Hamish Macbeth 12 (1996) - Death of a Macho Man

…When two strong men stand face to face,

Though they come from the ends of the earth.

—
Rudyard Kipling

R
andy Duggan was called the Macho Man in the village of Lochdubh in the Scottish Highlands and he seemed to live up to his nickname. He was a huge man, over six feet tall, with powerful shoulders, tattoos, and a low forehead. His legs were disproportionally short for his body and his hair was greasy and worn long and curly on his collar. He wore leather jackets with long fringes. He sported odd glasses with slats like Venetian blinds, and brightly coloured hats. The locals gathered in the Lochdubh bar just to see him crush beer cans in one of his great fists. His voice had an American twang. He said he had been a wrestler in America.

In fact, to the admiring locals, it seemed as if Randy had been everywhere, seen everything, done everything. He had been attacked by muggers in Florida, shot them dead, and had been commended by the police for his bravery. He had been a lumberjack in Canada and he had shot bear in Alaska. He was the most well-travelled man Lochdubh had ever seen.

It was all too easy to create a sensation in Lochdubh. It was a sleepy Highland village in Sutherland, which is as far north as you can go on the mainland of the British Isles. Tourists came and went in the summer season, but not many, most of them only getting as far north as Inverness.

Perhaps, in the easygoing way of the Highlanders, they would have accepted Randy at face value, and being prime liars and tall story-tellers themselves, were not given to picking holes in anyone’s anecdotes, least of all their own. And if Randy had never been faced with any criticism or competition, things might have gone on the way they were and not turned nasty.

Of course, the weather contributed to the edginess that was created in the Lochdubh bar one day when Randy, as usual, was holding forth. The other reason for his admiring audience was that Randy was free with his money, and fisherman Archie Maclean, one of Randy’s best listeners, had been barely sober since the big man had arrived in the village, such was Randy’s generosity to this, his best admirer.

It was another day of irritating rain and drizzle. Long trails of rain dragged in from the Atlantic and up the sea loch outside the bar. Midges, those maddening Highland mosquitoes, were out in black clouds, no rain seeming to deter them. The atmosphere was muggy and close. It was the tenth day of rain and the damp permeated everything and clothes stuck to the body, and where the clothes did not stick, the midges stung with savage fury. Patel’s, the general store, had run out of midge repellent only that day.

Randy had geographically moved to the Middle East in his tales. Little Geordie Mackenzie, a retired schoolteacher, brightened up. He was normally shy and retiring. He had recently moved to Lochdubh and had not yet made any friends. When Randy paused in an account of dining in a Bedouin tent to take another swig of beer, Geordie piped up in a reedy voice, “I was out in Libya during my National Service, and a very odd thing happened to me when we were out in manoeuvres in the desert…”

But no one was destined to hear what had happened to Geordie in the desert, for the Macho Man glared at the school-teacher and raised his voice. No one could tell him anything about adventures in the Middle East. He had eaten sheep’s eyes and run an illegal still in Saudi Arabia and had been thrown in prison in Riyadh, escaping his jailers the day before his hand was due to get chopped off.

Geordie looked crushed and put down. Archie Maclean began to feel irritated with Randy. The big man could have let wee Geordie have his say. The air of the bar was stuffy with cigarette smoke, his wife was a mighty washer and cleaner and the collar of his starched shirt was rubbing against the mosquito bites on his neck. He saw Geordie creeping out of the bar and followed him.

“Don’t pay him nae heed,” said Archie, catching up with Geordie. “He likes his crack.”

“He’s a braggart and a liar,” said Geordie primly. “I don’t believe any of his stories.”

“I’m getting pretty tired o’ him mysel’,” said Archie. “We used to all sit around and have a wee bit o’ a gossip. Now we an hae tae listen tae that big tumshie, blethering on and on and on. Damn thae midges. They’ve got the teem of them like razors this year. Oh, here’s our local bobby. D’ye ken Macbeth?”

“I have seen the constable about the village but have not yet spoken to him,” said Geordie.

“Hey, Macbeth!” called Archie. “Come and meet the latest incomer.”

They had reached the harbour, where fishing boats rose and fell at anchor on an oily swell. It was Sunday, the Lord’s day, which meant the bar might be open but taking a fishing boat out was flying in the face of Providence.

Hamish Macbeth, Lochdubh’s police constable, was ambling along the waterfront towards them. He was a tall, lanky Highlander with flaming red hair, a thin, sensitive face, and hazel eyes. Geordie judged him to be in his mid-thirties.

“This here is Geordie Mackenzie,” said Archie. “He’s just moved in tae Lochdubh.”

“Aye, I know,” said Hamish. His voice had a Highland lilt. “You’ve taken thon cottage up the hill a bit behind the Curries. Where did you come from?”

“Inverness, Mr. Macbeth.”

“Hamish,” said the policeman. “I’m called Hamish.”

He gave a gentle smile and the lonely Geordie felt warmed by it. “Hamish, it is. I’ve just left the bar over there, Hamish, because I cannot stand the lies and bragging of that Randy Duggan any more.”

“No harm in a few lies,” said Hamish easily. He told quite a lot himself. “You don’t have to listen.”

“Oh, but I do!” said Geordie, burning with resentment all over again. “His voice fair dominates the bar.”

“Aye, I suppose it does. But so long as he’s paying for the drinks,” said Hamish, “there’ll always be folk to listen. Isn’t that right, Archie?”

“Och, weel.” Archie shuffled his feet. “It was a wee bit o’ fun at first, but now it’s too much, but ye can hardly tell a fellow o’ that size tae shut up.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” said Geordie eagerly. He was emboldened by this friendly conversation. “He hasn’t often come up against an educated man before, of that I am certain.”

Hamish looked amused. “We ate not all village peasants, Geordie.”

“I’m sorry,” said Geordie quickly, “I didn’t mean to be rude. But someone should stand up to him.”

“Och, be careful, man,” cautioned Hamish. “The further away a man gets from his last fight, the braver he gets. I have a feeling in my bones that thon Randy could be a nasty customer.”

“I think he’s all wind and bluster,” said Geordie.

Hamish studied the little man thoughtfully. Geordie, he thought, must be in his late sixties and had probably never been in a fight since he was a schoolboy. Hamish was lazy. He smelt trouble coming but was reluctant to make any effort to stop it. Randy Duggan had appeared out of the blue a few weeks ago. He had tried to book into the Tommel Castle Hotel, but Colonel Halburton-Smythe, the owner, had taken one horrified look at him and said there were no vacancies. Randy had rented a holiday cottage up on the hill near Geordie’s. The colonel had reported various spiteful attacks of vandalism, fences cut, the back wall of the hotel spray-painted with a large four-letter word, and the windows of the gift shop broken. Hamish wondered whether Duggan, the Macho Man, was taking his spite out on the colonel but, as yet, he had no proof, Hamish was beginning to think that the big man was a phoney. In his cups, his accent slipped and became more Scottish than American. But until he found something to drive Duggan out of Lochdubh or some proof so that he could arrest him for vandalism, all he could think to do was to try to defuse what he was rapidly beginning to see as an explosive situation.

“It would maybe be the best thing to take Randy Duggan’s audience away from him,” said Hamish.

“Drink somewhere else?” Archie looked at the policeman in surprise. “There isnae anywhere else to drink.”

“There’s that bar at the Tommel Castle Hotel,” said Hamish. “That’s open to non-residents.”

“That’s posh,” said Archie. “Come on, Hamish. Ye cannae see a bunch o’ fisherman and forestry workers up there. The colonel would be spittin’ blood.”

“Think about it,” said Hamish. “It would only be for a wee bit.”

“I’m game,” said Geordie eagerly.

Hamish pushed his cap back on his fiery hair. “It’s a quiet season. The colonel should be right glad o’ the trade.”

§

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, the cool and stately blonde, daughter of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, had recently returned from London and was once more running the gift shop. She had at one time been briefly and unofficially engaged to Hamish Macbeth, and since the end of their romance had kept out of his way. She therefore found it irritating when her father summoned her and suggested she call on Hamish to ask for help.

“More vandalism?” asked Priscilla. “You can deal with that yourself, Daddy.”

“I have tried to deal with this, but Macbeth won’t listen to me. Have you been in the hotel bar in the evenings?”

“No, what’s going on?”

“The place is full every night with all the low life from Lochdubh.”

“Lochdubh doesn’t have any low life.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse. I’m talking about the men off the fishing boats and the forestry people.”

“What’s up with them? You’re a snob.”

“I’m a more practical businessman than I was when I started this venture,” said the colonel wearily. When he had run into debt, Hamish had suggested that he turn his family home into a hotel. The colonel had done this and the venture was successful, although he never gave Hamish any credit for having had the good idea in the first place. “I’m not a snob,” said the colonel, “but most of our guests are, and that you must admit. They come here to fish and shoot and play lords of the manor. They get dressed up to the nines in the evening. They go into the bar for a drink before dinner. The last thing they want is a lot of the local peasantry blocking off the heat from the fire. They even come in wearing wet clothes and steam in front of it like dogs. Have a word with Hamish Macbeth. He’ll think of something.” Priscilla decided to have a look at what the bar was like that evening before consulting Hamish. Most of the guests were English and not only did not smoke but, because they were middle-aged, had given up smoking at one time and had all the virulence of the reformed smoker. They were clustered at the bar, pointedly coughing and choking and waving their hands while the locals, grouped in front of the log fire, rolled cigarettes and lit them up, filling the air with pungent smoke. Priscilla realized her father was right. It was no use offending paying guests. They had a business to run.

On her way down to Lochdubh, she felt a little apprehensive at seeing Hamish again. They had been very close. It had been Hamish who had ended their relationship, becoming tired of Priscilla’s ambitions to move him up to the CID in Strathbane and make him successful. Also she had never seemed to have any time for love-making. Why this was the case, Hamish had never been able to find out, and as for Priscilla, her mind clamped down tight shut on the subject. She parked at the side of the police station and went round to the kitchen door. Hamish answered it and stood looking at her in surprise and then said, “Come in, Priscilla. I heard you were back from London.”

Priscilla followed him into the narrow kitchen. Despite the warmth of the evening, Hamish had the wood-burning stove lit, a horrible old thing which Priscilla had once unsuccessfully tried to replace with a new electric cooker. There was an old-fashioned oil-lamp in the middle of the table. “What’s that for?” asked Priscilla. “Has the electricity been cutoff?”

“I like oil-lamps,” said Hamish. “It saves on electricity and it gives a bonny light. Coffee? Or do you want a drink? I’ve got some whisky.”

“I don’t want anything.” Priscilla sat down at the kitchen table and shrugged off her tweed jacket. Raindrops glistened in her fair hair. She looked as smooth, contained and elegant as ever. “What I do want,” said Priscilla, “is a bit of help, or rather, my father needs help.”

“Must be bad for the auld scunner to send you.”

“He’s got a point, for once. The locals have given up the Lochdubh bar and are frequenting the hotel bar, smoking like chimneys, chattering away and hogging the fire. The guests are getting restless. We offer them elegant country house accommodation.”

“You’d think they would enjoy a bit of local colour.”

“Hamish, the fumes from their nasty cigarettes are so strong that they can hardly see anything, let alone local colour. What’s the reason for it?”

“Have you been hearing about the Macho Man?”

“I’ve heard some great ape is enthralling the village with his adventures.”

“His name is Randy Duggan. He says he is American but becomes Scottish when he’s drunk. He holds forth in the Lochdubh bar and the locals are beginning to find out that although he buys them a lot of drinks, they can’t really get a chance to say much themselves. I merely suggested that if they moved up to the hotel bar for a wee bit, he might move on. That sort of person needs an audience.”

“Oh, Hamish, I might have guessed you were behind it. So why didn’t this Randy just follow them to the hotel?”

“You’ve been away. Your father wouldnae let him stay at the hotel. So he took one of the holiday cottages up the back. Then there came these acts of vandalism. You heard of those?”

“Yes, and you suspect him?”

“Aye, but I havenae the proof.”

“So the problem remains. How do we get the locals out of the hotel?”

“I’ll think o’ something.”