Feargal

By Clive McWilliam

Feargal MacIntosh McGregor is the greatest exercise in positive PR that the police force have had in years. Son of Sir Robert McGregor, Britain's most famous policeman who, as the celebrated head of Scotland Yard, ran the Met with an iron hand and efficiency not achieved either before or after his time. Feargal is feted as the bright new hope for law and order by everyone from the Prime Minister down. An Oxford graduate with honours in fine art history and psychology he is also tall, blond, improbably handsome and totally unsuited to the police force.

Feargal's problem is that he is accident prone, gullible and far too amiable to be an efficient policeman. He is eventually shipped off to Scotland; to Glenoag, a remote Highland village in a remote Highland glen that hasn't seen a policeman for 30 years (or much of anyone else). A new laird has just inherited the estate that occupies the glen and has been having trouble with poachers. Feargal's instructions are to put a stop to it. However it isn't poachers but a missing Van Gogh that Feargal is faced with on his first week on the job. He also meets Mary, a beautiful farmer's daughter, a couple of Glasgow heavies bent on revenge, a cunning pub keeper and several other characters who manage to cause a maximum of confusion along with plenty of laughs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 21, 2005
• ISBN: 9781466955233

Clive McWilliam

In the course of what might best be described as an interesting life the author has been an Iowa farm boy, an English public schoolboy, a jackeroo in outback Queensland, a gaucho on the pampas of Argentina and a pedigree cattle breeder in New South Wales. He currently resides on a remote island off the west coast of Scotland where he occasionally tries to avoid gazing admiringly at the spectacular scenery so he can write.

Book preview

© Copyright 2005 Clive McWilliam.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: a cataloguing record for this book that includes Dewey Decimal Classification and US Library of Congress numbers is available from the Library and Archives of Canada. The complete cataloguing record can be obtained from their online database at:

www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN 1-4120-4516-9

ISBN 978-1-4669-5523-3 (ebook)

TRAFFORD

Offices in Canada, USA, UK, Ireland, and Spainbook sales for North America and international:

Trafford Publishing, 6E-2333 Government St.

Victoria, BC V8T 4P4 CANADA

phone [phone] toll-free 1 888 232 4444

fax [phone]

email to [e-mail]

Book sales in Europe:

Trafford Publishing (UK) Ltd., Enterprise House, Wistaston Road Business Centre

Crewe, Cheshire CW2 7RP UNITED KINGDOM

phone [phone] local rate 0845 230 9601

facsimile 01270 254 983 [e-mail]

order online at:

www.trafford.com/robots/04-2324.html

10    9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

When I left a cattle station in western New South Wales to come and live on a small island off western Scotland I had no idea that as well as the obvious differences there would be so many similarities. The poor roads, isolation, complete indifference of whatever party might be governing at the time to the aspirations of the local population and lousy weather (too little rain can be every bit as inconvenient as too much if you make your living off the land) all struck me immediately. So did the laid back attitude and dry sense of humour of the rural population who, despite everything that Mother Nature and various layers of bureaucracy can throw at them, retain an unfailingly optimistic outlook on life. It has been a privilege to live and work in both places.

Clive McWilliam

Cullipool

Isle of Luing

To Fiona, Elizabeth and James

who have always believed in me.

CHAPTER 1

It was a bright if rather chilly winter’s day in London. The sun shone down across the Thames turning the water from its usual dull grey to shimmering silver. Pigeons cooed contentedly as they fooled about on Nelson’s Column, leaving long white streaks down the great man’s likeness without the slightest sign of self consciousness. Young lovers strolled hand in hand along the Embankment, even the traffic wardens were whistling happily as they applied parking tickets to windscreens. However not everyone in the nation’s capital was feeling quite so jolly and if the weather outside was bright the gloom in the third floor office in New Scotland Yard that afternoon more than balanced things out. For a knotty problem was gripping two of the most senior members of the force that morning. These were men who had solved major crimes, who had dealt with race riots and serial killers and barmy religious fundamentalists without so much as turning a well groomed hair. This was different though, this had nothing to do with terrorism or the depressing rise in drug related crime or the ticklish job of keeping the various ethnic communities from each others’ throats. This was much more important as it involved covering some very senior backsides. As always happens in these kinds of dilemmas the senior man was making his opinion felt quite vociferously while his subordinate listened reluctantly and did his best to keep a lid on his temper.

The Chief Constable looked across his desk and frowned. A place will have to be found for him Nigel and that’s all there is to it. After the fuss the press made about him following in his late father’s footsteps we can’t now turn around and tell them that the son of Britain’s most famous and highly decorated policeman is unemployable.

Chief Superintendent Nigel Turner sighed noisily; this conversation was going in exactly the direction he had feared it might. Unfortunately sir, he is unemployable, certainly as a policeman in any case. If he wasn’t Sir Feargal McGregor’s son he would never have survived the first interview. Turner rubbed his craggy chin and continued just ever so sardonically. Of course once the Home Secretary posed with the lad outside New Scotland Yard, complete with half the top brass in the Met, and spouted about him being a prime example of the police force of the future the interview became nothing short of a welcoming committee.

He received another fearsome frown from the Chief Constable who had been a conspicuous member of the top brass that day. There was an election looming and as usual crime was a major issue, due to the fact that it was out of control and had been for years. The Home Secretary had seized on the young recruit like a drowning man clutching at a lifebelt. The boy was perfect; Oxford graduate with honours in psychology and fine arts history; son of a famous father who had been the country’s most efficient thief taker before moving upstairs to run the Met even more efficiently. The press had lapped it up and even the Prime Minister had taken the opportunity to be photographedwith the new recruit. The fact that the young man was tall, blond and handsome hadn’t hurt either.

The Chief Superintendent continued. It wasn’t until he started basic training that we realised how useless he really is. He’ll never survive the probationary period at a metropolitan station and if we try to bury him in the country questions will be asked in the tabloids that I’m sure none of us particularly want to answer, especially the Home Secretary.

Well, I expect you to find somewhere for him. I don’t care where it is or what he’s doing. The boy can’t be that hopeless surely. I knew his father and I can tell you he put the fear of God into me, even as an Inspector. Young McGregor must have inherited some of those genes. The Chief Constable picked up the file with Feargal Macintosh McGregor’s university results and glared at it as though it were a particularly scruffy trainee constable. This file says he’s damn near a genius, how do you explain that if he’s as useless as you say he is?

The Chief Superintendent shrugged his shoulders. I can’t explain it sir, except to say that he is obviously highly intelligent, extremely well read and hasn’t a nasty bone in his body. On the other hand he is almost totally physically uncoordinated and just too blasted nice to be a policeman. If Osama bin Laden explained that Sept. 11 had been an accident McGregor would let him off with a caution. At Oxford, because of his size, he was asked to try out for Rugby and in the first practise match he tripped over his own feet and fell on the university’s best player who also happens to be an Australian international; he’ll require a knee reconstruction. He then tried rowing and somehow succeeded in sinking a double scull, coming within an ace of drowning both himself and his crewmate in the process, his crewmate by the way is or I should say was in the British Olympics squad, he won’t go near the water now. During basic training at the police academy he managed to knock himself unconscious when being shown how to use his baton and then squirted himself in the eye with pepper spray. One of the instructors is still on sick leave with some sort of nervous complaint. He sighed and ran his hand through his thinning hair; Feargal McGregor was a problem he could easily have done without. We can’t just stick him behind a desk because regulations state he must spend a certain amount of time out on the streets and he knows it and wants to do it. Wants to work his way up through the ranks like his father did.

He’s a bloody wizard at art history according to his file. Surely those perfumed twats who investigate art fraud could make use of him?

They wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole I’m afraid, Turner said. Can you imagine him handling a priceless Ming vase? It would be in pieces before you could say Jack Robinson. Turner sighed again. It’s a pity his father didn’t stay in Scotland.

His father was the best damned thief taker any of us are ever likely to see, the Chief Constable said sourly. As a young detective he’d felt the rough edge of Sir Feargal McGregor’s tongue on more than one occasion. He started out in Scotland pulling in the hard men in Glasgow and was so bloody successful at it they still talk about him with bated breath up there. Down here he was unbelievable, even the Krays were frightened of him; not to mention everyone in the Met from the Chief Constable on down. It was in Scotland he made his name though, I’ll bet the villains in Glasgow celebrated all year when he moved south. Pity his son hadn’t started out up there.

For a moment the two men stared at each other with raised eyebrows and then Nigel Turner spoke in a soft thoughtful voice almost as though he were thinking aloud. My God sir, do you think it’s possible? I know they recruit and train their own, but a word in the right ear, surely? I mean he is Scottish.

The Chief Constable thought about it for a moment and although he was shaking his head Turner could almost hear the wheels turning as his superior considered the possibility.

It’s impossible, Nigel. They’d smell a rat as soon as I mentioned it.

The Chief Superintendent wasn’t giving up that easily, he could see a solution to a messy situation staring him the face.

Supposing the suggestion came from the boy himself, sir? You know, convince him to really follow in his father’s footsteps? We could leak it to the press-son of the late Sir Feargal McGregor wants to start in his native Scotland just like his father did. The Scots could hardly turn him down if that came out, they’d look churlish.

They are churlish, most of them, the Chief Constable growled. His opinion of the Celts had been rather clouded of late due to the fact that the Home Secretary came from Inverness and kept going on about rising crime figures in an annoying accent. Is he a native of Scotland?

Turner picked up the file again and quickly flipped through it. Well no, Surrey as a matter of fact, but his father being Scottish should be close enough; the most patriotic Scots all live somewhere else.

The Chief Constable stopped frowning for a moment as though he was quite pleased with the idea. Leak it to the press, eh? You know this might just work. He suddenlyfrowned so severely at Turner that his eyebrows threatened to become a single hairy furrow across his brow. You realise that I can’t possibly condone leaks to the press, Nigel?

Of course not sir, Turner said soothingly, neither can I. These things do have an unfortunate habit of getting out though.

Quite, the Chief Constable said, with a disapproving sniff as though the talk of leaks was in very poor taste. He stood up and walked across to his drinks cabinet with the air of a man who has just seen his execution postponed indefinitely. I think a drink might be in order Nigel. Scotch?

Thank you sir, Turner chuckled quietly, it seems somehow appropriate.

So, two weeks later, Feargal Macintosh McGregor found himself heading north after agreeing vaguely that following in his father’s footsteps quite so literally might be all right-all things being equal. The press, especially the Scottish press, had given the story quite a romantic twist, to the extent that Feargal had found himself being lauded by such diverse members of the community as the Scottish Nationalists-who thought he was a patriot-and the Edinburgh gay community-who thought he had a nice butt.

Feargal had never actually given any thought to starting his career in Scotland any more than he had considered working in France or Germany or any other foreign country. He had never been to Scotland, even as a child. His father, although a proud Scot, had never found the time for family holidays and Feargal had never considered himself anything other than English. Largely brought up by his mother as his father’s career had moved inexorably upward, involving long days and even longer nights away from home, Feargal had hardly known his father but had admired him enormously from afar. His mother was a kindly, gentle soul, the only child of a wealthy landowner from Hampshire and his personality had come from her side of the family. He had been born just outside London and sent to school at Winchester and from there to Oxford. Money had never been a problem for the McGregor household and young Feargal could have done whatever he liked with his life. He really should have stuck to fine art history at which he had been one of the brightest students at Oxford for years but in his heart was a yearning to be like his father. Of course a part of him knew he could never hope to emulate that hard bitten, intelligent Highlander, but that just made the desire to make his mark in the police force all the greater.

So, although Feargal had pinned his hopes on being accepted into the Met, when the press had extolled the virtues of a young man starting his career in ‘wild’ Caledonia complete with pictures of hairy cattle and bonny smiling lassies he had not felt inclined to correct the view. Feargal Macintosh McGregor had always been one to go with the flow; this time he let it carry him north.

The Scots were ready for him of course-the adjective canny is not attached to that race for nothing-they took one look at his file, made a few discreet enquiries and realised they had been set-up beautifully. Within the space of a month and amid much local fanfare he was paraded from Clydeside to Edinburgh to Tayside to Aberdeen to the Borders and even up to Inverness. Superintendents, Chief Inspectors, Inspectors and Sergeants moved him up, down, across, sideways, back and forth and around and around in ever decreasing circles until he could safely say he had seen more of metropolitan Scotland than the majority of her citizens. Eventually-when the media had tired of the story and started concentrating on important issues of the day like footballers’ salaries and what sort of slinky underwear the soap stars were wearing this winter-Feargal found himself sitting at a desk opposite a grey haired, grey faced, tired looking Sergeant. The Sergeant’s role in Scotland’s fight against crime was to place new recruits where they were needed most, which was generally a simple and mundane task. This time, however, his Inspector had received a memo from on high to find the boy a position that would not endanger the general population or his fellow officers and keep him out of the public eye. Following the time honoured practise of passing difficult jobs down the line; the memo had gone from the Inspector’s desk to the Sergeant’s faster than a rocketing pheasant. The Sergeant had summed up the situation shrewdly and quickly; realising that such a position did not exist he had invented one.

It was highly irregular but then this was not a regular case and he was reasonably certain any complications would occur after his impending retirement. The Sergeant’s aim in life was to see out the last four months of his service with a minimum of fuss whereupon he could retire to his semi-detached in Glasgow, watch his beloved Celtic play ‘fitba’ and ignore his wife’s persistent nagging about all the things he had managed to avoid doing in their 37 years of marriage. He looked at Feargal’s file again to make sure he had the name right and then addressed him in as friendly a manner as he could manage.

Now then Feargal, he said, in what he fondly imagined was a kindly voice but which actually sounded as though he had the entire weight of Scotland’s bloodied historyresting on his rounded shoulders. Before he could continue the young man broke in cheerfully.

Actually Sarge I don’t use my first name, it’s a little too Irish.

The sergeant, whose name was Murphy, glared at the young man and straightened in his chair. He couldn’t quite decide what it was about Feargal that annoyed him the most, the accent that made him sound like a Conservative front bencher, the boy’s obvious dislike of a good Irish name or the fact that Feargal was being found a special post when he should have just been bounced straight out of the force, famous father or not.

What dae they call you then?

At varsity I was known as Tosh; short for Macintosh, don’t you know?

The young man