Hamish Macbeth - Death Of A Dreamer Part 22

"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 s.h.i.+ny 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 s.p.a.cious 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 emails, 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, dial 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 diat 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 mondi'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 s.h.i.+ver. 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 diving after I joined the Glasgow Diving Club."

They had their tickets checked, then walked together to board the plane. "Are you all right?" asked Harry. "You're as white as a sheet."

"I was investigating something. You're not to tell anyone, mind. I wasn't supposed to be in Glasgow as far as the police were concerned. Someone crept up on me and bashed me on the head."

"You'd better go to your doctor when you get back to Lochdubh. What happened exactly?"

As they sat together on the plane, Hamish told him about breaking into Jock's flat.

"Someone must have been following you," said Harry. "Who knew you were going to Glasgow?"

"Only my boss, Jimmy Anderson."

"I thought that one would have died of liver failure by now, and what do you mean your boss? Isn't that old scunner Blair still in charge?"

"He's out of commission. Took a tumble down some steps and broke his arm and his collarbone."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer fellow."

They parted at Inverness airport, Harry promising to visit Hamish in Lochdubh before he went back to Glasgow.

Hamish drove carefully homewards. The light hurt his eyes even more, and he put on sungla.s.ses.

At the police station, he found the cat and dog were out. He had phoned Angela before he had left and had asked her to open the door for them at certain times during the day.

He still felt ill, so he went out again and walked to Dr. Brodie's. Angela opened the door to him, her thin face sharpening in concern. "You look dreadful, Hamish."

"Someone hit me on the head. I had it looked at in Glasgow, but I'd feel better if your man could take a look as well."

"I'll get him. Sit down, Hamish."

Hamish sat down wearily at the kitchen table. Three of Angelas cats leapt on the table among the dirty dishes and laptop and stared at him with unblinking eyes.

Dr. Brodie bustled in. "I'll take you to the surgery, Hamish, and examine you."

In the surgery, he gently examined Hamish's head. "How did this happen?"

"Someone crept up behind me in Glasgow and socked me on the head."

"There's a big lump, but the skin isn't broken."

"The hospital in Glasgow is sending on the X-rays."

"Good. I'll need to keep a close eye on you, Hamish. You may experience dizziness, headaches, and weakness in the legs. I'm surprised the hospital didn't keep you in for observation."

"I had to get away. I wasn't supposed to be in Glasgow, and I didn't want the police to know I had been detecting on their patch."

"Go home and get some sleep. Phone headquarters and tell them you are taking time off. Come back tomorrow, and I'll have another look at you."

Hamish left the surgery to find Lugs and Sonsie waiting for him on the road outside.

"Come on home," he said. "I'm going to get something to eat and go to bed."

At the police station, he phoned Jimmy and told him about the letter with the Brighton postmark and then about being knocked down.

"I'll get straight up to see that sister, Caro. She may have known Jock before."

"I should go with you."

"You'd better rest. At least take tomorrow off. I'll see you in the morning and let you know how I get on."

Hamish fed the dog and cat. Then he heated up a can of soup for himself but only ate half of it. To his horror, tears began to run down his cheeks and he started s.h.i.+vering again.

He heated up two hot-water bottles and put them in his bed. He took a hot shower and then, followed by his pets, climbed wearily into bed. His last waking thought was that there should be some woman around to look after him.

Caro opened the door to Jimmy Anderson and a policewoman. "What now?" she asked in alarm.

"I think we'd better go inside," said Jimmy.

The policewoman sat in a chair in the corner of the room and took out her notebook.

"Now, Miss Garrard," began Jimmy, "you knew Jock Fleming before, didn't you?"

"Of course not."

"We have proof that you knew him in Brighton," lied Jimmy.

Her eyes dilated with fright, and then she said, "I didn't want to say anything about it. It would look so suspicious."

"Let's have the real story."

"I have a gallery in Brighton where I sell my stuff. He came in one day, and we got talking. Effie wasn't there. She was already up here. I had two postcards from her pinned up behind my desk. They were scenic views of Lochdubh. He said it looked like a beautiful place and where was it? I told him Lochdubh in Sutherland. He took me out for a drink."

"You had an affair with him," said Jimmy flatly.

She hung her head. "It was a onenight stand. He left Brighton the next day."

"And have you seen him since you have been up here?"

"I phoned him at the hotel. He shouted at me. He said he wished he'd never set eyes on my sister. He told me to leave him alone. He said he'd kill me if I told the police about our fling because they suspected him already and he didn't want them knowing anything else."

"I should charge you with withholding information," said Jimmy heavily. "Is there anything else you haven't been telling us?"

"No."

"And there's no way Effie could have known you had an affair with Jock?"

"No. I wanted to tell her, but I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Effie was always jealous of me. I felt it would only make her obsession worse if I told her. She would go mad trying to prove to me that she had succeeded where I had failed."

"I want you to stay in Lochdubh and hold yourself ready for further questioning. PC Ettrick here will type up your statement. Report to the police unit in the morning and sign it."

Betty Barnard was walking along the waterfront in the morning when she saw Dr. Brodie leaving the police station. She stopped him. "Is Hamish ill?"

"He's had a bit of a concussion, but I think he'll be all right if he takes things easy."

Betty let herself into the police station. She walked into the bedroom. "How did you get concussed, Hamish?"

"I slipped and struck my head on the bath."

"I tell you what, that bed looks uncomfortable. Get up and sit in a chair in your living room, and I'll clean the sheets for you. Do you have a was.h.i.+ng machine?"

"It's in a cupboard in the living room. It's one o' the kind you wheel up to the kitchen sink and put a hose on the tap, but don't bother. I'm fine. You shouldnae be here."

"Nonsense. You look dreadful. Up you get."