police station, he phoned Jimmy and told him about the letter with the Brighton postmark and then about being knocked down.

‘I’ll get straight up to see that sister, Caro. She may have known Jock before.’

‘I should go with you.’

‘You’d better rest. At least take tomorrow off. I’ll see you in the morning and let you know how I get on.’

Hamish fed the dog and cat. Then he heated up a can of soup for himself but only ate half of it. To his horror, tears began to run down his cheeks and he started shivering again.