Glencoe Massacre Revisited

By Bob MacDonald and Robert A MacDonald

It is the year is 2020, and this story is set in Perth, Western Australia, during the COVID-19 epidemic outbreak. The principal character, a young man by the name of Alistaire MacDonald is given notice at his place of employment, a stockbroking firm.

The hardship suffered by losing his well-paid job leaves him an angry individual as it brings about him having to dispose of his luxury motor vehicle and move from a top-level unit in a prestigious seaside suburb of the city.

The fact that his boss went by the name of Duncan Campbell soon became the subject of obsession in his mind. Until being given his marching orders from his place of employment, he'd never so much as been aware that a location such as Glencoe existed.

But when told of the massacre at the highland clachan, by a friend, he studied up on the incident by reading from a publication purchased from a local bookstore. What he learnt from that book caused his already troubled mind to plot revenge on the Campbell clan for the atrocities committed by their ancestors in the year of 1692.

Using various weapons, including a club, a dirk and a shotgun, he set about seeking out and slaying those unlucky enough to bear the surname of Campbell. A local journalist, following his exploits, dubbed him the 'Glencoe Killer' in his media coverage.

Alistaire MacDonald, during his rampage of terror, believed in his disturbed mindset that people would come to recognize him in the same vein as the likes of Rob Roy MacGregor, William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, etc.

Detective Inspector Jack Carter and his team from the CIB Major Crime squad were handed the task of bringing the 'Glencoe Killer' to justice, but a strange quirk in proceedings resulted in a surprising finale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob MacDonald
• Release date: Jan 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393706458

Bob MacDonald

Bob MacDonald is a retired West Australian Police officer of thirty years experience. Bob's last day at school was his 14th birthday - commencing work, the very next day, in a timber mill in his home town of Pemberton, West Australia.He later self-educated and enlisted in the West Australian police force, retiring as a superintendent in the Internal Investigations Branch of the Professional Standards portfolio.Since retirement Bob has been working at remote aboriginal communities in Central Australia, Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. He also did a tour of duty on the island nation of Cyprus with the United Nations Blue Beret Peacekeepers.Bob, a keen sportsman continues with various sporting activities; which also includes fishing and camping trips. Writing articles for various magazines and now venturing into anecdotal short story compilations and fictional manuscripts ensures Bob leads a busy life.

Book preview

- - - ooo0ooo - - -

Chapter 01 - Alistaire MacDonald

Chapter 02 - Richard Hatfield

Chapter 03 - Sacked

Chapter 04 - On the Slippery Dip

Chapter 05 - Glencoe

Chapter 06 - Armed & Ready!

Chapter 07 - Vendetta Plans

Chapter 08 - Victim Number One

Chapter 09 - Hatfields -Vs- McCoys

Chapter 10 - Fireworks

Chapter 11 - Victim Number Two

Chapter 12 - A Carbon Copy

Chapter 13 - The Glencoe Killer

Chapter 14 - A Suspicious Friend

Chapter 15 - Victim Number Five

Chapter 16 - Crazy? Going or Gone?

Chapter 17 - Scottish Dirk

Chapter 18 - Interview of Jenny O’Neill

Chapter 19 - Victim Number six

Chapter 20 - Invincible, Immortal and Indestructible

Chapter 21 - The Merry-go-Round

Chapter 22 - Baigh Campbell

Chapter 23 - Failure

Chapter 24 - DNA & a Shotgun

Chapter 25 - Interview of Baigh Camdyn Campbell

Chapter 26 - ‘Breaking News’

Chapter 27 - The Dangers of Mowing the Lawn

Chapter 28 - Now Only One to Go!

Chapter 29 - Running Scared

Chapter 30 - The Last Target

Chapter 31 - Live Bait

Chapter 32 - My name is Alistaire MacDonald.

Chapter 33 - The Avenger

Chapter 34 - The Madman

Chapter 35 - All for Nothing

- - - ooo0ooo - - -

Chapter 01 - Alistaire MacDonald

Alistaire MacDonald glanced up at the office clock and saw he met with another half hour to go before knock-off time. He never tired of boasting to his friends, of his achievements in working as a stockbroker with the highly successful firm of Duncan Campbell & Associates of Perth in Western Australia. The firm’s workplace took up the top two floors of a skyscraper building on the Terrace, thus providing a 180 degrees view of the picturesque Swan River and its grassy, palm-lined foreshore.

No, he never lost interest in bragging to anyone dumb enough to listen to his egotistical accounts of how much money he made; his bright red Mustang Fastback Coupe; and his beachfront Scarborough unit. The vehicle being a 5.0 litre V8 chewed up the juice, but he didn’t buy it for long-distance driving; he bought it for the sole purpose of big-noting himself.

The seaside residence cost twice the rent for a similar pad a couple of streets back from the beach. Yes, the balcony of the apartment accommodated provided the platform for the enjoyment of watching the setting sun disappearing below the horizon of the Indian Ocean. Not that Alistaire ever bothered to waste his time on such a piddly twopenny-halfpenny distraction. His purpose of renting the property followed the lead of his car; which was in the matter of self-promotion.

And, on this day, being a Friday, he intended hitting Fred’s Place for his routine end-of-the-week happy-hour. He’d chosen good old Freddy’s because that’s where many of the ‘beautiful people’ went on weekends. Sure, the drink prices nearly doubled those of run-of-the-mill pubs, but Fred’s Place continued to be viewed as a trendy joint to be seen by anyone who believed they served as being important enough to grace the social scene.

Photographers from the local rags made a habit of calling at Fred’s Place with the hope of finding a well-known AFL footballer there, with his blonde airhead WAG. Failing that, the paparazzo shot away at the second-best on offer. Generally, each week five bimbo sheilas would be successful in getting snapped and having their photo’s in the Saturday issue of the city’s only gossip sheet. Occasionally the dork with the camera amused himself by photographing the guys, but no matter how hard Alistaire tried, he hadn’t yet succeeded in being selected. He’d nigh on be willing to give his left nut to feature in the weekend production of who’s-who about town.

On picking up the newspaper on Saturday mornings, his first actions resulted in him flicking through to the society pages to learn who’d scored a hit with the paparazzo. He nearly spewed when he saw which boofhead guys had suck-holed their way into getting their ugly mugs published. He curled up his nose at the sight of tight trousers, shoes without socks or laces, and dyed yellow hair. He’d spent a small fortune on designer-label clothing, but no-one paid him any attention.

He carried on from his schoolboy days in playing Aussie Rules football, but his best efforts only gained him a place in the local amateurs’ D Grade team. And those matches only drew friends and relatives as spectators. Nope, the sheilas weren’t interested in D Graders.

*

The big hand had nearly reached the number twelve figure on the office clock; thus time for him to hit the toe. But first, he’d call his buddy, Dicky Hatfield, and organize the night's activities. Looking to and fro to check whether any workplace brown-nosers hung around, he picked up the firm’s landline phone and dialled his mate. Whenever possible he utilized the firm’s blower or fax for his private use. His top-of-the-wozza Smartphone cost him a small fortune to maintain, so best to bludge on the company when able.

G’day, Dicky. It’s Alistaire speaking. I hope you’ve got your arse into gear coz I’ll be calling round to pick you up in approximately fifteen minutes.

Oh, for Christ’s sake, what have you got in mind for today?

Don’t be such a stick in the mud, lamented Alistaire, Fred’s Place is the go for tonight. I’m in the mood for a bit of fun. And you never know, even you may finish up being successful and getting your end away. C’mon, be truthful with me, when was the last time you managed to score a root?

That joint is too expensive. It is too noisy and those posers and poofs who flounce backwards and forwards give me the shits. Why can’t we have a quiet evening at the Royals’ clubrooms? It’s much cheaper and quieter there.

No way, Jose! I’m not gunna sit and listen to old codgers prattling on about the golden days of the East Perth Football Club when they followed a team good enough to win a premiership or two. I’ll pick you up, so be ready. Ciao.

Chapter 02 - Richard Hatfield

Richard Hatfield enjoyed steady employment as an orderly at the Royal Perth Hospital. By working shift work, he sometimes managed to score a Friday and the odd weekend off as weekly leave. That arrangement suited Alistaire because, though loath to admit it, he benefitted from no other close friends to call upon when in need of companionship.

Both men were of similar age, being of twenty-two years. Hatfield lived in a one-bedroom flat in a large condominium situated in Bayswater. He owned an aged Ford Focus car, laid claim to no steady girlfriend and played no active sports. Alistaire considered him to be downright boring but appreciated that fact as it allowed him to rule the roost.

Another similarity the pair shared concerned them both being country boys who’d left the home nest of their parents to sample life in the big city. Richard hailed from the small wheat-belt town of Mukinbudin, whereas Alistaire acknowledged having grown up in the Murchison whistle-stop of Meekatharra.

*

Alistaire kept his promise and pulled his Mustang into the carpark of the tower block of flats where Richard lived and sat honking the car horn until his friend appeared. After a flustered Richard climbed into the passenger seat, Alistaire left the parking lot with a squealing of the tyres on the hard asphalt surface.

Ignoring the hand gestures and advice from a couple of angry residents who’d been disturbed by his horn tooting and wheel spinning, he sniggered, Silly old buggers. This girl boasts oodles of grunt; did you notice how the wheels spun at the touch of my foot on the pedal? Your heap of shit lacks the guts to even pull the skin off a rice pudding. How can you drive such a bomb? Don’t you suffer from embarrassment when people you know, see you behind the wheel?

At least my ‘bomb’ is paid for, which leads me to ask; is this petrol-guzzler settled or does a finance company control the purse strings?

Alistaire frowned at Richard’s reference to him having the car on a hire-purchase agreement with a lender who charged a hefty interest rate. Every time he tried to stir Hatfield up and try to shame him regarding his vehicle, his clothes, his accommodation, or whatever, he retaliated with the same old, ‘What I’ve got, I own; what about you?’ line of bullshit.

*

The carpark at Fred’s Place stood nigh on empty as Alistaire pulled up with a revving of the engine, thus highlighting the straight-through twin exhaust pipes. Richard shook his head and after jumping from the vehicle, let it be known he disapproved of his friend's behaviour, Oh, for Christ’s sake, give it a rest, will you? You’re only doing that to get noticed. Well, I don’t appreciate the kind of ‘notice’ we receive when you do that.

Oh, shut your bellyaching. Get your arse inside and line me up a beer. I want a ‘Little Creatures’ larger; and a pint, not in one of those wee piss-farting glasses you get when it's your turn to shout.

Richard did as bade and returned to where Alistaire waited, seated on a barstool next to a high wooden topped chantry. On placing two pints of lager on the tabletop, Richard declared, Bloody hell, this place charges like a wounded bull. Just because they serve their piss in a tall decorative glass by a bird with big tits, they think that gives them the right to charge what they fancy.

Yeah, that sheila has got big tits. I can see from here, so when it's my turn to buy, I’m gunna make sure she serves me. I wonder what time she knocks off, as I might try chatting her up and brightening her night. What do you reckon?

Hahaha, what do I reckon? I reckon you’ve got mine and Buckley’s chance of even learning her name. She looks and comes across as a classy bit of gear.

Piss off, little man; I don’t have any trouble attracting the birds. I’ll wait a while before moving in, as something more to my liking may enter my world.

Alistaire bought another round and Richard decided that would be his last. No way did he intend wasting his money on ridiculously priced drinks just to appease his attention-seeking friend. The pair sat together on their barstools for a couple of hours. Alistaire continued with his efforts to chat up any eye-catching female who wandered into his path. And on each occasion, he either received a silent brush-off or a curt rebuttal.

After a while, on becoming exasperated with his lack of success, especially in front of his friend, he