Death of a Dreamer

by M C Beaton

  Elspeth switched on her laptop and began to write. Her fingers seemed to fly across the keyboard.

  Hamish pulled Jimmy out of an interview to tell him about the postman and the hotel bicycle which looked as if it had been used.

  “What are they playing at?” asked Jimmy, meaning Jock and his wife.

  “I cannae see that either Jock or Dora would put those drugs in Dora’s room. Why should they?”

  “I’ll get someone to check with the post office and see if there was any delivery made to Sea View that day. Get back to Lochdubh and see if you can find out more.”

  “Will you have to release them?”

  “I’ll need to release Jock when six hours are up, but I can hang on to Dora with a drugs charge.”

  “Get the medical examiner to look at both of them,” said Hamish. “I’ll bet anything you don’t find a single bit of evidence of drugs.”

  “She could have been selling the stuff.”

  “Who to? It’s mostly alcohol here and a bit of pot. Why come up here to sell drugs when she could be doing a roaring trade in Glasgow?”

  “Anyway, go back and check. Meanwhile, the FBI are checking Hal’s background. They'll let us know if he had any enemies.”

  Hamish did not immediately head back. He wanted to walk and think. There was something tugging at the back of his mind. He felt that if he could get to it, he might have an inkling about the identity of the murderer.

  He wandered past shops and pubs, lost in thought.

  The sky above was changing from grey to black. Thunder coming, thought Hamish. I hope it clears the air.

  He realised he was hungry and went into a café and ordered a mutton pie and peas and washed it down with strong tea.

  As he glanced out of the window, he saw Betty Barnard walking past. He half rose to his feet to go outside and hail her but then sank back down. He must not socialise with a suspect. Then he was suddenly curious to find out where she was going.

  He paid for his food and went out. He could just see her at the end of the street, turning the corner, and hurried after her. She went into a small picture gallery which showed touristy scenes of hills and heather. He went up and looked quickly in the window. She was talking to someone in the gallery and looking at a painting.

  Well, what else did I expect? thought Hamish. Something sinister?

  He heard a low rumble of thunder in the distance and made his way back to police headquarters, where he had parked the Land Rover.

  As he drove up into the hills, one fat raindrop slid down the windscreen to be followed by another. Then the heavens opened and the rain poured down. The thunder boomed and rolled round the mountains and glens, and jagged lightning jabbed down on the road ahead.

  When he reached the police station, he rushed indoors and switched on the kitchen light. Nothing. A power cut.

  He found an oil lamp, lit it, and put it on the kitchen table and began to prepare food for Sonsie and Lugs.

  He realised he was very tired. After the animals had been fed, he put out the oil lamp and locked the kitchen door.

  Hamish went through and lay on his back on his bed. Lugs climbed up and lay on his feet, and Sonsie stretched out beside him. Just a few minutes’ peace and quiet, thought Hamish.

  Hamish awoke with a start to find it was early evening. The clouds had rolled away, and a shaft of the setting sun shone into his bedroom.

  He rose and went outside to check there had been no storm damage to the outbuildings and then locked up his hens for the night.

  Then he made his way along to the police unit, but it was closed and locked, and there was no sign of Robin. He walked round to see Matthew Campbell. The reporter answered his door in his shirtsleeves.

  “Come in, Hamish. Got a story for me?”

  “I wish I had. All the press still around?”

  “No, most of them have gone. It’s yesterday’s story. Besides, guess what: Someone’s seen the Loch Ness Monster and claims to have a photograph.”

  “Convenient in the middle of the tourist season,” said Hamish cynically. “Is Elspeth still around?”

  “She wrote some colour piece that she wouldn’t let me see and then cleared off to Glasgow.”

  Hamish felt a sharp pang of loss. He should have been nicer to her, but, then, she’d said some dreadful things to him.

  “Are you still enjoying it up here?” asked Hamish.

  “Yes, I do pretty well. The local job’s not very demanding, but I make a good bit covering for the nationals.”

  “I’ll tell you about the latest development,” said Hamish, “and see what you think. But, mind, you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Okay.”

  Hamish told him about the postman, the drugs, and the questioning of Jock and Dora.

  “Can I use this?” asked Matthew eagerly.

  “I don’t see why not. The locals have all been questioned, so you would have heard about this postman sooner or later. Help me. I’m tired of questioning and questioning. See if anyone can tell you anything more about this postman. All I’ve got is he was in dark clothes and wearing a baseball cap with the peak pulled down over his face.”

  “I’ll get on to it.”

  “Where’s Freda?”

  “At the school, answering a ton of government questionnaires. She says she can do them better there than at home.”

  Hamish went back to the police station to find Jimmy waiting outside for him.

  “Whisky, Hamish, quick.”

  “Come ben. You're lucky I’ve still got some. How’s it going?”

  “It’s not going anywhere. You were right. No drugs in either of them. No fingerprints on that cocaine packet. Does look like a setup.”

  “What about the postman?”

  “The main post office said no deliveries were scheduled for Lochdubh after the usual nine-in-the-morning post. Whoever rode that bike wore gloves. But there is one thing: Strathclyde police found out that Jock has two addictions—whores and gambling.”

  “I wish I could go down to Glasgow,” said Hamish.

  “Why?”

  “To find out more about Jock’s background.”

  “Man, Strathclyde police have been into it, and they wouldn’t welcome you on their turf. Are you going to pour that whisky or not?”

  “Sorry. I haven’t had a day off since this all started. What’s to stop me taking a wee trip in a private capacity?”

  “I’d never get it past Daviot.”

  “He wouldnae need to know.”

  “All right. But just the one day.”

  “Where’s Robin?”

  “She’s being transferred to Inverness next week. And the latest is she’s been pulled off duties as well until she goes. Haven’t seen that woman reporter friend of yours. Hey, no romance there, is there? You're not really going because of her?”

  “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 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 edito
r. 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.

  Chapter Eleven

  Truth is never pure, and rarely simple.

  —Oscar Wilde

  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 post-mark.

  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.”