Pete’s narrow face brightened. ‘I’ll try anything. It’s very good of you, Hamish. Have one on the house.’
‘Too early for me,’ said Hamish. ‘Don’t worry. Have you seen Duggan?’
‘The big man? He was in here last night saying as how he was getting bored and he was thinking of moving on.’
‘Let’s hope he does.’ Hamish sauntered out.
Hamish was no longer a favourite with the locals in the next two days. They found they were being breathalyzed in the hotel car park, their car keys taken away from them, and so they had to walk home and then were faced with the same long walk the next day to collect their cars. And outside the Lochdubh bar was a new sign advertising the happy hour. And so they were lured back.
But so was Randy Duggan, the Macho Man.
It was unfortunate for Geordie Mackenzie that while they had all been at the hotel, he had found new friends among the locals and an audience for his stories. He could not bear to sink back to obscurity. His resentment against Randy had been building up. The second evening after the locals had returned to the Lochdubh bar was a stormy one. Gales lashed rain against the steamed-up windows of the bar. The fishing boats would not be going out and so the bar was full.
Randy was bragging about how he had been a champion wrestler, when Geordie, who had drunk more than he was used to, piped up, ‘I don’t believe a word you say.’
His voice, although reedy, was perfectly clear and precise. Randy stopped in mid-sentence and glared at the retired schoolteacher. ‘What did you say?’ he roared. He was wearing a Stetson hat, pushed to the back of his head, and he flipped open the slats of his ridiculous glasses.
‘I think you’re a phoney,’ said Geordie. ‘That daft story about eating sheep’s eyes. Every phoney who’s been to the Middle East, or who pretends to have been in the Middle East, tells that story. It’s a myth. It was a folk story which got around after a British army prank when some chap was told he had to eat sheep’s eyes. No Arab actually eats them.’
Randy strutted over to Geordie. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘Yes,’ said Geordie, frightened but defiant.
‘Then,’ said Duggan with a nasty grin, ‘it’s time you cooled your head.’
He picked up Geordie by the scruff of the neck and carried him outside. Geordie kicked and wriggled and shouted for help. Everyone crowded outside the bar as Randy walked to the edge of the harbour and held the shrieking Geordie out over the water.
Hamish Macbeth came running up. ‘Stop it. Stop it now!’ he shouted.
Randy dropped Geordie contemptuously on to the quay and faced Hamish.
‘You’re a brave enough man when you’re in uniform,’ he sneered. ‘You wouldn’t dare stand up to me if you weren’t a copper.’
Hamish looked at him with sudden hate. He loathed bullies. He knew how humiliated little Geordie was. He flared up. ‘The day after tomorrow’s my day off. I won’t be in uniform then.’
‘Then I’ll meet you here after closing time at half past eleven at night,’ said Randy, and sticking his thumbs in his belt, he strolled back into the bar. Hamish was cursing himself before he even reached the police station. Randy would make mincemeat of him. If word of it got back to Strathbane, he might lose his job, lose his cosy billet in the village. But he knew there was no way of getting out of the fight now.
The next day, the village was alive with gossip about the great fight to come and the gossip spread over the surrounding moorland and mountains to other towns and villages. Bets were being laid, and most of them in favour of Duggan.
On the morning of the day of the fight, gloomy Hamish was beginning to wonder if he would still be alive at the end of it. Although he knew he had no feeling left for Priscilla, or so he told himself, he wanted to talk to someone about what a fool he had been, and Priscilla was the only person he could think of.
He found Priscilla in the gift shop. She was looking quite animated as she talked to a customer, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man. ‘Morning, Hamish,’ she said when she saw him. ‘Let me introduce Mr John Glover to you. He’s a banker from Glasgow who’s staying at the hotel. Mr Glover, this is our local bobby.’
The two men shook hands. John Glover was tanned and handsome with thick black hair, greying a little at the sides. He was of medium height, impeccably groomed and tailored, making Hamish conscious that his uniform trousers were shiny and that his hair needed cutting. And to Hamish’s dismay, he felt a stab of jealousy. ‘I want to talk to you about something serious,’ said Hamish.
But Priscilla looked reluctant to break off her conversation with John. ‘Go to my rooms in the castle,’ she said, ‘and wait for me. I won’t be long.’
Hamish slouched out moodily. In Priscilla’s apartment at the top of the castle, he paced nervously up and down, and then, to take his mind off his troubles, he switched on the television set. Priscilla had satellite television. Hamish flicked the buttons on the remote control through pop singers and quiz shows, and then stopped and stared at the set in amazement, thinking he was looking at Duggan. It was a wrestling programme. There was the same figure, the same slatted glasses, the same fringed leather clothes and colourful hat. But the announcer was saying, ‘And here is Randy Savage, the Macho Man, heavyweight wrestling champion.’
Hamish leaned forward. Could it be the same man? But no, this one was better shaped, finer built, the only similarity was in the dress. Who, now, thought Hamish, had given Randy Duggan the nickname of the Macho Man? Surely Randy himself. He had said he had been a wrestler in America. Therefore it followed that he had taken the nickname and adopted the dress of one of America’s wrestling heroes. But had he been a wrestler? Was anything he said true? Look how he claimed to be American and yet in his cups his accent thickened into a Scottish one, and a Lowland Scottish one at that.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Priscilla. He switched off the set. ‘Well, Hamish,’ she demanded briskly, ‘what can I do for you?’
She was wearing a black wool dress with a white collar. Her hair was smooth and turned in at the ends. A shaft of sunlight shone on it.
‘I’ve done something silly,’ said Hamish. ‘You know that fellow Randy Duggan we were talking about the other night?’
‘The Macho Man. Yes, what about him?’
‘Well, I’ve said I’ll fight him tonight and I don’t know if I’ll come out of it alive.’ He told her about the humiliation of Geordie, finishing with, ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t heard about the fight. I’m sure everyone from here to Strathbane is laying bets on it.’
Priscilla’s beautiful face hardened. ‘Hamish, what is this? Policemen don’t hold vulgar brawls with members of the public. Cancel it immediately!’
‘I cannae. He would swagger about the village telling everyone what a coward I was.’
‘Then on your own head be it. I’m sure that Highland brain of yours will find a way out of it. Fight dirty.’
‘I haff my pride.’
‘Your pride didn’t stop you from going to bed with an elderly spinster, and a murderess at that!’
Priscilla was referring to a case where a Miss Gunnery had claimed to be in bed with Hamish in order to give him an alibi when he was a number-one suspect.
‘She was only fifty and I didn’t go to bed with her. I told you that.’
‘Amazing how you went along with it.’
‘I wasted my time coming here,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘I should have known better than to expect a bit o’ womanly sympathy from you.’ They glared at each other.
Then Hamish gave a reluctant laugh. ‘It’s a bit like old times, us quarrelling. Let’s have dinner before the fight and talk about things.’
‘I have a dinner date with John Glover.’
‘That auld man!’
‘Don’t be silly. You’re no spring chicken yourself. He’s very charming.’
‘Oh, suit yourself,’ shouted Hamish, his face flaming as red as his hair. He strode out a
nd slammed the door behind him.
He spent a miserable day, dreading the night to come. He had been in a few fights but never up against such a brute as Randy. He could already feel the big man’s fists thudding into his face, bone cracking and blood spurting.
The gale had died down, but the rain fell steadily, fat drops running down the windows of the police station. Hamish sat by the stove in the kitchen, arms wrapped across his thin body for comfort, wishing, one way or another, it were all over.
But the clock on the kitchen wall ticked away the minutes and the hours and he could not think of any way of avoiding the fight.
Chapter Two
But I hae dreamed a dreary dream,
Beyond the Isle of Skye;
I saw a dead man win a fight,
And I think that man was I.
The Battle of Otterbourne
– Anon.
Hamish noticed with a sort of gloomy surprise that the rain had actually stopped falling and the pale twilight sky of a Highland summer where it hardly ever gets dark stretched above his head.
He was miserably afraid. Because of his silly pride, he would have to stand there and fight Randy Duggan in a clean and decent manner. If he had come up against such a thug in the line of police duty, he would have used every dirty trick in the book to protect himself. As he approached the harbour, he saw with dismay that the whole village had turned out to watch, even the children, even the minister and his wife. Had they no sense of decency? Going on like a lot of damned Romans waiting to see another Christian thrown to the lions, that’s what they were doing.
The crowd parted to let him through, cheering and slapping him on the back and saying things like, ‘My money’s on you, Hamish.’ He thought that no one in his right mind would have placed a bet on him to win. Then the thought came to him that he owed this bloodthirsty lot nothing in the way of entertainment. If he got a chance, he would tip Randy into the loch. He would not fight fair. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch, a present from Priscilla. It was nearly eleven-thirty, almost the witching hour, the approaching moment when one Hamish Macbeth would get his teeth rammed down his throat.
‘You’re looking a bit pale, Hamish,’ called someone, and Hamish smiled and waved and tried to look as if he didn’t give a damn about anything. But Priscilla might at least have come. What was she doing? Romancing around with that Glasgow banker when she should be standing by to hold his hand and nurse him back to health after Randy had finished with him.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ Priscilla was saying to John Glover. They were standing in the entrance hall of Tommel Castle.
‘Care for a drink before you go to bed?’ asked John. ‘I’ve got a good bottle of malt whisky in my room.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Priscilla quickly. ‘Maybe another time.’ Her eyes dropped to her watch. Eleven-thirty! She had resolved to keep away from the fight. She wanted to know nothing about it. But what if poor Hamish got mangled by that brute? John Glover had been pleasant company, but she did not think she wanted to take the friendship any further.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ John asked, wondering why the cool Priscilla was suddenly nervous and distracted. Maybe he should not have suggested a drink in his room. ‘I did mean just a drink, you know,’ he said, smiling into her eyes.
‘Of course. I mean, I didn’t think . . . Oh, could you excuse me. There’s something I have to do. Goodnight!’
Priscilla rushed out to the car park, got in her car and drove off at speed, scattering the gravel in the drive. There might still be time to stop Hamish Macbeth from being massacred!
Hamish looked at his watch. Eleven thirty-five. Come on, Randy. Let’s get it over with. He resented the festive air of the crowd. Patel, the Indian shopkeeper, had brought out his accordion and was playing Scottish reels. The children ran about, shouting and yelling, delighted at being allowed to stay up so late.
And then Hamish began to feel calm. He had been in nasty fights before. He had allowed himself to be intimidated by Randy’s bragging. The man had probably never been a wrestler. Priscilla appeared at his side. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘Nothing yet,’ said Hamish. ‘The fool’s probably going to make a grand entrance. I’m surprised to see you here. How wass your date?’ Hamish’s Highland accent always became more sibilant when he was upset.
‘All right. He’s an interesting man, very cosmopolitan for a Scottish banker.’
‘Humph. You’re getting a taste for older men.’
‘Hamish, how you can stand there and pick a quarrel over something trivial when you are about to fight that brute is beyond me. Can’t you just do the sensible thing and walk away?’
Hamish did not reply and they fell silent. The crowd had parted to leave a passageway for the expected arrival of Randy. Patel stopped playing. Heads twisted round until everyone was staring up the hill towards where Randy lived. He drove a showy jeep painted in camouflage colours. It had a distinctively noisy engine, but as the great crowd fell completely silent, there was only the sound of the waves lapping against the wooden piles of the harbour.
By midnight, Hamish was beginning to feel cheerful. Perhaps the incredible had happened. Perhaps the Macho Man had chickened out.
Then Geordie broke the silence. ‘The man’s just a big Jessie,’ he said in high delight. ‘I could have taken him on myself.’ And he squared his thin shoulders and fired off punches into the night air to the cackles of the crowd.
Archie Maclean, the fisherman, piped up. ‘I’ll just go up the hill tae his cottage and see what’s keeping him.’
He went off and they all waited.
Archie strolled up the hill with his hands in his pockets, whistling. He hoped he’d find the big man cowering at home. That would stop his bragging. It had been fun at first and the free drinks had been grand but Archie, like the rest, was bored with Randy.
The holiday cottage which Randy rented had been built to the orders of an English family who hardly ever used it. It was a square box of a house, built of breeze blocks with a scrubby garden in front where little grew except heather. Archie saw that all the lights were on in the house and he could hear the stereo blasting out. He began to feel nervous and all his old fear of Randy returned. He had been feeling bold until he heard the music, saw the lights, for he had secretly expected to find the place in darkness and the big man gone. He was now nervous of confronting him and hoped he wouldn’t be too drunk.
The front door was open and music was pouring out. The stereo was playing rap, one of those vicious hate-the-world numbers.
Archie rang the bell and waited. No answer. ‘Randy?’ he called tentatively, and then louder, ‘Randy!’
Probably passed out, he thought, feeling bolder. He walked inside and stood for a moment in the small hallway. Perhaps Randy was with some woman. He had never shown any liking for any of the village women. But you never could tell. Archie turned the door handle on the living room door and opened it a little and then peeped round it. The brightly lit room appeared to be empty. He then looked round the bedroom door and into the kitchen. No Randy.
Feeling cocky now, he strolled back to the living room, thinking he might find out something from photographs or papers about Randy, for, like the rest, he was curious about the Macho Man’s real background.
And then he let out a squawk of fright.
He had been walking towards the back window to see if the jeep was still parked where it usually was before he started snooping. For if the jeep was there, Randy might be out in the garden, somewhere close at hand. Archie had walked round the sofa and headed for the window and that was when he nearly fell over Randy Duggan.
He was lying in a heap on the floor, looking smaller and crumpled in death. Most of the back of his head had been shot away, and it could not have been an accident, for his hands were tied behind his back. All this Archie took in with one terrified glance. He never thought to use the phone, or to turn off that horrible music. He
simply took to his heels and ran.
He stumbled down the hill, falling on his face from time to time as heather roots caught at his ankles.
As he approached the harbour, he began to shout, ‘Come quickly. It iss horrible, awful. Oh, my God. Someone help me.’
Hamish pushed through the crowd and hurried to meet him. Archie was white and shaking. ‘He’s deid,’ he said. ‘Hamish, Hamish. This iss the black day for Lochdubh. Someone’s shot the bugger’s head off.’
Fright and shame set in at the same time among the villagers. This was no longer a spree, a bit of fun. This was real. This was real blood and gore. Somehow they had expected none from the fight. Hamish Macbeth could wangle his way out of anything. Mothers ordered their children home while Hamish hustled Archie along to the police station. ‘I’ll phone Strathbane first, Archie, and then I’d best get up there and see nothing is touched. There’s a bottle of Scotch in that bottom drawer. Help yourself.’
While Archie gulped whisky straight out of the bottle, Hamish phoned Strathbane, and when that was over he took Archie, who was still holding the bottle of whisky in a fierce grip, out to the police Land Rover and ordered him in.
They drove up the hill to Randy’s cottage, up the winding, rutted track. The lights still blazed, the rap music still polluted the quiet Highland air with its violence.
Hamish went into the house and switched off the stereo. The silence of death fell on the room. He stood looking down at Randy, not touching anything, noting the bound hands, noticing the blasted head. It could only have been done by a shotgun. He felt the body; it was still warm. Then he noticed the heat of the room. The cottage had central heating and it was turned up high. Not only that, but a two-bar electric heater in front of the blocked-up fireplace was switched on.
‘You’d best give me some sort of statement, Archie,’ said Hamish.
Archie babbled out how he had found the body. Hamish took notes and then began to prowl around the room. There were no photographs. The furniture was inexpensive and serviceable, the English family having put their own in storage and furnished the place for a holiday rental. There was a bad oil painting of Highland cows over the fireplace. The stereo, an expensive job, was probably Randy’s own. Hamish went carefully through the house. The bedroom was as sterile as the rest of the place, apart from a wardrobe full of Randy’s colourful clothes and a pile of pornographic magazines on a table beside the bed. The kitchen was bare and functional. There was very little food. He remembered that Randy ate most of his meals in the bar. He returned to the body and, kneeling down, began to go through the pockets. There was nothing there. He remembered that Randy had flashed an alligator-skin wallet in the pub, always crammed full of notes. No wallet. No papers. Not even a driving licence or keys to the jeep.
Death of a Macho Man Page 2