Death of a Travelling Man

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Oh, it’s a right goings-on,’ said the friend. ‘Some tart’s come in, screaming fur the super and carrying a baby. She says the bairn’s father is Hamish Macbeth.’

  ‘Oh, my!’ exclaimed Willie in simple delight.

  ‘He’s goin’ tae have that uniform and stripes ripped off him,’ said the friend. ‘I should think the police station at Lochdubh will be yours after today.’

  Willie thanked him and put down the phone. He went through to the living quarters and looked slowly around. He could get that wallpaper with the nice Regency stripe for the living room and get rid of that nasty open fire which caused so much dust and put in one of those electric ones with the fake logs. He would take over Hamish’s bedroom, which was larger than his own. He would rip the woodburning stove out of the kitchen and replace it with a Calor gas cooker. He rubbed his hands gleefully. And that battered armchair Hamish liked so much could go for a start. A good spring cleaning was what the place needed. Whistling cheerfully, he tied on an apron and got to work.

  Hamish sat nervously in the superintendent’s office in Strathbane Police Headquarters. Strathbane! How he hated the place. A dreary, soulless town on the edge of the sea, with rotting docks and rotten houses and a general grey air of failure.

  Superintendent Peter Daviot came in and Hamish jumped to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, Macbeth,’ said the superintendent. No ‘Hamish’. A bad sign.

  ‘What’s it about?’ asked Hamish, wondering if Priscilla’s father’s water bailiff had seen him poaching on the river and reported him.

  ‘It’s about Maggie Dunlop.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Come, come, Sergeant, let’s talk this out man to man. Maggie Dunlop is waiting downstairs with your son.’

  ‘My –! This is a bad joke.’

  ‘No, Macbeth, she has reliable witnesses and photographs to prove it.’

  Hamish leaned back in his chair and said very quietly, ‘Let’s have the lassie in here. I’m fascinated.’

  ‘Very well. I’m sorry about this. I thought you were doing so well, and the rescue of that little boy from the river was a credit to the force.’ He pressed a bell on his desk and said, ‘Send up Miss Dunlop. You will find her with Mr Blair.’

  ‘Blair,’ said Hamish slowly. ‘Is he behind this?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. He happened to be here when she called – in great distress, I may add.’

  After a few moments the door opened and Blair ushered in a scrawny girl clutching a dirty baby. ‘Oh, Hamish,’ she cried when she saw him. ‘How could ye?’

  ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life,’ said Hamish flatly.

  She began to weep and wail while the baby bawled. Blair thrust two photographs at Hamish. ‘Whit hae ye tae say tae that, laddie?’

  Hamish stared down at the photographs in bewilderment. They were two snapshots of him with Maggie. He was smiling and had an arm around her shoulders. In each photo he was in uniform. ‘They must be fakes,’ he said.

  The baby abruptly stopped crying and looked at Hamish wide-eyed.

  Mr Daviot leaned forward and clasped his hands. ‘Now we all make mistakes. This happened three years ago, Miss Dunlop says. She says she’s written to you several times begging for support money for the child, but you never answered.’

  ‘And who is this reliable witness or witnesses?’ demanded Hamish grimly.

  ‘Mr and Mrs John Tullyfeather, who live next door to Maggie, can testify that you visited her frequently.’

  ‘And where do they and this woman here live?’

  ‘The Nelson Mandela block of flats down by the old dock. Stop this farce, Hamish. As you very well know, Miss Dunlop lives at number 23.’

  Blair gave a coarse laugh. ‘Ye cannae get yer leg over these days, Hamish, withoot paying the consequences.’

  ‘That’s quite enough of that,’ snapped Mr Daviot. ‘You may get back to your duties, Blair.’

  Blair left reluctantly.

  Hamish looked closely at the photographs again. He suddenly remembered the horrible time when the police station had been closed down in Lochdubh and he had been called to serve on the force in Strathbane. Before his blessed return to his village, where the locals had organized a crime wave to get him back, he had had his photograph taken down on the waterfront by Jimmy Anderson. But in those pictures he had been standing with his arm around WPC Pat Macleod. Jimmy had given him the film to get developed, but then Hamish had had the glad news of his return and had left the roll of film in his desk. So someone, probably Blair, had got the film and persuaded some bent photographer, probably himself – Hamish remembered the detective saying he had a darkroom at home – to fake up the photos.

  ‘Could I haff a word with you in private, sir,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Indeed you can. This ugly business must be cleared up,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Goodness, if the local press got their hands on this!’ He rang the bell and told his secretary to take Miss Dunlop to the canteen and see that she had tea and cakes.

  Maggie Dunlop left, strangely silent, but eyeing Hamish uneasily as she went.

  Hamish tapped the photographs. ‘If you ask Jimmy Anderson, he will remember taking photos of me with Policewoman Macleod in that location. Someone has found the film, taken photos of this Maggie and faked them.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Someone who didn’t like me being made sergeant or getting all that coverage on television?’

  ‘If you mean a jealous member of the police force, you must be mistaken! You may as well tell the truth.’

  ‘Furthermore, sir,’ said Hamish quietly, ‘did you check whether this Maggie Dunlop and the reliable witnesses have criminal backgrounds?’

  ‘Of course not. Why?’

  ‘Chust do me a favour,’ said Hamish, ‘and ask. My job’s on the line.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Mr Daviot picked up the phone and rapped the necessary instructions down it. Hamish leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘We’ll chust wait and see.’

  It seemed an age before the phone rang. Mr Daviot snatched it up and listened intently. Then he gazed at Hamish as the voice went on, his eyes round.

  He finally put the phone down and said awkwardly, ‘Well, Hamish, it seems as if you have the right of it. I asked Pat Macleod to check and there was nothing on our files against either of them, but she’s a bright girl and she checked the Central Scottish Criminal Records by phone. Maggie Dunlop, or certainly a Maggie Dunlop who fits the description of your accuser, was a well-known prostitute in Glasgow. She became pregnant and decided to start a new life up here. James Tullyfeather is also from Glasgow and has just finished doing ten years for armed robbery. There can’t be more than one robber with a name like Tullyfeather. This is terrible. Who would do such a thing to you? Wait here.’ He shot out of the door.

  So, thought Hamish, beginning to relax. Blair’s up to his tricks. If Maggie Dunlop’s still in the canteen, I’m a Dutchman. Blair would be hanging about to find out what was going on and he’d know Pat was checking up. He must nearly have had a heart attack when she moved over to checking the Central Criminal Records.

  After a long time, the superintendent came back and slumped down heavily into his chair. ‘What a mess,’ he said. ‘Maggie Dunlop has disappeared. I went myself in a squad car round to Nelson Mandela House but the flat was empty, and the Tullyfeathers had gone as well. Someone in this station must be responsible. Perhaps it was meant as a joke?’

  ‘Taking a joke a bit far when it meant faking those photographs,’ pointed out Hamish, who was beginning to enjoy himself.

  ‘Dear me, yes. There will be a full investigation. Have you yourself any idea who …? What about that policewoman, Mary Graham, who had some sort of spite against you?’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think it was her,’ said Hamish blithely. ‘This has upset me a lot, sir. Do you mind if I go home?’

  ‘By all means. You are taking this remarkably well, Hamish. If t
here is anything I can do for you, anything at all …’

  Willie, thought Hamish, but not yet.

  He said goodbye and ambled down the stairs and into the detectives’ room and looked around. There was no sign of Blair. He was not surprised. He went out and had a meal and then returned to the detectives’ room. This time, Blair was sitting at his desk.

  ‘Oh, aye, Hamish,’ he said with false heartiness. ‘Glad ye got that wee problem sorted out.’

  Hamish pulled up a chair close to Blair and leaned forward. ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he whispered, ‘and unless you get me the central heating for my police station, I’ll track down that brass nail you coerced into lying and I’ll have you out of a job.’

  ‘I don’t know whit you’re talking about,’ muttered Blair.

  ‘Do I get the central heating or not?’

  ‘Aye, of course, Hamish. I promised, didn’t I? Mind you, Daviot’s cutting down on regional expenses and –’

  ‘You’ve got a week,’ said Hamish and rose and left.

  Blair watched him go and then lumbered to his feet. He caught Mr Daviot just as the superintendent was leaving.

  ‘I saw Macbeth,’ said Blair. ‘He’s in a fair taking over the way he’s been treated.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘He seemed so good about it all. Of course I did tell him if there was anything we could do for him to let us know.’

  ‘As tae that, I meant to tell you, sir, that he’s been wanting the central heating for that bit o’ a polis station in Lochdubh.’

  ‘Then arrange it! Arrange it right away!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir. How’s the lady wife, sir?’

  ‘Tolerably well, thank you. She was delighted with the flowers you sent her.’

  ‘Only too happy tae please, sir, you know that.’

  Blair followed the superintendent down the stairs, oiling and complimenting. Superintendent Daviot saw nothing wrong with this. In fact, he enjoyed it immensely.

  Blair finally got back to his desk. What had come over him to try that trick on Hamish? He had been so pleased with the job he’d done on those photographs. Now he’d had to pay Maggie and the Tullyfeathers to run for it – pay them a lot. It must have been the drink. He would never drink again. Well, maybe just the one to steady his nerves. He slid open the bottom drawer of his desk and eased the bottle out.

  * * *

  Hamish drove slowly and carefully back to Lochdubh. It was so cold that even the salty slush on the roads was beginning to freeze hard.

  A small cold moon was shining down on the snow-covered moors. He braked hard as a stag skittered across the road in front of him. He drove on through the moon landscape until he topped the rise of the road which led down to Lochdubh. Bright stars were burning above and shining in the still waters of the loch below. Home, he thought, home and comfort. A glass of whisky, light the fire, relax.

  But when he pulled up at the police station it was to see the kitchen door and front door standing open and piles of furniture in the small drive at the side. From the inside came the busy sound of vacuuming.

  He edged his way around the furniture and walked in. Willie was through in the living room. He was pushing the vacuum around the carpet and whistling cheerfully.

  ‘Willie!’ roared Hamish, bending down and whipping the vacuum cord so that the plug shot out of the wall.

  Willie turned slowly and stared at Hamish in ludicrous dismay. ‘It’s yerself.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing to my home?’ demanded Hamish.

  ‘I thought I waud give it a wee bittie o’ a spring clean,’ said Willie miserably.

  ‘Get this straight,’ said Hamish. ‘You occupy one bedroom. The rest is mine – my furniture, my books, my carpet, my kitchen … mine, mine, mine. Put everything back the way it was, close the doors, heat the place up. You’ve got one hour to do it. And don’t ever let me see you do any housekeeping here again.’

  Hamish turned and strode out. Willie blinked and looked slowly about at the ruin of his dream. Gone forever, oh lovely Regency-striped paper. Gone forever, synthetic dust-free log fire.

  Hamish drove to Tommel Castle Hotel, parked and went in search of Priscilla.

  She was in the hotel office, sitting in front of a computer. ‘Working late,’ commented Hamish.

  ‘Yes, Mr Johnson’s got a bad cold.’ Mr Johnson was the manager. ‘Sit down, Hamish. You don’t look your usual relaxed self. What’s up?’

  He told her all about Blair’s perfidy. ‘So,’ she said when he had finished, ‘that’ll leave a gap in the ranks.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, Blair’ll be out on his ear.’

  ‘No, he won’t. I didn’t tell Daviot I knew it was Blair.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I told Blair to get the central heating put in instead.’

  ‘Hamish Macbeth, no detective should be allowed to stay in the force after pulling a trick like that. Forget about the central heating. Get on to the phone now and tell Daviot you know it was Blair.’

  ‘No point in that,’ said Hamish uneasily. ‘He’ll have destroyed any evidence in his darkroom, and that precious pair he got to bear false witness will be long gone.’

  ‘They can be found,’ snapped Priscilla. ‘You know that.’

  Hamish looked at her in irritation. ‘Look, Blair’s had it in for me for a long time. I can cope. He’s not bent when it comes to the general public. In fact, he’s quite a good policeman in his plodding way.’

  ‘When he’s not coercing one ex-prostitute and one ex-burglar to lie for him to get you out of a job!’

  ‘Priscilla, let it go. It’s my business, not yours.’

  She eyed him coldly. ‘You’re a born moocher. When it comes to getting something for nothing, then you’d turn a blind eye to murder.’

  ‘That iss going too far!’

  They both stared at each other in dislike. Hamish seized his cap, which he had placed on her desk when he arrived, noticing that the brim was cracked, for it was his second-best one, his good one having been lost in the river when he rescued the boy. ‘I haff nothing mair tae say tae ye,’ said Hamish, stalking out and spoiling the effect by knocking into an umbrella stand at the door and sending the contents flying. He picked up the assortment of walking-sticks and umbrellas and shoved them back into the uprighted stand.

  Outside, he got into the car. He did not want to go straight back to the police station. He decided to call on Dr Brodie and his wife, Angela.

  The doctor welcomed him, saying Angela was off at Stirling University on some course to do with her Open University degree. Hamish told him the tale of Blair and the doctor laughed appreciatively. ‘So you’ll be getting the central heating at last. How’s that wee moron of yours getting on?’

  Correctly identifying the moron as Willie, Hamish told him of the spring cleaning of the police station. ‘That’s bad,’ said Dr Brodie, shaking his head. He handed Hamish a glass of whisky and then shovelled two dogs off the sofa so that Hamish could find a place to sit down. ‘Remember when Angela had that spell of frantic cleaning? Man, it was terrible. Each house should have a little of its own family dirt. Gives the place character. I see you’ve still got your beatniks up at the back of the manse.’

  ‘They don’t call them beatniks any more,’ said Hamish gloomily, still thinking of Priscilla’s angry face. ‘They call themselves the travellers or new travellers and try to claim the same rights as the gypsies. That pair has me fair puzzled. You see, normally these travellers like to go around in convoys, making some landowner’s life hell. Landowner screams for the police, complains his land is being turned into a sewer, that the travellers’ children aren’t going to school and that drugs are traded openly. If he has enough power, then the police come in to move them on. Press arrive in droves. Next day letters in the papers from Church of England vicars and so on, complaining about harassing these poor innocent people, and the landowner is nothing but a bloated capitalist.
A few people complain that the travellers are allowed to run around without road taxes and on bald wheels and all the other crimes for which John Smith is regularly stopped by the police and hauled over the coals, and then by the following day it’s all forgotten until the travellers cause the next batch of trouble and then it all starts up again. But this pair have admittedly an old bus, but the tax is paid and he’s got a clean licence and the tyres are good. What are they after?’

  ‘Maybe not after anything,’ said Dr Brodie, throwing another lump of peat on the ash-choked fire. ‘Maybe genuine drifters.’

  ‘Then there was Priscilla’s scarf. She said he’d taken it. Mrs Wellington says she’s probably dropped it behind the counter, and sure enough, there it is.’

  ‘Priscilla doesn’t make mistakes,’ said Dr Brodie.

  ‘No, she’s barely human, and that’s a fact,’ complained Hamish.

  Dr Brodie gave him a quizzical look, waiting for more, but instead Hamish said, ‘If only I could get some lassie to fancy Willie and take him off my hands.’

  ‘There’s another way you could go about it,’ said the doctor slyly.

  ‘Aye, what’s that?’

  ‘Get married yourself.’

  ‘There’s nobody I fancy.’

  ‘Except Priscilla. Forget Priscilla. Do you know Priscilla? I’ve known her since she was a wee lassie and I don’t really know her. Very self-contained. She’ll eventually marry the right bloke, some landowner, and we’ll never know whether it was love or whether she was doing the right thing to please her parents. What about that new luscious lovely at the restaurant?’

  ‘Lucia? Oh, everyone’s after her, including Willie, and Willie hasn’t a hope in hell. I gather his idea of courtship is telling her how to scrub the steps and clean the cooker.’

  ‘There’s Maisie Gowan.’

  ‘Maisie Gowan’s eighteen years old!’

  ‘What’s up wi’ that? She fancies you. Then there’s that Doris Ward from the hotel.’

  ‘No, not her,’ said Hamish. ‘I don’t want anyone. I want my old life back. I want rid of Willie. Man, this power is the terrible thing. When I had no one to boss but myself, I was that easygoing. Now I breathe down Willie’s neck and snap if he doesn’t haff the paperwork chust the way it should be. Ach, the man’s a fair scunner, but I make things worse.’