“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 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.
∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧
11
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.