Death of a Dreamer

by M C Beaton

“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.

  He heated up two hot-water bottles and put them in his bed. He took a hot shower and then, followed by his pets, climbed wearily into bed. His last waking thought was that there should be some woman around to look after him.

  Caro opened the door to Jimmy Anderson and a policewoman. “What now?” she asked in alarm.

  “I think we’d better go inside,” said Jimmy.

  The policewoman sat in a chair in the corner of the room and took out her notebook.

  “Now, Miss Garrard,” began Jimmy, “you knew Jock Fleming before, didn’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “We have proof that you knew him in Brighton,” lied Jimmy.

  Her eyes dilated with fright, and then she said, “I didn’t want to say anything about it. It would look so suspicious.”

  “Let’s have the real story.”

  “I have a gallery in Brighton where I sell my stuff. He came in one day, and we got talking. Effie wasn’t there. She was already up here. I had two postcards from her pinned up behind my desk. They were scenic views of Lochdubh. He said it looked like a beautiful place and where was it? I told him Lochdubh in Sutherland. He took me out for a drink.”

  “You had an affair with him,” said Jimmy flatly.

  She hung her head. “It was a one-night stand. He left Brighton the next day.”

  “And have you seen him since you have been up here?”

  “I phoned him at the hotel. He shouted at me. He said he wished he’d never set eyes on my sister. He told me to leave him alone. He said he’d kill me if I told the police about our fling because they suspected him already and he didn’t want them knowing anything else.”

  “I should charge you with withholding information,” said Jimmy heavily. “Is there anything else you haven’t been telling us?”

  “No.”

  “And there’s no way Effie could have known you had an affair with Jock?”

  “No. I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Effie was always jealous of me. I felt it would only make her obsession worse if I told her. She would go mad trying to prove to me that she had succeeded where I had failed.”

  “I want you to stay in Lochdubh and hold yourself ready for further questioning. PC Ettrick here will type up your statement. Report to the police unit in the morning and sign it.”

  Betty Barnard was walking along the waterfront in the morning when she saw Dr. Brodie leaving the police station. She stopped him. “Is Hamish ill?”

  “He’s had a bit of a concussion, but I think he'll be all right if he takes things easy.”

  Betty let herself into the police station. She walked into the bedroom. “How did you get concussed, Hamish?”

  “I slipped and struck my head on the bath.”

  “I tell you what, that bed looks uncomfortable. Get up and sit in a chair in your living room, and I’ll clean the sheets for you. Do you have a washing machine?”

  “It’s in a cupboard in the living room. It’s one o’ the kind you wheel up to the kitchen sink and put a hose on the tap, but don’t bother. I’m fine. You shouldnae be here.”

  “Nonsense. You look dreadful. Up you get.”

  As Betty washed the sheets, she thought that the machine ought to be in a museum. The day was dry and sunny with a fresh breeze. She carried the sheets out into the back where there was a washing line and pinned them out to dry.

  When she came back in to where Hamish was huddled in an armchair, she asked, “Where’s your clean linen?”

  “In a cupboard in the bedroom.”

  Betty put clean sheets and pillowslips on the bed and then helped Hamish back into it. “Now, what about breakfast?”

  “I couldn’t eat anything, Betty. I think I’d like to go to sleep again. Thanks a lot.”

  She dropped a kiss on his forehead. “You go to sleep, and I’ll see you later.”

  Hamish fell back into a deep sleep and awoke six hours later. He felt much better and ravenously hungry. When he went into the kitchen, he noticed Betty had cleaned up everything and laid the table with two fresh baps—those Scottish bread rolls that everyone always claims are never what they used to be—on a plate along with a pat of butter, a pot of jam, and a thermos of coffee.

  He ate the baps and then fried himself a plate of bacon and eggs. Hamish found himself getting very angry indeed at whoever it was who had struck him.

  He had just finished eating when Jimmy appeared.

  “Is it all right to talk to you?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “I would have called earlier, but Dr. Brodie called in at the unit and said no one was to disturb
you.”

  “I’m better now. How did you get on with Caro?”

  Jimmy told him. “If I were Blair,” he said, “I would arrest Jock. But we haven’t any hard evidence. I think that ex-wife of his and Jock did the murders. I think they're both twisted and sick. God, I’d like to break them.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Back here. They got lawyers. Nothing really to hold them on. Oh, I saw that Priscilla of yours.”

  “She isn’t mine. What did she want?”

  “She’s off back to London.”

  “Did you tell her I was ill?”

  “Yes, she sends her best wishes.”

  Cold, chilly bitch, thought Hamish with a sudden burst of fury. Didn’t even bother to call to see if there was anything she could do for me. His fury was then replaced with a burst of gratitude for Betty’s kindness.

  I’m tired of being single, he thought. I am damn well going to ask Betty to marry me.

  “You know,” Jimmy was saying, interrupting Hamish’s thoughts, “I think if it wasn’t Jock or his wife, it could be Caro. She’s got a history of mental illness. She was furious with her sister for having pinched her work. She may have fallen in love with Jock herself. She covered up that she’d met him before. Then Hal told his ex that he was going to marry.”

  “It’s an idea,” said Hamish slowly. “I mean, Hal must really have been a very lonely man. Nobody liked him. He’d be easy prey. Someone wanted that notebook of his.”

  After Jimmy had left, Hamish brought in his clean sheets, folded them, and put them in the cupboard. Then he dragged an old deck chair into the front garden and settled down with piles of notes he had made on the case.

  The murders had been thought out, of that he was sure. But the murderer had been extremely lucky in that no one had seen him—or her. Jock Fleming seemed capable of arousing strong passions. Hamish began to wonder why Jock’s marriage had really broken up. Apart from his general womanising, Jock liked whores. Hamish was willing to bet that Jock knew Dora was a prostitute before he married her. So why had they divorced?

  “Coo-ee!” Hamish looked up from his notes. Gloria Addenfest was standing on the other side of the hedge. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” she said. “Mr. Wellington’s been great. You going to be there? Eleven o’clock.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said Hamish.

  “See ya.” She waggled her fingers at him and walked off.

  If there was something Lochdubh liked more than a wedding, it was a funeral, especially when it was the funeral of someone they had not cared about one bit. When Hamish walked along to the church the next morning, black-clad figures were heading towards the church from every direction.

  The church bell tolled out across the loch. Outside the church, the band of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders stood, getting their instruments ready, fighting for space with the television crews.

  The church was full to capacity. Hamish found a pew at the back where he could observe the congregation.

  In the front pew sat Gloria Addenfest in full Hollywood mourning: black cartwheel hat with thick black veil; black tailored suit.

  The organist began to play “Abide with Me,” and everyone shuffled to their feet as the coffin was carried in. Hymns were sung, a dignified sermon was delivered, there were readings from the Old and New Testaments, and then the small coffin was hoisted up and everyone fell in behind it for the procession up the hill to the graveyard, led by the pipe band playing a dirge.

  Mr. Wellington read the words of the burial service. A lone piper played “Amazing Grace”—what else? thought Hamish. I bet Gloria chose that—as the coffin was slowly lowered into the grave.

  Then the whole band struck up “Scotland the Brave,” and with pipes skirling and kilts swinging, they led the “mourners” down the hill to the church hall.

  The hall was lined with buffet tables with every sort of Scottish delicacy from smoked salmon to grouse in aspic to sherry trifle. A bar at the end was covered in whisky bottles and glasses. Someone had obviously advised Gloria not to waste her money on fine wines. There were tea urns and coffee urns.

  At first, everyone talked in low murmurs, discreetly piling plates with food and taking them off to one of the tables that had been set up around the hall.

  Gloria accosted Hamish. “I’m glad you came,” she said. She had removed her hat.

  “Did anyone warn you this is likely to go on all night?” asked Hamish.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a highland funeral. In some of the outer isles, it can still go on all week.”

  “They all seem subdued.”

  “Give them time.”

  After an hour, the whisky began to flow and the voices got louder. After another two hours, the floor was cleared and the local band of accordion, drums, and fiddle started playing highland reels.

  Hamish had drunk nothing but water, but his head began to ache. There was no sign of Betty, Jock, Dora, or Caro. Poor Effie, thought Hamish. No grand send-off for her. Effie had been cremated quietly and quickly in Strathbane.

  He went back to the police station and took two aspirin. He was suddenly exhausted again and felt like crying. If only life were like television, he thought crossly, where the hero is tied up and beaten to a pulp, escapes his captors, and manages to still engage in a brutal fist-fight. He sighed. Bruce Willis I am not.

  He took his notes to bed with him, searching, always searching, for a clue he felt sure was in there. He fell into a deep sleep, the notes scattered about him in the bed.

  He dreamt that Elspeth was calling him from the other side of the loch. He knew he had to reach her. He waded into the loch and found it was shallow. He continued wading towards her on the other side, and then his foot slipped and he plunged down into the depths of the loch. He tried to rise to the surface, but something caught him by the ankle and held him down.

  He awoke with a start. Elspeth. She had done an awful thing to him and had been punished. But he suddenly wished it had never happened. He remembered the cheque from the newspaper. He had forgotten all about it. He got out of bed and searched in the pockets of the trousers he had worn to Glasgow. The cheque was still there. He laid it out on the bedside table to remind him to put it in the bank in the morning.

  He thought again about Betty. What did she really think of him? It would be pleasant to be married to someone easy and kind.

  Why had Priscilla gone off so coldly, particularly when she knew he was ill?

  Hamish rose early in the morning and went for a walk along the waterfront. He liked rising early in the summer to enjoy the light. The winters were so long and dark and one hardly ever saw the sun.

  The loch was like a mirror. He went along to the harbour where the fishing boats were coming back in. They were now allowed to fish only three days a week. The fishermen were furious because they said European countries did not have to obey such stringent laws. Lochdubh had been a fishing village since the days of the Highland Clearances in the early nineteenth century. Crofters driven off by landowners who wanted the land for sheep were sometimes forced over to the coast, where they were told they could make a living from seaweed gathering and fish. Lochdubh had been luckier than most other places because the Countess of Sutherland had built a summer home there—now a deserted hotel by the harbour. She arranged for a whole village to be built out of rows of stone whitewashed houses, the houses that still stood there today.

  Hamish hailed Archie Macleod. “Good catch?”

  “Fair to middling. I’ll give ye a wee fish for Sonsie. I’ll drop it by the kitchen door.”

  “Thanks, Archie.”

  “Lucky we got anything. So many seals around.”

  Hamish knew that no fisherman in Lochdubh would ever contemplate killing a seal because they believed that seals were human beings who had come back.

  He sat down on the harbour wall, warm from the sun. Seals. One of the boys had said something about a seal.

  He stiffened. What if
Hal had been standing looking up at the waterfront, waiting for someone, but that someone had crept up out of the loch?

  He stood up and looked along the waterfront, and then he saw Betty.

  He had only seen her wearing trouser suits before, but she was now wearing a pair of shorts. Her legs were very long and surprisingly thin. Must be why she always wears trousers, thought Hamish.

  She was standing on a flat stone by the water’s edge, her hands behind her back, peering down into the water.

  Hamish was suddenly reminded of the heron he had seen with Robin. There was something predatory in Betty’s stance, and those long thin legs reminded him of the heron’s legs.

  For some reason he could not explain to himself at the time, he moved quickly back from the harbour wall so that she would not see him.

  He went back to the police station to look for Harry Wilson’s number. He found he was very cold again and put it down to the after-effects of the concussion.

  Chapter Twelve

  From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,

  Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,

  Feeds among the reeds and rushes.

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  “Harry,” said Hamish, “can I come over and see you? I need your help with something.”

  “Tell you what, Hamish. I feel like a bit of a drive. I’ll nip over and see you. Give me about half an hour or so.”

  “Have you got any photos of your diving school, that one you went to?”

  “I’ve got some in the family photo album. I’ll bring the lot.”

  After Hamish had rung off, Dr. Brodie came by. He shone lights in Hamish’s eyes and checked the lump on his head. “I think you'll do,” he said. “How are you feeling otherwise? Not too emotional?”

  “I cry a bit.”

  “That happens. Any weakness in the legs?”

  “No, they're all right.”

  “Headaches?”

  “I had one at the funeral celebrations.”

  “You weren’t drinking too much?”

  “Wasn’t drinking at all.”

  “Good, because Lochdubh is one great hangover, and I’m plagued with the usual: ‘But, Doctor, I only had two drinks. It must be something I ate.’ Take care of yourself. I saw your boss, Mr. Daviot, and told him firmly you needed peace and quiet.”