“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 firm 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 there 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.