Death of a Macho Man

by Beaton, M. C.

  Customers coming out of the shop were hailed and told the bad news about Hamish and by lunchtime everyone in the village knew that Hamish Macbeth was due for the chop. Feelings began to run high. Hamish was their policeman, and no one from the ‘big city’ was going to dictate to them whom they should or should not have.

  At three o’clock that afternoon, Superintendent Peter Daviot was hosting an emergency meeting of all senior police officers in the Highlands.

  ‘So you see,’ he said, after reading out a list of Hamish’s iniquities, ‘although we are very glad to have this case wrapped up, we cannot possibly have a police constable who goes on like a Wild West sheriff. I think we should wait until the fuss has died down and then quietly tell him to leave the force. I have quite a good fellow lined up for the job in Lochdubh, PC Trevor Campbell.’

  ‘Let me see the report on him,’ said a chief constable. Mr Daviot reluctantly handed a folder over.

  ‘Dear me,’ said the chief constable and Mr Daviot looked at him impatiently. The man had a fat, round, red face above a tight shirt collar. Mr Daviot thought it looked like a face painted on a balloon.

  ‘Campbell seems to be accident-prone, to say the least. Added to that, he barely reaches regulation height and he just scraped through his exams.’

  ‘We don’t exactly need anyone brilliant to police a Highland village,’ said another.

  A thin man with a clever face raised his voice. ‘What you must realize,’ he said, ‘is that we are all sitting round this table deciding to get rid of a constable who, by his own initiative, caught Scotland’s biggest and most wanted criminal. I say, let’s keep him and promote him. If you don’t want him, I’ll take him back to Glasgow with me.’

  ‘We have thought of promoting Hamish Macbeth before,’ said Mr Daviot wearily. ‘He was actually promoted to sergeant.’

  ‘Oh, big, fat, hairy deal,’ commented the thin man.

  ‘And,’ continued Mr Daviot, ‘we had to demote him over that business of Pictish man. Macbeth caught the murderer, yes, by confronting her with a dead body. But it was the wrong body, if you remember. A fine example of Pictish man, and we were under fire from every professor and archaeological buff in the country over disturbing a rare corpse and removing it from its burial site. But the main difficulty, and I think this explains why Macbeth is such a maverick, is that he has no ambition to be other than a village policeman.’

  There was a startled silence while a roomful of men who had clawed their way to the top digested that bit of information.

  ‘No, I say,’ said Mr Daviot, ‘that we simply wait until the fuss has died down and then get rid of him.’

  ‘On what pretext?’ demanded the thin man.

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ snapped Mr Daviot.

  ‘It won’t answer,’ said his tormentor. ‘You cannot dismiss a policeman without a full inquiry, which would bring Macbeth back to the attention of the press. This detective, Blair, now, who appears to have been motivated by a certain degree of stupid spite – what has happened to him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘He did his job. He had a confession from Beck. The man was most convincing. He was prepared to stand up in court and plead guilty to both murders. We need good, obedient detectives like Blair on the force. He may be a bit truculent at times, but surely, gentlemen, you must admit that Macbeth’s methods are enough to try the patience of a saint. I suggest we have discussed this long enough. I shall put it to the vote. You will find paper in front of you. Helen will go round with the box and collect the results and then I will count them.’ His efficient secretary waited until they had all scribbled on pieces of paper and folded them, and then she went round with a square wooden box with a slot in the top, collected them and placed the box in front of Mr Daviot, who opened it. He separated the ‘For’ and ‘Against’ into neat piles. His secretary watched avidly. She loathed Hamish.

  ‘That’s that,’ said Mr Daviot finally. ‘Macbeth is to be dismissed at a convenient moment.’

  Helen slipped out of the room. Blair and several others were waiting at the end of the corridor outside. Helen grinned at them and turned her thumb downwards.

  ‘Oh, happy day,’ said Blair. ‘The drinks are on me.’ But the others shuffled off with long faces, leaving him standing glaring after them.

  Inside the conference room, the men moved on to other business until at last Mr Daviot said, ‘That’s that.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Refreshments in the adjoining room, gentlemen. A drink before you leave.’

  They all rose and followed him through to a room where a long table of drinks and canapés was laid out. Soon the air was thick with smoke and conversation.

  Helen opened a window to let some of the cigarette smoke out. The day was sunny, the rain had stopped at last, and she felt happy. No more would Hamish Macbeth look at her with that mocking glint in his eye as if he found her somewhat ridiculous.

  Bertie Laver, a detective chief inspector from Caithness, cocked an ear. He was an old friend of Daviot’s. ‘Is that the pipes I hear?’ he asked. ‘Got a parade today?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Helen, has any group asked for permission to hold a parade?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The skirl of the pipes sounded nearer, followed by the sound of a band. Men began to move to the windows.

  Mr Daviot joined them and looked down, an amused smile fading from his lips.

  Down the street towards police headquarters marched the villagers of Lochdubh, led by a piper and the school band murdering ‘Scotland the Brave’. They were carrying placards: SAVE OUR POLICEMAN. WE WANT HAMISH. And, worse than that, two press photographers were running down the street, cameras at the ready.

  ‘You didn’t tell us this Macbeth was so damned popular,’ said Bertie.

  ‘I didn’t quite realize . . .’ said Mr Daviot miserably. ‘I mean, Blair said . . .’

  Bertie eyed him cynically. ‘Man, man, that Blair’ll be the ruin o’ ye, Peter, if you listen to any more he says.’

  The crowd gathered below them.

  ‘I’ll go down and see what they want,’ said Mr Daviot.

  Backed by Bertie, he hurried down the stairs.

  At first he thought the large tweedy woman addressing the villagers and all the curious of Strathbane, who were gathering in increasing numbers to listen, was using a megaphone. But then he recognized Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, and realized it was her own booming, unaided voice.

  ‘They have no right at all,’ Mrs Wellington was saying, ‘to take our constable away from us without consulting our wishes. Are we going to be dictated to by Strathbane? By London? By Brussels?’

  ‘NO! NO! NO!’ howled the crowd.

  A camera flash went off in Mr Daviot’s face.

  ‘Do something,’ hissed Bertie.

  ‘But the vote . . .!’

  ‘Damn the vote. Use your initiative, man. Tell them the bugger’s staying.’

  Mr Daviot stepped up to Mrs Wellington, tapping her on the arm and halting her in mid-flow.

  He gave a weak smile. ‘I am afraid you are mistaken, Mrs Wellington,’ he said. ‘There is no question of Hamish Macbeth being dismissed.’

  Her eyes raked him up and down, then she turned back to her audience. ‘He says there is no question of Hamish being dismissed,’ she shouted.

  There were loud cheers. She held up her hands for silence. ‘But just to make sure,’ she cried, ‘I think we should have that in writing.’ Another cheer.

  ‘Please wait here, Mrs Wellington,’ said Mr Daviot bleakly, ‘and do try to keep these people quiet.’

  He retreated back up the stairs, striding ahead with Bertie scurrying after him. The top policemen were back in the conference room and round the table.

  ‘So,’ said the thin man, ‘we heard that bit about wanting confirmation in writing. I say, give it to them and be nice, very nice, to this Macbeth. He’s got miles of paperwork to get through, hasn’t he? Send him a secr
etary. What about Helen there?’

  Helen shot him a look of horror. ‘I can’t,’ she protested. ‘My mother’s sick.’

  Mr Daviot gave a sigh and once more took charge. ‘I think we will give that lot down below their written confirmation and then I will arrange for a woman to go over to Lochdubh to help Macbeth with his paperwork. He is not due back on duty for a few more days.’

  It was Helen who had the task of taking the written confirmation downstairs and handing it to Mrs Wellington.

  Mrs Wellington read it out to the crowd. Cheers and yells. Then three cheers for Mrs Wellington. Then the band struck up. ‘All the Blue Bonnets Are Over the Border’ and the procession began to head out of Strathbane.

  In the quiet coolness of a bar, Blair, unaware of the change in events, was celebrating the end of Hamish Macbeth’s career. He dimly heard the pipes, the band, the cheers.

  ‘Whit’s that?’ asked the barman.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Blair with a shrug of his fat shoulders. ‘Some demonstration. Some bunch o’ pillocks. Animal Libbers, Save the Trees, Ban the Bomb.’ He raised his glass. ‘Up the lot of them and Hamish Macbeth as well.’

  ‘Who he?’ asked the barman, who only read the sporting pages in the tabloids.

  ‘Some creep who isnae around to plague me any mair,’ said Blair. He pushed his empty glass forward. ‘Whisky . . . and make it a double.’

  A few days later, Priscilla went on a visit to friends in Invernessshire. They were eager to hear about her adventures.

  When she had finished, one of her friends, Bunty, said, ‘This Hamish Macbeth is no end of a hero. Didn’t you nearly marry him? What happened?’

  ‘We just didn’t suit,’ said Priscilla vaguely, ‘but we’re still friends.’

  ‘I’d like to meet him,’ said Bunty. ‘Any chance of you bringing him here?’

  ‘I’ll see,’ said Priscilla. ‘He doesn’t go out of the village much.’

  ‘Well, he went all the way to Glasgow to chase that criminal. He must be very brave.’

  ‘More like a terrier,’ said Priscilla with a laugh. ‘When he gets his teeth into something, he doesn’t like to let go.’

  ‘He’ll surely be promoted after this.’

  ‘More likely in danger of losing his job. In any case, he doesn’t want promotion. He avoids it every which way he can. He says he’s quite happy being a village policeman. He’s not ambitious.’

  Bunty, plump and black-haired, raised her eyebrows. ‘I would have thought that a copper who defies all the rules and regulations to get a criminal was very ambitious indeed. Hardly a laid-black approach.’

  ‘I never thought of that,’ said Priscilla slowly. ‘But if they moved him to the city, he would be miserable and he would find there was even more red tape to cut through.’

  When she went to bed that night, Priscilla lay awake for a little, remembering all the adventures she had shared with Hamish. He certainly was a very special man. Perhaps . . . perhaps when she returned to Lochdubh, they could take up their romance where it had left off. Well, not where it had left off, for that had been sad, but maybe get back to the way it had been before. She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

  * * *

  A week later, WPC Hetty Morrison drove competently over the winding road to Lochdubh. She was the strictest and most efficient woman police officer in Strathbane. She also had excellent shorthand and typing. Her portable computer and printer were beside her on the seat. Hetty had jet-black hair confined at the nape of her neck in a severe bun. She had a fine pair of brown eyes, a sharp nose and a thin mouth. Her figure in her well-pressed uniform was trim and neat. Her shoes shone like black glass.

  She had never met Hamish Macbeth but had been fully briefed on the behaviour of this maverick constable and she disapproved of him. She actually enjoyed the rules and regulations of police work and her typed reports were miracles of efficiency. Hetty did not know why this village copper should be so favoured. She felt her talents were being wasted, and that, just because she was a woman, she had been temporarily reduced to the rank of secretary.

  She was from Perth originally and disapproved of the Highland character, which she considered devious and lazy.

  As she drove down into Lochdubh, she did not see the beauty of the waterfront, or the little cottages, of the sea loch glittering in the sun; she only thought it looked a dead-alive sort of place. No wonder it had a reputation for murder, she thought. If I were stuck up here all year long, I’d feel like murdering someone too.

  She drove up to the police station and parked behind the Land Rover at the side. She had seen a figure in a deck-chair in the front garden and opened the side gate and went in. Rambling roses in scarlet profusion tumbled round the blue police lamp over the front door, nearly obscuring it. I’d get those things cut down for a start, she thought.

  Hamish Macbeth lay back at his ease in a striped canvas deck-chair, his eyes closed. His black-and-red hair glinted in the sunlight.

  She coughed loudly and he opened his eyes and smiled up at her. ‘WPC Morrison, reporting for duty,’ she said.

  ‘They told me you were coming,’ he said lazily. ‘It’s a grand day. Wait and I’ll get another chair and make us both a cup of tea.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ said Hetty crossly, ‘We have work to do and I would like to get started right away.’

  Hamish gave a little sigh and stood up. ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Come on.’

  She collected her notebook and computer from the car and followed him into the police office.

  ‘I trust we will not have any interference from the press,’ she said. ‘There’s been quite enough of that.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve gone,’ said Hamish, ‘I wass the seven-days wonder.’

  Priscilla could have told Hetty that the sudden sibilancy of Hamish’s Highland accent meant he was becoming angry, but Priscilla was not there.

  Hamish sat behind his desk. Hetty sat on the other side, pencil and pad at the ready. He began to dictate rapidly. He was concise and efficient in his reports. But Hetty was the one who was beginning to become angry. The way this Hamish Macbeth was putting it, he had had no alternative but to do the detective work on his own or the wrong man would have been charged with the murder of Duggan. She reflected that when she typed it out, she would be able to find flaws in it. After a long afternoon, Hamish said, ‘Would you care for a cup of coffee or tea?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Hetty. ‘If we have finished for the day, then I will type these up. I have a portable printer in the car, I can run them off and then we can go over them.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Hamish laconically, ‘but I haff no intention of changing a word.’

  ‘I am not just a secretary,’ said Hetty, snapping her notebook shut, ‘I am also here to help and advise you.’

  ‘Nice of you,’ said Hamish with a tinge of mockery in his voice. ‘Now if you don’t mind, Constable, I will go out for a walk while you type out the reports.’ It was five o’clock.

  By eight o’clock, Hetty had typed out the notes and gone over them. Try as she would, she could not think of any way of changing them. And thanks to her own stubbornness, she had not eaten or drunk anything all day and she was very hungry and thirsty.

  Hamish was strolling back along the waterfront after having called at several homes, Mrs Wellington’s among others, to say thank you for the demonstration outside police headquarters in Strathbane on his behalf. As he passed the Italian restaurant, Willie came out and stood there, looking rather sheepish. Then he held out his hand. ‘Sorry Hamish,’ he said, ‘I should have known better than to doubt you.’

  ‘Och, that’s all right,’ said Hamish, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. ‘You were not in your right mind, what with you thinking Lucia might ha’ done it, and herself thinking the same about you.’

  ‘I think we all went a wee bit crazy,’ said Willie. ‘It’s right good o’ ye to take it like this. In fact, why d
on’t you step inside for a meal on the house. You could bring Miss Halburton-Smythe. I hear she’s back.’

  ‘I’ll be along in a wee bit,’ said Hamish. ‘Thanks.’

  He went reluctantly back to the police station. Hetty silently pointed to the sheaf of notes. Her stomach gave an unmaidenly rumble. Kindness warred with dislike in Hamish’s breast and kindness won. ‘I’ve been offered free food at the Italian restaurant,’ he said. ‘Care to join me?’

  She never knew later why she had accepted, any more than Hamish knew why he had asked her instead of phoning Priscilla. Perhaps it was because this police station with the scent of roses coming in the open window in the soft evening air seemed so divorced and far away from the noise of Strathbane, but she found herself saying, ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Right! I’ll just change. The bathroom’s outside on your left if you want to put any make-up on.’

  Hetty picked up her handbag and went into the long narrow bathroom. She washed her face and then surveyed her prim, neat features. She took out a brush and brushed down her hair until it waved on her shoulders. She had put her hairpins in the handbasin and, twisting her hair back into its bun, scrabbled to retrieve the fine black pins, which promptly fell down the gaping open plug-hole and disappeared. She stared down crossly into the sink. Only a Highlander would have an open plug-hole like that without any sort of grid to prevent things from falling down it.

  She brushed her hair again. She would just need to wear it down.

  Hamish looked at her with something like surprise when she finally appeared. He was dressed in one of his well-tailored thrift-shop finds and a striped tie.

  ‘We’ll walk,’ he said. ‘It’s just a wee bit along the front.’

  They walked along in the calm evening. People stood by garden gates or over at the sea-wall. ‘Evening, Hamish,’ they called, ‘grand evening,’ while Highland eyes curiously studied Hetty walking at his side.

  Willie and Lucia gave Hamish an effusive welcome, as if to make up for their previous bad behaviour, and Hamish was given the best table at the window. Willie was determined to do them proud, as was Lucia. They were given Negronis to drink and then a bottle of Chianti. They had crisp mixed salads sprinkled with fresh basil to start with, followed by penne in a cream sauce, followed by large portions of chicken breast in a white-wine sauce, and then zabaglione.