Death of a Macho Man

∨ Death of a Macho Man ∧

10

O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!

—William Shakespeare

Charlie Stoddart’s last known address was in a depressing block of tower flats on the south side of the city.

Bill said it was due for demolition, and it had such a cracked, rusted, deserted air that it looked as if the demolition process had already started. Children did not play on the scrubby, balding, litter-strewn grass outside. At some point an attempt had been made to plant trees, but they had been savagely destroyed and only a few cracked, white shattered stumps lay around for mangy dogs to pee against.

The entrance hall was covered in graffiti. The lifts did not work and Bill said gloomily that they probably had not worked for some time. From checking the flat number in his notes, he said with even more gloom that Charlie lived on the top floor. They climbed onwards and upwards. There were occasional sounds of life to show that some flats in the block were still tenanted: a baby cried, a dreary, lost wail of sound; a man swore suddenly and violently; a woman shouted abuse. Nobody wanted to live in these tower blocks, and so gradually the decent people had left and the flotsam and jetsam of humanity stayed behind, corrupting each other with their violence and misery and filth. No one, reflected Hamish, had such a talent as the bottom rung of the Scottish social ladder for sheer filth and decay. There were smells of urine and vomit, stale beer, and the cooking diet of the poor fish fingers, chip and baked beans.

By the time they reached the outside of Charlie’s flat, Hamish was beginning to feel light-headed with fatigue. He took off the late Mr. Sinclair’s glasses and tucked them in his pocket. The lenses were beginning to give him a headache. The balconies outside the flats with their rusted railings were open to the salty, muggy, wet air blowing up from the river Clyde. Litter blew along the passageways. A dirty newspaper wrapped itself around Hamish’s legs and he impatiently tore it away.

“Well, here it is,” said Bill, stopping outside a chipped and scarred door. “But if there’s anyone still here, it’ll be a miracle.”

He knocked loudly on the frosted glass of the door and they waited while the wind shrilled through the metal railings. Hamish leaned against the wall and wished it were all over and he was back home again.

Bill knocked loudly again and shouted, “Police! Open up!”

The door next to the one he was hammering on opened suddenly and a woman looked out.

“You’ll no’ get anyone in there, Jimmy,” she said. “Hisnae been anyone there for a bit. Mrs. Stoddart left wi’ the weans last month.”

Hamish found the Glaswegian way of addressing everyone as Jimmy highly irritating. “Where did she go?” he asked.

“Ower Castlemilk way, Jimmy,” said the woman laconically.

“And what about Charlie?” asked Bill.

“Och, that one went off a few years ago. Meant for better things.” She screeched with laughter.

“Have you an address in Castlemilk?”

“Wait a wee bit. Sharon, come here!” The woman was small, stunted and ill-favoured. Sharon, on the other hand, was a giantess with dyed blond hair, thick lips, and vacant eyes. “Whaur in Castlemilk did Jeannie Stoddart go?” asked the woman, who seemed to be Sharon’s mother. “Lenin Road,” said Sharon. “Nummer 52. I ken ‘cos I wrote it doon. I always remembers what I write doon.”

Bill and Hamish left and made their way down the miles of stairs and back out again. On the road to Castlemilk, Hamish fell asleep in the car, and when he awoke for a few moments he did not know where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.

♦

Lenin Road did not seem to be any improvement on the tower block. Although it consisted of a row of two-storey houses with gardens, most of the windows were boarded up and the gardens were untended, and practically all had either no fences or the ones that had had wooden ones were contained now by only a few smashed pieces of wood. They knocked at Mrs. Stoddart’s door. To Hamish’s relief, there were sounds of movements inside. Bill shouted, “Police, Mrs. Stoddart.” The door opened suddenly. A woman stared at them. She was middle-aged with thick hair dyed yellow-blond. She was heavily made up, wearing ski pants and a low-cut cotton top. A tom, thought Hamish. Whatever she was before, Jeannie Stoddart is on the game, a prostitute. “What d’ye want?” she asked sullenly.

“Where’s Charlie?” asked Bill.

Two women stopped behind them at the garden gate and stared curiously. “Come inside,” said Jeannie. She led the way into an overcrowded, fussy living room which seemed at first glance to be full of stuffed toys, magazines, and dolls from different countries.

She sat down and lit a cigarette and then said evenly, “I don’t know where Charlie is and that’s a fact.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Nineteen eighty-nine.”

The year of that bank robbery, thought Hamish, waking up.

“Where did he say he was going?”

“I’m telling you, Mac, by that time he wasnae even speaking to me. I wasnae good enough for him any more. Went off with his posh friends.”

Bill looked at her cynically. “Charlie with posh friends? Pull the other one.”

“It’s true! Man wi’ a big Mercedes used tae drop him off.”

“And who was this man?”

She gave a half-ashamed sort of laugh. “It seems daft now. But I believed it at the time. Charlie said he was working for British Intelligence.”

“Why would British Intelligence want to employ a toe rag like Charlie?” Bill’s tired voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“He made it sound very convincing,” she said defensively. “He said they got hold of him during his last stretch in prison, and they said if he worked for them, they’d shorten his sentence. There wus a play on the telly about that.”

“Probably where Charlie got the idea from,” said Hamish. He was sitting opposite Jeannie, his knees nearly touching hers. “Look,” he coaxed, “you must have got a glimpse of the man in the Merc.”

“Whit’s in it for me?” she demanded truculently, her accent thickening.

“A hundred,” said Hamish, cutting across Bill’s exclamation that it was Jeannie’s duty to tell the police everything that she knew.

“Let’s see it.”

Hamish turned away and peeled five twenties from the prize money in his inside pocket. She reached for it but he held it away. “Description first,” said Hamish. “And make it a good one.”

“Charlie told me never to look. He said the man in the posh car was the big boss. The boss dropped him back late one night when I couldnae sleep. I took a peek out o’ the window. As Charlie got out, the man lit a cigarette. He had black hair, going grey, face like an executive.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Bill impatiently.

“Sort of tanned, well shaved, good suit, silk tie.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

She shook her blond head. “Nuthin’ important. Big duck gold wrist-watch, cream shirt.” She looked hungrily at the money. Hamish slowly passed it over. The beginning of a dreadful idea was forming in his brain. He nodded to Bill and got to his feet. Bill followed Hamish out. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

Hamish leaned against the car and said slowly, “Look here. Think about this. I’ve described all the suspects to you. But there’s one I didn’t really concentrate on. At the time of the murder, there was this banker, John Glover, staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel. He said he was the bank manager of the Scottish and General Bank in Renfrew Street. Credit cards matched, car registration matched. Phoned the bank. Yes, Mr. Glover was on holiday in the Highlands. Nothing to worry about there. Fiancée called Betty John arrives. Romances me and tells me stories about the bank. Seems to know what she’s talking about. But we never called at John Glover’s home or asked for a photo of him.”

“You think Charlie’s posh boss could be someone posing as this banker?”

“It could be, and his boss could be this mysterious Gentleman Jim you’ve all been looking for.”

“Hamish, Hamish, this is all a wee bit far-fetched. Och, I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go to the Scottish and General and put your fears to rest. If I could nail this Gentleman Jim before I retire, it would be the height o’ my career, and things like that just don’t happen.”

They drove in silence back into the centre of the city and stopped outside the bank.

They were received by me deputy manager, a Mr. Angus, a small, portly man with a pompous air.

“You’ve already asked all the questions,” he said impatiently. “Mr. Glover is due back Monday. He always holidays op north and no, he doesn’t leave an address, says he doesn’t want to be bothered. I am perfectly able to handle things here in his absence.” Mr. Angus looked as if he believed that he could ran things better than Mr. Glover any day.

“And you have his fiancée, Betty John, as an employee?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Angus testily, dashing Hamish’s hopes.

Faint but pursuing, he said, “We would like to see a photograph of Mr. Glover.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I don’t carry photos about with me.”

“Perhaps,” ventured Bill, “there might be one taken at a staff function?”

“Oh, one of those.” Mr. Angus’s face cleared. “There’s one taken at the Christmas party on the wall of his office next door.”

He led them through and into a wood-panelled room with a large desk and the gloomy air of a million rejected bank loans. He lifted a framed photograph down from the wall and held it out to them.

Hamish looked at it and then said in a voice sharp with alarm, “Which is John Glover?”

“Why, there, next to Miss Betty John.” It was Betty all right, but the man next to her was thin and looped, with glasses and a tentative smile. “That’s not the John Glover who’s been holidaying in Lochdubh,” said Hamish bleakly. “Get us his home address, now!”

“You mean someone’s been impersonating him?” said Mr. Angus, looking flustered.

“Just get the address,” howled Bill.

“Are you going to call for back-up?” asked Hamish. “We’ll do that from the car on the road there.” Mr. Angus came back with an address in Hyndland Road in the west end of the city.

Priscilla, thought Hamish, as they raced through the streets. As soon as we see what’s happened, I’d better warn Priscilla.

♦

“There’s your bill, Mr. Glover,” Priscilla was saying. “Thank you.” He handed over a gold credit card. “We’ve enjoyed our stay. We’ll just have a last cup of coffee and then we’ll be on our road. Back to the unexciting life of banking, hey?”

Betty, standing beside him, let out a snort of laughter. Then both headed in the direction of the restaurant, looking, thought Priscilla suddenly, more like conspirators than lovers. Maybe lawers look like conspirators, jeered a voice in her head. How would you know, Priscilla?

She gave a little sigh. Still short-staffed, rain still falling. She may as well check their rooms and see if they had left anything behind. She took down the pass key and went upstairs. She went into Betty’s room first. A suitcase and hold-all stood packed and ready on the floor. She went into the bathroom. Nothing there. She went next door to John’s room with a certain reluctance. She had an uneasy feeling John had used her. But why should she think that? They were obviously an immoral couple. Just think of Betty and Hamish. No, better not think of that. John had two suitcases – very expensive, Gucci – packed and ready. Nothing left in the bathroom. He had made his bed. How odd! He did not look the sort of man to bother making up his bed. And so neatly too. Hospital corners. He must surely know the beds would be stripped the minute they had left. And who was to strip the beds? Me, thought Priscilla grimly, thinking of the abseant maids. Might as well make a start.

She wrenched off the duvet and threw it on the floor, took off the cover, and then tugged at that firmly tucked-in under sheet. She placed it on the floor. Then the pillowslips. She went to the linen cupboard at the end of the hall and took out a fresh duvet cover, sheet and pillowslips and returned to John’s room. She knew she was being over-efficient. The next person who would take this room was not expected to arrive until the following morning. She knew she was playing the martyr, Some of the missing maids would surely soon be back on duty. Still, may as well use martyrdom to get some necessary jobs done.

And it was this wretched martyrdom of hers, Priscilla was to think later, that had made her decide to turn the mattress as well.

She heaved it up and over and then drew in her breath in sharp exclamation of surprise. For under the mattress lay two leather gun cases. She backed away from the bed, her eyes flying to the phone on the bedside table.

And then a voice behind her said grimly, “Leave the phone alone, Miss Halburton-Smythe.”

♦

Hamish and Bill arrived outside John Glover’s flat, which was in a tall sandstone building. They rang all the bells until the buzzer went on the door. “Who is it?” called a voice from the top of the stairs.

“Police!” shouted Bill. “Which is Mr. Glover’s flat?” There had been no cards next to the bells.

“Number one, ground floor,” quavered the voice from above.

“I hope to God we’re right about this,” said Bill, “for I’m about to smash in a good piece of Victorian stained glass.” He look a small, unofficial truncheon out of his trousers pocket and smashed at the glass. Brightly coloured shards flew everywhere. He reached through the hole he had made and removed chain and clicked the safety catch off the lock. “Easy,” he said. “You’d think a bank manager would be more security-conscious. Jesus! Smell that, Hamish!” There was a rank, sweetish smell, only too familiar to both men. In the distance they could hear the wail of police sirens. They did not have far to look for the real John Glover. Recognizable – just – from that photograph in me bank, he lay dead on his living-room floor among the ransacked debris of emptied drawers and cupboards. He had been strangled.

“Where’s this fake John Glover now?” asked Bill.

“Tommel Castle Hotel. I cannae wait,” said Hamish. “I’ve got to get there.”

“Man, you may as well take a back seat now,” said Bill. “They’ll call out Strathbane.”

“I’ve got to try,” said Hamish. “There’s someone I know might be in danger. I’m in enough trouble as it is. Give me the keys to your car, Bill. I did this for you.”

Bill tossed him the keys as police burst into the room. “Let him go,” snapped Bill as the police tried to grab hold of Hamish. “He’s one of us.”

♦

“So what do we do with her?” Betty John was asking. Priscilla was gagged with sticking plaster and bound to a chair in the fake John’s room.

“We wait,” said ‘John’ easily. “You go downstairs and tell that manager that Miss Halburton-Smythe has taken off for Inverness, then we wait until the lunch is over and the hotel is quiet again and then we take her out.”

“What are we going to do with her?”

“Take her up in the hills and lose her,” he said. “By the time she finds her way back and alerts the police, we’ll be long gone.”

“Why didn’t we just clear off after you had got rid of Duggan?” fretted Betty.

“Then they would have guessed right away. Don’t worry, we’ll still get clear.”

Betty’s next words horrified Priscilla.

“When Glover doesn’t turn up at the bank on Monday, they’ll start searching for him.”

“I thought of that. I’ll phone in sick on Monday and then we’ll disappear for a bit.”

Priscilla listened with her eyes half closed. There was no Hamish to ride to the rescue. She did not believe for one moment that ‘John’ meant to let her go. He would kill her as callously as he had killed the real bank manager and Duggan.

All she could do was wait and pray for a miracle. Betty went out. ‘John’ surveyed her with a smile. “You’re a silly, interfering bitch,” he said. “It amused me to stay on here and play games with you and that loon of a boyfriend of yours. No one crosses me and gets away with it. You know what Duggan did?”

And you’re going to tell me, thought Priscilla, because you’re going to kill me, so it doesn’t matter what I know now.

“He was told to stash a haul from a bank robbery and then report to my house for the share-out. We waited and waited. His name isn’t Duggan, it’s Charlie Stoddart. I couldn’t believe the little bastard had made off with the money, but that’s what he did. I kept a wait and watch. I traced him as far as America. I had all the planes watched, all the flights from America. There was a rumour he’d gone in for weight-lifting and plastic surgery. Then, by some fluke, the bastard got drunk one night in Houston, Texas, and shot off his mouth. The fellow he talked to knew I had a reward out for information, phoned me up and gave me his new name. He’d sobered up the next day and taken fright and got on a plane to Scotland. I missed him in Glasgow, but picked up his trail north. Probably thought the last place I would look for him was back in Scotland. I’ve got my reputation to think of. The underworld has to know that no one, no one, crosses Gentleman Jim and gets away with it.”

He is nothing but a common criminal, thought Priscilla bleakly. How could I be so stupid!

Betty came into the room. “Okay,” she said. “Thank God for the rain. No one will be hanging outside when we take her out. But to make sure, I’ve parked the car at the foot of the back stairs. Listen, you are going to let her go? I mean, there’s been enough killing.”

“Of course,” said John. “Now, let’s wait.”

♦

There was a mobile phone in the car but Hamish decided not to phone Priscilla. If she knew the real identity of the murderer, she might betray herself. Anyway, Strathbane would soon be racing over to the hotel, but just in case there was any hold-up, he had to try to get there.

He phoned the airport manager and asked if there was any plane about to take off to Inverness and was told only a private, jet belonging to Mr. Motion of the Hillington Electronics Company. Hamish asked to be put through to him and Mr. Morton listened intrigued to Hamish’s urgent Highland voice telling him why he had to get north in a hurry. “I’ll take you,” said Mr. Morton. “Come straight out on the runway. Then can take you up by helicopter from Inverness.”

He told Hamish how to get to the runway he was on. Hamish turned on the blue light and the siren and weaved his way through the traffic on the road to the airport.

He looked at his watch. Only ten in the morning! A lifetime seemed to have passed since they went to that tower block.

♦

“What’s the time?” asked Betty. John looked at the heavy gold watch on his wrist. “Early yet,” he said laconically.

“I’m worried,” said Betty. “Someone’s bound to come.”

“Did you hang the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside the door?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ve got the room until twelve. We’ll wait until their lunch is over and then take her out.”

“What if we meet someone in the corridor? You can’t keep a gag on her.”

“She’ll have a gun in her ribs. She won’t even squeak if she wants to stay alive.” He smiled at Priscilla. “Will you, sweetie?”

Priscilla looked at him with hate. She was so sure he was going to kill her that she felt she ought to be brave enough to go down in flames. But such a villain would simply shoot anyone who tried to come to her aid.

♦

They tried to prevent Hamish Macbeth from driving onto the tarmac: police car or not, he was told he needed clearance. A pig-faced policeman at the barrier leading to the runway said pontifically, “You jist wait where you are, laddie, white I make a few phone calls.”

Hamish watched his fat retreating back in a fury. At the far end of the runway, he could see a Learjet, Mr. Morton’s jet. He made up his mind. He got out of the car, dived under the barrier and began to run, running as he had run at the Cnofhan games, pounding along the runway, deaf to the shouts behind him. He gained the jet and climbed in next to Mr. Morion, who was just getting the all clear for take-off. As the plane roared off down the runway, Mr. Morton said uneasily, “There seems to be a lot of activity.”

“Don’t pay any attention,” urged Hamish. “Urgent police business.”

But Hamish expected any minute that there would be a message from the control tower to turn back. When no such call came, he could only assume that the police, determined to catch this Gentleman Jim, had told the airport authorities to let him go. Thanks to Mr. Morton, he would get there quickly, in under an hour; but even so, Strathbane would be there and Blair would be desperate to claim the credit.

♦

Blair had phoned the manager of the hotel and told him that John Glover was a dangerous criminal and not to be approached, as he was armed and dangerous. Staff should keep out of his way. They would shortly have the hotel surrounded. But the excited Blair in the race to Lochdubh from Strathbane put on the police siren. Up in the hotel room, John heard that distant wail.

“Trouble,” he said to Betty. “Untie her, ungag her, and let’s get her down the back stairs.”

“We don’t need her,” hissed Betty, her face a muddy colour with fright.

“We may need a hostage. Leave the luggage. Leave the guns. I’ve got my pistol.”

“But there’s a fortune in clothes in my bags!” wailed Betty.

He slapped her so violently across the face that she went staggering across the room. “Do as you’re told,” he said.

Tight lipped, Betty got to work, ripping the gag from Priscilla’s mouth and untying her bonds.

With a pistol shoved into her side, Priscilla was hustled out and along the corridor. Betty’s breath came in ragged gasps. Priscilla heard that wail of the siren in the distance and prayed the police would arrive in time.

Outside the back door, she blinked in the blaze of sunlight. The rain had stopped. “Sit in the back of the car with her,” John ordered Betty. “Here, take the gun and keep her covered.”

Priscilla kept her eyes on the gun now in Betty’s hand. There was no sign of that hand wavering or Betty becoming distracted.

They raced off down the drive and swung out through gates and along the one-track road.

“They’ll have road-blocks,” said Betty.

“I know,” he said calmly. “But while you were romancing that idiot of a copper, I’ve been doing my homework, There’s plenty of places to hide out, and the closer to the hotel, the better.” The car sped up into the hills and then John suddenly slowed. “This is the place,” he said. He turned off to the left along a farm track. “There’s a deserted building along here,” he said. “We’ll wait until dark. I’ve got one of those three-wheel dune-buggy-type vehicles they use for rounding up sheep. We can take off across the hills and avoid the roads.”

“Where to?”

“You’ll find out.”

He stopped finally outside a deserted farm building. “Out,” he commanded.

He urged them into the building. “Now keep her there a minute, Betty,” he said. “I’m going to take a look around outside.”

Betty and Priscilla faced each other across the bare room. Sun slanted through the broken windows.

“Did you really work in that bank?” Priscilla asked. She thought furiously: get her talking and she might drop her guard.

“Oh, yes,” said Betty. “For fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years!” exclaimed Priscilla. “Then that means you weren’t a criminal until this.”

Betty stared at her mulishly.

“Why?” pursued Priscilla. “Why now? You may as well tell me because he’s going to kill me.”

“No, he’s not,” said Betty contemptuously. “He’ll set you free as soon as we decide to move.”

“He’ll kill me, just the way he killed the real John Glover.”

“Jim didn’t kill Glover.”

“Oh, and how did you get his credit cards and bank-book? Ask him to hand them over?”

“Jim got one of his friends to keep a guard on him while we came up here. He’ll be released as soon as we get back to Glasgow.”

“Do you know this for a fact? He killed Duggan. You can’t be naive enough to think he let Glover live, or that he’s going to let me live…or even you!”

Betty laughed. “Don’t try and pull that one on me. Jim and me are an item.”

“But you were engaged to John Glover, the late John Glover,” said Priscilla, hoping to frighten her, hoping to get her angry.

“Stop saying that! Duggan deserved to die. He was nothing more than a common criminal.”

“And your Jim is an uncommon criminal?”

There was a long silence. The wind of Sutherland howled around the deserted farmhouse like a banshee. The police would have reached the hotel, thought Priscilla. Surely they would search the surrounding countryside. But Blair would be in charge and Blair would think only of road-blocks. But surely they would bring dogs.

Betty gave an involuntary shiver. “I don’t know how anyone can live up here,” she complained. “Nothing for miles and miles, and the weather’s dreadful.”

“It can be just as dreadful in Glasgow,” said Priscilla. “Look, we may as well pass the time until he gets back. Tell me how you got into all this.”

Betty gave a shrug and walked to the window and looked out. The moorland fell away in front of her. Thin curtains of rain were trailing over the mountains in the distance although the sun shone where they were.

She turned back. “As I said, I’d been working in that bank for years. I got engaged to John Glover because I decided I’d better start making provision for my old age. I used to go to a bar near the bank after work. One evening, Jim came up to me and asked if he could buy me a drink. We got talking. He seemed rich and sophisticated, everything John was not. We began to see each other. Then we started an affair. I told him I would tell John the engagement was off. He asked me why I’d got involved with such a dry stick of a man in the first place and I told him, security. He said he’d a proposition to put to me. He said for a start I had to stay engaged to John. He said he loved me and was going to marry me.”

“And you believed him!” exclaimed Priscilla.

“He does love me and he wants to marry me and I love him,” said Betty passionately.

“In fact you love him so much, you end up in bed with Hamish Macbeth!”

“Oh, that! That was Jim’s idea. Tie that copper up, he said, and he’ll look elsewhere for suspects.”

In all her misery and dread Priscilla suddenly wished she could stay alive if only to tell Hamish Macbeth what Betty had said.

“Let me get this straight,” said Priscilla. “You’re a respectable bank clerk for years. This Jim comes on the scene and you agree to his taking the identity of your fiancé and conspire to murder Duggan.”

“His name wasn’t Duggan. He was some rat of a low life called Charlie Stoddart.”

“And that makes it all right?”

“Look, you snotty bitch, you don’t know what it was like working in that bank, year in and year out, handling all that money that didn’t belong to me. Jim said we could have everything I’d ever dreamt of – fancy homes, fancy holidays, visit all the places I’d only seen in the movies.” She turned back to the window. “What’s keeping him?”

♦

Jim checked to make sure the three-wheeler was still there and ready to drive. Then he walked away across the moorland, the wind tugging at his thick hair. He did not feel afraid, only felt a rush of adrenaline. He knew in his bones he was going to get away with it. He felt the gods were on his side. Beck confessing to the murder of Duggan had been an amazing bit of luck.

The jealousy that fat pig Blair had for the local Lochdubh copper had been another. There had been no need to try to kill Hamish, but he had felt it would have been a way of tying up loose ends. It had been amazingly simple to leave the crowd at the Cnothan games and climb up that mountain and be ready and waiting when Hamish came into view, finding the rifle he had buried in the heather the night before. So he had missed – so what? No one had believed Hamish’s story, his rifle had not been found, and he had been able to get it back in the middle of the night after the games. It was a pity he’d had to go off and leave the rifle and shotgun in the hotel room, but it was a small price to pay for freedom. He had no intention of heading off during daylight. They would have helicopters up there soon, searching the surrounding countryside. He took a last look around. As he had previously found, the moorland was surprisingly dry and heathery despite all the rain: no sinister peat bogs. He had a man waiting for him in a cottage near Bonar Bridge, complete with a ready disguise for him and a set of fake identity papers. Now to clear up the remaining loose ends.

♦

Blair was in a bigger fury than he had ever been before. It was he who had poured scorn on Hamish Macbeth’s belief that Beck had not killed Duggan. But he could have saved the day with the arrest of this man masquerading as John Glover, believed to be the famous Gentleman Jim. But Jim was gone, together with that Betty John. And, worse than that, the staff had been told to keep clear, but a maid watching from one of the upstairs windows had seen the pair forcing Priscilla Halburton-Smythe into a car and driving off. The normally urbane Superintendent Peter Daviot was on the scene, and his language was worse than Blair’s. Radios crackled as orders went out to block every road leading out of Lochdubh.

Colonel Halburton-Smythe, supporting his weeping wife, was shouting that they were all a bunch of dangerous incompetents.

Press cars were beginning to drive up and Blair was howling at his men to ‘get the buggers away.’

Adding to the confusion were the villagers of Lochdubh, who had heard about the trouble at the castle before the police arrived and were huddled in groups in the hotel car park.

“So it wasn’t you, Willie,” said Lucia.

Willie looked at her in amazement. “You mean you thought I might have murdered Duggan! Why, for God’s sake?”

“You’re such a tiger when you’re angry.”

And Willie promptly forgave her everything.

Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, was addressing some of her husband’s parishioners, her booming voice reaching Blair’s infuriated ears. “We should have listened to Hamish Macbeth. Did he not say that. Beck had not done the murder?”

“Yes, but how do we know this armed man here did it, tell me that?” cried Geordie Mackenzie.

Mrs. Wellington gave him a withering look. “Use your brains. We may be getting a reputation here, but it’s hard to believe we have two murderers in Lochdubh.”

“If you’re right, then we have,” said Geordie triumphantly. “Beck murdered Rosie and this fellow murdered Duggan.”

Mrs. Wellington ignored him and went on, “It’s all the fault of this hotel, letting rooms to murderers. Money greed, that’s what it is. I shall tell my husband on Sunday to preach a sermon on the subject. They would let rooms to apes here provided the apes had enough money.”

“Shut up, you old bag,” screamed the colonel, beside himself with worry and fright. “What are all these policemen doing here, for God’s sake? Why aren’t they out looking for my daughter?”

Mr. Daviot approached him. “We have men blocking every road,” he said soothingly.

The colonel clasped his trembling hands. “And if they take to the hills…”

“We’re waiting for the dogs,” said Mr. Daviot and turned away.

♦

“Nearly there,” said Mr. Morton. He was now piloting the helicopter, which had collected them from Inverness airport, as he had done the Learjet. “We’ll set you down in the car-park at the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

In that moment, Hamish looked down at the moorland below, purple with heather. He saw the little figure of a man and then saw that figure plunge into the heather for cover.

“Put me down in the nearest field,” shouted Hamish above the noise of the helicopter. The helicopter began to heel and go downwards. “Have you a gun?” asked Hamish.

“My deer rifle’s behind you,” said Mr. Morton, who was beginning to feel he was beyond being surprised at anything. Hamish took me gun from its case, then found the bullets and loaded it. When the helicopter landed he was off and running again, the gun slung over his shoulder, heading to where he had seen that figure. Buckie’s farmhouse, he thought. Empty. He was close to it.

♦

Jim stumbled to his feet and ran towards the farmhouse. He was sure he hadn’t been seen, but, just in case, he would need to change his plans and make his escape in daylight.

Betty gave him a relieved smile. He walked over and took the gun from her. “Outside,” he said.

“He’s going to kill me,” said Priscilla to Betty. “Don’t let him do this.”

“Silly fool,” said Betty. She said to Jim, “She thinks you’re going to kill her.”

Jim jerked his head at the doorway. “Outside,” he repeated. He jabbed the gun in Priscilla’s side.

They stood in the sunlight in the deserted farmyard. Jim had moved away from them, keeping Priscilla covered.

The smile had left Betty’s face and she looked at Jim anxiously. The wind soughed through the skeletal branches of a dead ash tree over their heads, a curlew piped from the heather. The wind had dropped in that uncanny way of Sutherland winds, and all was still.

Jim pointed the pistol directly at Priscilla’s heart. “Goodbye, Miss Toffee-Nose.”

“NO!” screamed Betty and stood in front of Priscilla with her arms spread wide.

Priscilla in that split second should have tried to escape, but she seemed rooted to the spot, staring at Betty’s dead body, spread-eagled at her feet. She looked up and across at Jim. “You meant to kill her anyway.”

“Well, well, Miss Clever-Clogs, how right you are.” He raised the pistol again.

♦

Hamish Macbeth raised the deer rifle to his shoulder. He knew, as any policeman should, that he should shout a warning. He saw Jim’s grinning face in the telescopic sight and took careful aim.

Priscilla had decided to run for it. She darted to the side, tripped on a rusting piece of farm machinery, and fell panting on the ground. She heard a shot. She twisted round and looked at her tormentor. He was standing, swaying, his face a mask of blood.

And then he fell headlong and lay still.

Priscilla tried to stand up. But her legs would not hold her. Hamish found her kneeling on the ground, retching miserably.

He passed her a handkerchief. She finished vomiting and looked at him, her eyes widening. “Hamish?”

“Aye.”

“Black hair doesn’t suit you.” She began to giggle weakly and then she began to cry. He took her in his arms, talking softly as he would to a hurt child.

“There now, there now. Hamish is here. It’s over. You’re safe. It’s all over.”

Police sirens wailed from the road in the distance. The shots had been heard.

“Listen tae me,” said Hamish urgently as he heard cars start to bump down the long rutted road that led to the deserted farm, “you heard me shout a warning. Right? Got that? You heard me shout a warning.”

She nodded dumbly.

Cars screeched to a halt. Blair’s thick Glaswegian accent shouted, “You there! Leave the woman alone and walk towards us with your hands on your head.”

Hamish stood up. “It’s me…Hamish Macbeth,” he said. “Ower there’s your Gentleman Jim. I had tae shoot him. I gave him a warning.”

Blair’s face was purple and thick veins stood out on his forehead. Hamish stood swaying on his feet with fatigue. There he was with his dyed-black hair and his scraggly Mack moustache and Blair suddenly saw him through a red mist. Macbeth had caught the most wanted criminal in Scotland, Macbeth had found the murderer of Duggan.

He stumbled forwards, his thick hands groping blindly for Hamish’s neck. It took the full efforts of Macnab and Anderson to stop Hamish Macbeth being strangled by a superior officer.