Death of a Dreamer

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 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.