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
—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.
He asked more questions but could not get any relevant information. He left Hugh in the pub and made his way to Jock’s flat. He went quietly up the stairs. Outside the flat door, he took out a little bunch of skeleton keys and got to work on the lock until it sprang open.
It was a spacious Victorian flat with high ceilings. In the living room, there was a long bench filled with paints and brushes. The air smelted strongly of turpentine. There was a battered roll-top desk against one wall. He sat down in a chair in front of it, pulled on gloves, and began to go through any papers he could find. There were the usual bank statements and gas and electricity bills. The trouble was, thought Hamish, in these days of texting and e·mails, people did not often send personal letters through the post.
He pulled out drawer after drawer. And then in the bottom one, he found an envelope with a Brighton postmark.
He gently opened it and slid out the letter from inside.
He heard a slight noise behind him and made to swing round, but he was too late.
A heavy blow struck him on the back of his head, and he tumbled off the chair on to the floor, fighting with the blackness that was trying to engulf him, hearing soft footsteps moving rapidly away.
¦
When he could sit up, he felt terribly sick. He heaved himself to his feet, made his way groggily to the bathroom, and was violendy ill. He splashed his face with cold water and gingerly felt his head. There was a large lump. He couldn’t call the police because he wasn’t supposed to be in the flat – or in Glasgow, for that matter.
When he went back to the desk, it was to find that the letter with the Brighton postmark was gone.
He went out of the flat, carefully locking the door behind him. He caught a taxi in the Great Western Road and asked to be taken to the nearest hospital. It was only in books, reflected Hamish, that the brave detective soldiered on. He knew he’d better get checked out.
He waited in the outpatients’ until a doctor was free to examine him. He was told that, yes, as he knew, he had suffered a slight concussion, but the skin wasn’t broken. “Been in a fight?” asked the doctor.
“No. Slipped in the bathroom and banged my head on the bath,” lied Hamish.
“You’ll need to take it easy,” said the doctor. “We’ll just take a few X-rays and send the results on to your own doctor.”
Hamish knew that the mills of the National Health Service ground exceedingly slowly and that the results would end up on Dr. Brodie’s desk in about a month’s time.
He still felt sick when he left the hospital, and the light hurt his eyes. He peered at his watch. Just time to catch the plane. If only he could think clearly. Someone knew he was in Glasgow, and that someone must have been following him.
On the bus to the airport, despite the heat of the day, he felt cold and began to shiver. I’ll go straight to bed when I get home, he promised himself.
He was queuing up at the gate for the Inverness plane when a voice behind him said, “It’s never Hamish Macbeth!”
Hamish turned round. “Harry Wilson?” he asked.
“The same.”
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” said Hamish. “Where are you off to?”
“Back home to Lairg for a break.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Same as you, in a way. I’m a police diver.”
“I thought you were going to be a football star.”
“Played for Rangers for a bit but really wasn’t up to the mark. Took the police exams. I got interested in
