B

 

BADEN-POWELL, ROBERT (1857 - 1941) Soldier, Founder of the Scout Movement. I refuse to be critical of the enthusiasms or prejudices of the past. To judge someone by the age in which he lived is as superficial as defining him by his race or socio-economic group. Which of us can be confident that future generations won't regard his own contribution with a knowing smirk? Predictably today's right-on and sex-obsessed generation is more interested in Baden-Powell's political bent and alleged yearning for the boys under his command than any of his accomplishments. We can attribute this, of course, to the prurient mindset of the internet browser. Baden-Powell was a transparently well-meaning and sincere individual as, indeed, are the majority of his current leaders. There are, however, bad apples in any crop and it was my misfortune that the Drumfeld pack of which I was briefly a member was led by a rogue.

Details of my investigations into this individual are still too sensitive for general release. A wife and two daughters survive him, after all. Less compassionate investigators wouldn't hesitate to name and shame a man who laughed when one of his charges bound by his fellows, was dangled by the ankles from a tree and pelted with burnt potatoes from the camp-fire. "That's what you get for being a snoop!" he scoffed at the time, blithely unaware that within a year fate combined with the diligence of Hamilton Coe would deliver an altogether harsher penalty for embezzlement, serial infidelity and benefits fraud. By a further horrible irony, he ended his life hanging from a tree in the same wood in which he supervised my ordeal. His suicide gave me no satisfaction. An unsuitable leader of boys, he was, nonetheless, a human being, albeit one governed by significant character flaws.

Since my own scouting days, incidentally, the movement's membership has been decimated by an absence of civic spirit and exaggerated terror of paedophiles. Remaining Scouts are low calibre careerists desperate for awards and activities with which to fill their c.v.'s. A significant percentage of today's scouts, I suspect, will go on to join the Rotary Club, a development which should be discouraged as urgently as experimentation with drugs.

Hamilton Coe, far right, before his tree ordeal.

 

BAIRD, JOHN LOGIE (1888 – 1946) Engineer, Inventor of Television. What was conceived as in innocuous parlour trick has heralded a dark age of sadism, vanity and sloth. The imaginations of subsequent generations have been deadened by its influence to the extent that many children of the current generation have been born without the capacity to dream, referring instead to the generic memory bank created and controlled by television production companies. While I might differ with many aspects of psychiatric dream interpretation, I wouldn't dispute the role that dreams play in filtering the subconscious. Without this function, sections of the human race will inevitably mutate into a subspecies entirely dependent upon machines and unevolved humans for survival. Los Angeles, the home of the television industry, already contains many prototypes of this tragic new race: confined to their wastefully large cars, they dress like infants and worship at the altar of their pets while bemoaning the onset of MID LIFE CRISIS.

 

Future 'Human'

 

BAKER, TOM (1934 - ) Actor – To this day BILLY URE persists in the delusion that he might one day be recognised as an author. This misconception was borne of his DR WHO story winning a Blue Peter competition. Rather than write about a Time Traveller, of course, Billy might have drawn on personal experience of assisting me in various cases. While the competition specified that Dr Who feature as a leading character, there was no stipulation against his being investigated. A story in which Who was exposed as a clandestine menace would, I suspect, have been vastly superior to Billy's entry, which involved him joining forces with Rabbie Burns to destroy a nest of daleks. By any dispassionate analysis, the end product was poorly written and devoid of tension. Billy failed to adequately explain either Burns' presence in 20 th century Callender or the daleks' motivation in conquering the town's woollen mill. That good, predictably, triumphed over evil was attributable to luck and inconceivable co-incidence rather than any skilled plotting on Billy's part.

While recent scandals involving the BBC's competition selection process render all previous results questionable, it would be ungenerous at this late stage to steal Billy's moment of glory. Despite my misgivings about the story's quality, I didn't begrudge Billy's success. Far from it! Nobody applauded him more ardently! I even broke my own ‘no television' rule to watch him receive his award. There he sat on the Blue Peter couch, two feet away from noted Soho degenerate, Tom Baker, the former hurdy-gurdy man who portrayed Dr Who at the time. As Billy recoiled from Baker's boggle eyes and mirthless grin, I was overwhelmed by such a profound sensation of primeval cruelty that I took an ornament from the mantelpiece and hurled it into the television before being overwhelmed by a twenty minute seizure. Baker's richly sardonic tones, pulsating with netherworld vibrations, still activate my radar as he advertises products from dog food to tabloid newspapers.

In her book, incidentally, NINA KELLY sees fit to remind readers that Billy's triumph was tarnished by the revelation that he adapted Norman Whyte's story ‘Rabbie Takes a Nap', introduced Dr Who and some Daleks before presenting it as his own work. Need we dwell on his humiliation? The world has surely moved on since the drizzly November morning when BBC employees emerged from the mist to reclaim his prize: a full size Dalek which Billy's jealous classmates had already rolled down Mackie Brae, its proud owner trapped inside. Later that week, as if he hadn't suffered enough, Billy was publicly denounced by gormless Blue Peter presenter Simon Groome. See Also DARK MAESTRO

 

 

BALCESCU, COSMIN (1963 – 2000) Librarian. In 2000, the Bucharest department invited me to assist in the investigation of poor Mr Balescu's murder, a crime that exhibited signs of magic ritual, not uncommon in that part of the world. I've worked with police in Central and Eastern Europe on various occasions. Detectives in poorer countries are more inclined to respect the expertise of outsiders. Our own policemen have an unrealistic confidence in their own capabilities and resent what they perceive to be interference. This is why so many investigations are botched. At the time, I was preoccupied with the Marion Hazard mystery but, having been entrusted with the resolution of a case which had thrown Transylvania into a panic, I was reluctant to prove the Rumanians' faith misplaced. While I concluded the Hazard case, though, a local psychic, IORGU ZEKLOS, insinuated himself. I knew Zeklos from a conference in Vancouver from which he'd been sent home in disgrace after a horrible incident in his hotel bathroom. The thought of him swanning around Bucharest stroking his greasy moustache and ogling street-children while charging his bar-bills to an already impecunious police department caused me to behave rashly. I had only partially recovered from my virus (see GERMS and HOUDINI, HARRY) when I attempted to scrutinise the objects sent for analysis. My sister (see CHRISTINE COE), who was attending me, tried to intervene, but I wouldn't listen. Whether I was intent on exposing Mr Balcescu's killer or thwarting Zeklos, as Christine subsequently insisted, is irrelevant. Evil is evil, whatever form it might take. The experienced detective recognises this. The space between an evil thought and an evil act is non-existent. The neophyte might find this concept hard to grasp. He'll have to take my word for it. Where evil is concerned, there's no grading system, simply right and wrong.

 

 

BALSILLIE-URE, KAREN (1969 - ) Legal Assistant, Divorcee, Termagant. Solitary people without the courage to walk through life alone, often reach their mid to late thirties and, in the throes of desperation, attach themselves to the first person who makes prolonged eye contact. Such couples subsequently build their relationship around a repertoire of feeble private jokes and imitations of what they imagine to be adult behaviour based on recollections of the younger years of their own parents. They barbecue, host dinner parties for similarly blighted friends and pretend to enjoy the same films and television shows. Mutual incomprehension prevails as both sacrifice the qualities and ambitions that preceded their relationship. After an initial compromise, one invariably becomes dominant and the other the equivalent of his or her protege, suddenly espousing similar opinions or affecting an interest in the same type of music, films or literature. Such relationships, in my experience, often unravel in murderous intrigue as one of the two, usually the subservient partner, tries to negotiate an escape by the administration of poisoned treats or a shove at the top of a flight of stairs.

Billy Ure's marriage to Karen Balsillie, I'm afraid, falls firmly into this category. Balsillie, a moody, abrasive woman whose allergies to domestic animals and various food-stuffs seem contrived to draw attention to herself and cause maximum inconvenience, is a manifestly unsuitable companion for a character as malleable as Billy. Within weeks of their meeting she had made him grow his hair long, dragged him along to line dancing classes and discouraged his involvement with the Hamilton Coe Foundation to the extent that he started avoiding my phone calls.

When the couple announced their engagement, I considered it my duty, as Billy's oldest friend, to point out the folly of his actions. The vindictiveness of Karen's response provided conclusive evidence of her warped nature. Despite my willingness to put aside my reservations and support Billy on his wedding day, she excluded me from the party, manouevering her cousin, CALUM LIVINGSTONE, into the role of best man.

 

 

BALSILLIE, CAMERON (1995 - ) Younger son of KAREN BALSILLIE and Greg Semple. There is no professional support network available to the parents of unprepossessing children. The tendency to automatically condemn them helps no-one. We should be considerate toward people whose offspring squawk, kick and sulk until we've established the cause of the child's discontent. Then we might apply compassion or condemnation, whichever is appropriate. Even though I was in my infancy when my powers became apparent, I can still vividly recall the ostracism to which I was subjected as I struggled with the initial confusion familiar to any child of enhanced intuition. These problems were compounded by the matter of my personal appearance. My cousin PAMELA MALCOLM writes that I possessed a ‘vast, wall eyed face, bulging from the pram like a malevolent planet.' Photos from the time of my infancy tend to vindicate her humorous (if cruel) assessment. According to my mother, my appearance was only slightly less alarming than the hoarse bellow with which I remonstrated against the encroachment of unfamiliar parties. While I'm sufficiently robust to enjoy a joke at my own expense, I feel a retrospective sorrow on my parents' behalf. All they wanted was for the world to love their son. How terrible it must have been for them to see him rejected on account of the very attributes that made him special.

There are, unfortunately, no mitigating factors to excuse Balsillie's behaviour. While his parents have, without any reference to expert opinion, diagnosed ASPERGER'S SYNDROME, his fiendishness is symptomatic of chronic over-indulgence. Many children spawned by loveless relationships exhibit personality traits similar to those of the latter Roman emperors as their estranged parents compete for their affection. JOHN HYSLOP, the only competent child psychologist currently active in Scotland, has identified this trend as a contributing factor to future crime rates. Ironically, the parents currently lavishing their undeserving offspring will suffer the consequences of their wrath when they're no longer capable of fulfilling their expected roles. Parricide rates have soared in the past twenty years as man-children, convinced of their right to fulfilment; destroy the elderly impediments to happiness.

Since embarking upon a relationship with Balsillie's mother, WILLIAM URE has, if anything, made matters worse by adopting a policy of self-ingratiation. Is there anything more aggravating than the sight of a grown man, reddening under the contemptuous scrutiny of restaurant staff and diners, imploring a child clad entirely in combat fatigues to finish his dessert with the encouragement that, “It's monkey brains, Cameron. You like monkey brains!”?

 

BARR, JASON (1987 - ) Pornographer. For four years, until I exposed him, Barr ran a website called Vixens Chained. Instead of accusing me of “persecution”, Mr and Mrs Barr might like to consider the fact that they have raised a deviant who peddles doctored images of his female classmates for the delectation of his fellow on-line perverts. By their version of events, however, repeated in NINA KELLY's book, Jason, who enslaves every woman he meets in the dungeons of his imagination, is nothing more than a harmless sci-fi enthusiast. Total rot! I'm reliably informed that he now plans a new web-site: a preposterous support group for the so-called Victims of Hamilton Coe. My lawyers and I await its appearance with interest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BAXTER, RODERICK (1965 - ) Blackmailer, poisoner. Throughout his school career, Baxter bragged about his connection to the soup dynasty of the same name to which he was tenuously related. He endlessly extolled the virtues of Baxter's products while apportioning rival brands with unedifying descriptions, summoning images of vomit and botulism. His schoolmates found his fixation peculiar, but learned to humour him: ferociously loyal to the 'family' business, he was once suspended from school after reacting violently to being duped into complimenting the flavour of a Campbell's soup which had been presented to him in a Baxter's tin. "I hate Campbells," he seethed while mauling the perpetrator of the prank. This was the first instance of the type of over-reaction that would recur throughout his subsequent career.

On leaving school, Baxter wrote to his 'parent' company seeking a placement. He was mortally offended, however, when offered a menial position in the staff kitchen. After two weeks of drudgery and repeated warnings to desist from attempting to enter the boardroom, he was dismissed after being caught in the act of spitting into a pot of beans being prepared for his co-workers' lunch. His appeal for a personal audience with the directors was rejected and, after a twenty four hour delay caused by his barricading himself into the executive toilet, he was escorted from the premises.

As any experienced investigator will concur, a fantasist is at his most dangerous in the immediate aftermath of disillusion. Embittered by what he perceived as unfair treatment, Baxter embarked upon a poison pen campaign, randomly targeting Baxters he found in the phone book, many of whom had no connection to the food group. At the same time, he started placing doctored tins of Baxter's produce on the shelves of his local supermarket. Thankfully, the introduction of foreign materials was so clumsily executed that the adulterated tins were almost immediately spotted and other stores were alerted. Baxter, meanwhile, oblivious to the fact that his handiwork had already been spotted, wrote to Baxter's informing them of the doctored tins and his intention of continuing his campaign regardless of any financial inducement to desist. It was, he concluded, "a matter of principle."

Analysis of the tampered tins revealed the introduction of various pernicious ingredients including urine and cleaning fluid. Despite the ineptitude of the contamination, Baxter's were left with no choice but withdraw over five thousand tins of soup. Any sense of jubilation enjoyed by Baxter, however, was short lived. In writing to Baxter's, while taking care not to leave prints, he had made no effort to disguise his handwriting. A straightforward comparison of his declaration of malicious intent with his original job application was sufficient to bring about his apprehension.

 

BECKHAM, DAVID (1975 - ) Footballer. See OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE DISORDER

 

BEITH, RONALD (1964 – 1990) Pervert, Blackmailer, Instigator. I've often argued that petty acts of malice accumulate to contribute more to human unhappiness than any Mafia. A compulsive liar or cheat is as destructive in his way as a murderer. The experienced investigator recognises this. Once we have established a man's poor character we can cease to be surprised by the full extent of his depravities. Ronald's character was evident to me on our first meeting when he was presented as my personal tutor. My immediate objection to his presence, however, was pooh-poohed.

At the time, my own stock was low. Ridiculed in THE PEOPLE WHO SAW TOMORROW television series and excluded from the education system in the aftermath of the KAREN GARDNER affair, my judgement was considered flawed. My parents, beleaguered by public disapproval were determined to curb my investigative instincts while my aunt, normally my staunchest supporter, was absent, suffering the effects of nervous exhaustion. Beith's interview was further complicated by the presence of a social worker who turned out to be a relative. “Stop staring at Ronald like that,” she snapped as I tried to intuit something more specific than the overwhelming sensation of dampness prompted by his presence. As Beith stammered and compulsively swallowed his way through the interview, I tried to interject with questions of my own: “Who is Nicola?” I demanded. “Why is her tongue so dry?” Before I could reach a satisfactory conclusion, though, Beith's relative intervened. I was ordered from the room – my own family sitting room! – and he was employed in my absence. Thus began a relationship that, in its way, was as intimate as any marriage. Until his demise in a fume filled garage five years later, Ronald Beith was to establish himself as my Moriarty. Without my constant attention, Beith, whose malign genius ensured brief careers in St Andrews, Durham and Swansea, would have attained a position from which he might have wrought chaos on a grand scale. Legal constraints and the discretion essential to any effective investigator prevent me from being more specific. When eventually submitted to the public domain, however, my complete Beith files will present a portrait of a monster.

Ronald Beith

 

BI-POLAR DISORDER a.k.a. Manic Depression – Currently the psychiatric condition of choice of many celebrities, replacing recent favourites ASPERGER'S SYNDROME and OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER. Children's television presenter, Sally Bowles, is the latest celebrity to confess to her struggle with the condition, an acknowledgement prompted by a drunken nightclub assault on a sixty year old cloakroom attendant.

 

BISHOP, ELIZABETH (1968 - ) – Stirling Council's Director of Culture and Leisure. As an occasional voluntary guide and guardian of the semi-permanent Hamilton Coe exhibition, I was present at Drumfeld Museum when Ms Bishop visited, proclaiming her intention of making the Drumfeld experience ‘more relevant' to visitors. In my experience, the word ‘relevant', nearly always misused, should trigger alarm: it seldom augurs anything other than fatheadedness.

Within days of her visit, Ms Bishop had ordered the removal of the Hamilton Coe exhibition from the Scott Room, replacing it with a collection of photographs taken by disabled Dundonians. One can only conjecture why she imagined this to be ‘more relevant' to people in Drumfeld than the career of the town's most celebrated inhabitant. The Hamilton Coe exhibits, incidentally, many on loan from the Hamilton Coe archive at Glasgow University, were deposited in bins awaiting collection by the refuse department. Only my unscheduled appearance prevented their destruction. See Also EVERETT, STEPHEN; PIRIE, ROBERT; URE, WILLIAM

Liz Bishop

 

BLACK, IRENE (1932 - 2007) Headmistress. The unfortunate consequence of the modern teacher's tendency toward ingratiation and buffoonery is a generation dominated by the unbridled excesses of cretins. While this is obvious to any observer, we should be wary of indulging in mindless nostalgia for an age of indifference and brutality. Teachers, circumscribed by their own limitations, have always championed nonentity. Whatever the weapons at their disposal, tawse, indifference or withering rebuke, they have proved themselves the age-old enemies of promise. No gifted child should be subjected to a school environment. This has always been the case. While I rarely indulge in retrospection, the recent death of Mrs Black caused me to reflect on the injustices inflicted upon me under her headmistress-ship.

Had Mrs Black even attempted to comprehend the problems unique to clairvoyant children, my school career might have been entirely different. With reference to the guidelines supplied by the Gibson Institute (and binned in my presence), my fellow pupils might have been coached in their dealings with the special individual in their midst. On reaching adulthood, they might have remembered their assocation with Hamilton Coe with pride and affection. Instead, I suspect, the mention of my name might rouse the inconsolable hounds of conscience. See also SPINK, HEATHER

 

BLADDER, CAPACITY OF – Television fails to touch upon the necessity of exemplary bladder control to the successful investigator. This is a prerequisite, in fact, of excellence in any realm of human endeavour. The talents of the most naturally gifted performer or sportsperson would be completely nullified by a preoccupation with bodily functions. Similarly, many potentially successful investigators are stymied by a limited bladder capacity. How many carefully planned surveillance operations have been compromised by an unscheduled toilet break? When the Adventure of the Squeaking Shoe is released into the public domain in 2015, the reader, I'm sure, will be astonished by the manner in which my efforts to thwart a fiendish plot were almost undermined by BILLY URE's constant need to urinate. Note to neophyte investigators: the surest way of alerting a suspect to your attentions is to request the use of his toilet!

For purposes of focus, I tend to drink large quantities of coffee while on a case. I have however, trained my bladder to the extent that I have a 36 hour retention capacity. Even without adding coffee to the equation, most martial arts masters can only boast twenty four. Despite these powers of self control, I'm not embarrassed to confess to using adult nappies as a safe-guard.

 

BODY LANGUAGE - No great gifts are required to evaluate personalities. I'm not boasting when I say that, within minutes of making his acquaintance, I know a man almost as well as he does himself: sometimes better. I'm not confounded by the various self-deceptions people employ to make their lives bearable. Most of the secret fears and yearnings we think hidden are, in fact, only too apparent. Given a stranger's point of view for even minutes, our self conception would be annihilated. Few people can cope with this sort of awakening. The realisation that the fears and yearnings we thought concealed are, in fact, only too apparent is sufficient to trigger the sort of crisis commonly associated with pathetic and inappropriate behaviour. Today we sneeringly allude to this as a symptom of undignified middle-age. Our ancestors, however, considered it a spiritual death from which there is rarely any hope of recovery.

When I look at someone my vision is unclouded by either prejudice or sentiment. I don't think to myself, “I like him” or “I can't stand her”, I merely observe them and note how they react to certain circumstances. Nine times out of ten, this is something I'm able to anticipate.

Few people possess the quality of self-mastery. They betray themselves in a thousand ways. To the perceptive observer, his friends' and neighbours' secret flaws are immediately apparent. There's no great mystery behind this, the point is learning to reach a sensible conclusion through observation. There are a thousand and one gestures that indicate a guilty conscience. The implications of someone habitually evading eye-contact, for example, are perfectly straightforward, but is this person aware of the impression of furtiveness he conveys? Someone else covers his mouth while he speaks. This is the instinctive response to dishonesty, but how many liars realize how blatantly they give themselves away? When I speak with Spencer, for example, unless he's bolstered himself with alcohol, he mumbles, picks at his lip and looks at the floor. These are all symptoms of a guilty conscience. In Spencer's case, this might have a thousand sources. An obvious one is the assistance he offered NINA KELLY with her book on my career. A psychologist might argue that he did this because he's a CHILD OF ADOPTION with unresolved abandonment issues. This is all very well, but what do we propose to do about it? Spencer is in his late thirties, he can't very well be suckled. Our prisons and mental institutions are full of people with “unresolved abandonment issues”.

 

BUNDY STREET. Los Angeles thoroughfare named tastelessly after mass murderer. My residence for the period in which executives discussed and eventually rejected plans for a movie based on my adventures.See MACLACHLAN, KYLE and MALCOLM, PAMELA

 

 

BURNS, FRANCIS (1963 - ) Drunkard, Musician, Satanist. A passable singer and enthusiastic pianist, Burns has long been a fixture on what I've heard referred to as ‘The Trossachs Scene'. Better known as Rockin' Robin, The Boogie-woogie man and the Highlander, all names he has attributed to himself. He ruins songs, in my opinion, by frequently referring to himself in grotesquely whimsical, self-pitying terms: “Poor old Frankie can't take it no more,” he might whine or, “Spare a thought for poor old Frankie when you're lying next to Steve.” Of course, I can't claim any expertise in the realm of rock and pop. I rarely listen to anything other than Holst or my beloved MAHLER. I'll concede, though, that on the occasions I've seen him play, I've found my foot tapping along to his repertoire. He's certainly a more accomplished entertainer than my brother Spencer, though his style is unnecessarily flashy and he dyes his hair. While I'd also contest his oft repeated assertion that “Freedom's just another word for nothing else to lose”, I'd advise from experience against discussing the fallacy of the argument with him.

A volatile individual when drunk, Burns has been barred from a total of thirty seven pubs and the entire town of Pitlochry where, in a fit of pique, he once set fire to a phone box. Five years ago he punched Spencer's head in retaliation for smirking when he compared himself to Jerry Lee Lewis. As the frequent recipient of Spencer's smirks, I can confirm, without condoning violent retaliation, that they are very aggravating. Rumours that Frankie summoned the devil in Aberfoyle churchyard and exchanged his soul for a skull ring and a sixteen year old girlfriend led to his being excluded from Drumfeld's Hogmanay celebrations. His girlfriend has since had a child, Frankie, Junior, whose welfare is monitored by the social services.

Francis Burns

 

 

C

 

CAFFEINE – Historically, many religious orders have used caffeine to intensify the powers of prayer and concentration. Over the years, I've found it an invaluable aid when trying to immerse myself in a case or summon depleted resources. The Mystery of the Flesh Meringue, for example, collected in my archive for public release in 2030, was resolved without recourse to notes over three mugs of coffee in Dunblane Hydro. A word of caution, to avoid pollutants, one should only drink superior coffees. Analysis of various brands has revealed the presence of foreign substances ranging from mouse droppings to cigarette ash. For many unsuspecting individuals, their morning pick-me-up largely comprises floor sweepings. I import coffee for my personal use from Italy. When buying coffee in a restaurant or cafe, I always ascertain what type they use.

 

CANNIBALISM - Recently a distressing story circulated to the effect that a group of depressives from Minnesota, lost in the forest while rambling, resorted to cannibalism. The fact is that, being depressives, they panicked in a sudden flash storm and got lost. At the height of the panic, they tied Barry Gordon, the group leader, to a tree and threw sticks at him. It was Barry's bellowed pleas that they desist, in fact, overheard by passing hikers, that led to their rescue. The seasoned investigator, particularly one with experience of depressives, responds to this story with no more than a wry smile. Throughout history frightened people have attempted to appease nemesis with sacrifices. An apparently hysterical response serves the purpose of providing the group with a scapegoat and a distraction from its predicament. In Britain, health service employees suffer similar indignities at the hands of their charges on a daily basis. No more would have been said of this particular incident were it not for the enraged group leader's claim that he suffered various bite wounds in the course of the assault: this was substantiated by a brief examination. He further alleged that the previously cowed depressives underwent a startling transformation, gambolling around the tree to which he'd been bound and gleefully discussing the prospect of eating him. As the rescuers appeared, however, they immediately reverted to type, lowering their heads, mumbling and walking in a shuffling gait.

Cannibalism is, of course, an offence against nature. Even the many primitive tribes to whom the act is wrongly attributed consider the act taboo. Throughout history, however, outsiders, enraged by their circumstances, have perpetrated cannibalistic outrages, not out of necessity (most reasonable people would die rather than eat their dead friends) so much as a form of protest. Sawney Bean and his incestuous brood of prototype hippies had access to any number of alternative food resources, in choosing to exist on a diet of travellers, they were effectively goading the very God they imagined responsible for their creation. Similar offences, incidentally, are still routinely committed against tourists throughout Scotland, particularly in FIFE where walkers are regularly abducted from the coastal paths around Kirkcaldy.

 

CELEBRITY, CULT OF - My brother, with a characteristic lack of self-awareness, recently made an unkind observation about what he scathingly referred to as my “celebrity”. Obviously, this is an ironic insult from someone who has sent three thousand unsolicited cassettes to record companies, but allowances must be made for Spencer's extreme unhappiness. Like many people who consider their own lives unsatisfactory, he is particularly diligent in finding fault in others: it's his only solace. Over the years, he's expended so much energy in disparaging me that it's hardly surprising his “pop” career has foundered. The fact that he's devoid of talent is hardly relevant in his chosen sphere: countless nonentities have prospered through graft and perseverance. Unfortunately, Spencer considers himself an artist and refuses to accept the necessity of salesmanship. He mopes about the house, writing his morbid lyrics and maintaining the 'blog' dedicated to his life-time of non-achievement from which he spends his evenings pestering young girls. The fact that my opinions are sought and disseminated to the audience he feels should, by rights, be his, is a source of terrible resentment. When I return from my weekly appearances on the Rob McAskill radio show, I invariably find Spencer belligerently drunk and eager to criticise my performance. While he professes to hate the show, he never misses my appearances. In fact, he records them in order that he can re-listen while sober and repeat the same sarcastic observations to which I've already been subjected.

Spencer is, of course, completely unqualified to discuss my realm of expertise. Despite the impression of worldliness he attempts to convey, his own life experience is so limited that he's barely qualified to discuss anything beyond what food he enjoys. In a society in which everyone's opinions are considered valid, though, I can understand how frustrating it is for Spencer that, after a lifetime of attempted communication, nobody is even remotely interested in his.

Dealing with the inanities of Rob's listener's in fact, is something I find increasingly irksome. Normally I'm eager to accommodate anyone who might ask for an opinion. When other people 'zone out' (as my niece, Muriel, says) my own focus intensifies. All I can discern of these people, though, is that they're boring me. Out of politeness I try and dissemble an interest, but I can't help dread the pre-occupation with trivia that Rob, despite the best of intentions, shares with his listeners. “What are Hamilton's opinions on such or such a pop star?” they ask, or “What does Hamilton think about such or such a marriage?” The truth is that Hamilton thinks very little of such things if at all! How can it possibly interest me if a movie actor I've never heard of has drugged himself into a state of incapacity or left his wife for someone he's met on a goodwill tour of Africa (whatever that might entail)? Unless his personal depredations lead him into my own realm of expertise, aberrant and criminal behaviour, I can only say “good luck to him” and try to negotiate a change of subject.

 

CHANNEL FOUR – For several years Channel Four was unavailable in Drumfeld. I remember my cousin Richard Malcolm's disgruntlement at missing out on his favourite programmmes when visiting at Christmas. "Poor old Richard," said Aunt Isobel as he slouched moodily on the settee in his baggy trousers and pixie boots. "I was sure the reception would be better this year. He was so looking forward to the Brookside Christmas edition." Richard was always talking about Brookside, Channel Four's flag-ship soap opera. If he wasn't complaining about missing Brookside, it was the Avengers or The Comic Strip Presents. He used to send regular video tapes of these shows to Spencer who watched them with the rapt expression of medieval peasant staring at fireworks. From what I saw in passing, Drumfeld was actually fortunate to miss out on a collection of programmes even more pointless and boring than their equivalents on the traditional channels. Brookside, an interminable drama about squabbling Liverpudlians was a particular disappointment.

Despite their feigned indifference, both Spencer and Richard were consumed by envy when I was invited to participate in an edition of the channel's open ended talk show After Dark. Despite their gleeful derision in the show's immediate aftermath, neither could deny that the terrifying impressions I suffered on being confronted by my fellow guest, the sports correspondent David Icke, have been subsequently vindicated.

 

CHARLATANS - See COE, SPENCER; CROWLEY, ALEISTER; FREUD, SIGMUND; HAWTHORNE, RONALD; INGLIS, PHILIP; KELLOGG, FRANCIS; KEVIN OF SUMMERSTON; LENNON, JOHN; LESTER, DR PHILIP; MAIR, DUNCAN; MANSON, MARILYN; YUILL, PHYLLIS; ZEKLOS, IORGU.

 

CHILDREN OF COURAGE AND ACHIEVEMENT AWARD - Established in 1946 by Walter Henderson as a memorial to his son, Douglas, who died in France, the awards, open to nominees from all over Scotland, ran until 2005. Walter's great-grandson Dougal supervised the final Awards, a task he inherited from his father, Gordon. Incapable of self-assertion, he was coerced into accepting nominations of parties unfit to share a roster with the Children of Courage and Achievement of the past. While Gordon had no compunction in rejecting nominations based entirely on affliction and misfortune, Dougal, cursed by a weakling's need to be liked, rubber stamped every application with the consequence that the awards became meaningless. I'm a compassionate person, but sickness is no achievement in itself, however stoicially borne.

Worse still was Dougal's fawning obeisance to the demands of the celebrities who were allowed to attach themselves to the Awards. So-called comedienne Elaine C. Smith in particular used them as a platform for her own political agendas. For three successive years, she presented the Hendersons' coveted crystal trophies to smirking activists whose only 'achievements' had been to picket, pester and harass people trying to go about their business. After the third of these travesties, I returned my own Henderson crystal in disgust..

In her book about my caree Nina Kelly argues that my nomination in 1984 was only accepted after Gordon Henderson, beset by family problems, capitulated to my aunt's incessant campaigning and, she implies, blackmail. This is offensive to Hendersons and Coes alike. While various other parties might have suggested my nomination, my aunt and I were too busy pursuing cases to expend our energies soliciting awards. For his part, Gordon Henderson would never have accepted a nomination he considered unworthy.

While it's nice to have one's contribution recognised, congratulation is all too often the herald of complacency. The true enthusiast in any field, be it detection or tiddly winks, has no interest in baubles or pats on the back. His passion has its own rewards.

 

CHRISTIE, FRASER (1980 - ) My youngest cousin's problems can be attributed to various factors. Chief amongst them must be my aunt's advanced years at the time of his conception and the almost total absence of worthwhile qualities to be inherited from his father, a man whose insignificance precludes an individual entry in the glossary.

At the time of my aunt's reconciliation with Christie, her former fiance, previously abandoned on account of a terrifying premonition in which he stood before me in a suit of meat, she was still unbalanced by events that had led to my being ostracised and ridiculed on THE PEOPLE WHO SAW TOMORROW television programme. With hindsight, it should have been incumbent upon the family to intervene. Freedom of choice might be an admirable concept, but how often do we allow the people we love blunder into ruinous commitments rather than risk the potential awkwardness of intervention? Had my aunt been offered the help and support of her family, I suspect she would never have succumbed to the wiles of nonentity. Sensing her vulnerability, though, and doubtless realising she was drugged, Christie remorselessly followed through with his game plan. Within months they were married in a tawdry and depressing Vegas office, a ceremony only attended by an elderly couple they'd met the previous day while on a sight-seeing tour of Vegas's 'attractions'.

I still argue that the circumstances of the wedding should render it null and void. If only I could say the same for her subsequent pregnancy! Studying the timescale, it's entirely possible that Fraser, the Prince of Numbskulls, was conceived in Los Vegas, the Numbskull capital of the known universe, a city inhabited by a transiet population of cheats, gawkers and convention lurkers.

My suspicion that my aunt was desperately trying to fill the void left by my absence was confirmed when she took Fraser, then aged seven, for analysis at the Gibson Institute, the same facility in which my own abilities had been confirmed years earlier. Since Fraser's infancy, she had desperately sought signs of enhanced intuition, a particularly difficult chore with a child who was five before he could 'intuit' the difference between a dog and a cat. The potential for humiliation was fulfilled when a series of clinical tests deemed him 'subnormal'.

 

COE, ADAM (1900 – 1975) - While my Grandfather Sneddon had a positive influence on my development, I had less empathy with my father's side of the family. Playing board games with my siblings and Grandfather Coe, he habitually penalised me for offences ranging from gloating, gamesmanship and reckless dice use, improvised rules not applied to anybody else. Later, exhibiting symptoms inherited by Dad, he pushed me down the stairs, an incident still disputed by some of my relatives who remain embittered by the fact that, having been injured by our grandfather, I was particularly favoured in his will. My cousin Pamela, occasionally refers to me as being as ‘maladroit as a cow on skates', a neat enough turn of phrase which fails to take into account the fact that, before my equilibrium was offset by my tumble I was, in fact, excessively nimble and more than capable of negotiating my way between two points without hurtling myself into the first obstacle. Of course, incidents like this feature in any childhood. We've stopped regarding them with any sort of perspective. At the height of his marriage problems, Spencer, encouraged by some idiotic counsellor he'd been consulting, made some inferences about advances made toward him by our Uncle Gibby that, I'm sure, were designed to forever release him from responsibility for his own behaviour. As is often the case with Spencer, this was followed by second thoughts (after Gibby confronted him at our mother's funeral) and a grovelling retraction. By the same token would be easy for me to retreat from life. My own grandfather tried to kill me, after all. This was hardly a vote of confidence. As anyone who knows me will attest, though, I have persevered.

 

COE, CHRISTINE (1966 - ) Psychiatric Nurse. In the absence of her husband, I recently accompanied Christine to Drumfeld's annual Woman of the Year dinner where her work on behalf of Drumfeld's depressives was acknowledged. Few people who knew my sister as a child could have anticipated her nomination. The very suggestion would probably have been dismissed as a cruel joke. While it would be unfair to say that my siblings lived in my shadow, their accomplishments perhaps seemed insignificant compared to mine. In normal circumstances, the family would have celebrated Christine's selection to play hockey for the school. Even Spencer's first ‘gigs' might have elicited a mention in the Christmas newsletter. At the time, though, I was the most remarkable prodigy in the history of psychic detection. When television researchers and F.B.I. consultants beat a path to our door, it was natural that other activities were relegated to peripheral status. While Spencer never concealed his resentment, Christine suppressed her own feelings with predictable results: acne, mood swings and bad language, a pattern currently being repeated by my niece, Muriel.

COE, HAMILTON (1968 - )

 

COE, HAMILTON, JR Dummy – See SANDERSON, CRAIG

 

COE, HECTOR (1934 - ) Currently resident in the Room With a View (to Happiness) retirement home in Crieff. Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's shortly before my mother's death. In the months that followed he became increasingly unmanageable and, at times, violent. Initially the repetition of a favourite joke, preferably one accompanied by pratfalls, was sufficient to calm him, but he gradually became unmanageable. On more than one occasion I had to resort to locking myself in the bathroom as he rampaged through the house. Reluctant to have dad institutionalised, I found myself, not for the first time, at the mercy of the social services who assessed my capabilities. Apparently they were found wanting. Much was made at the time of an antique Geiger counter I'd set up in the living room upon which, apparently, Dad might have injured himself. My home was subjected to an invasion of care assistants: Charlene, Mandy and Bea. Oblivious to my international reputation, they treated me with unfeigned contempt, demanding constant cups of coffee and referring to me within earshot by offensive nicknames. When I retreated to the sanctuary of the shed to listen to Mahler, they followed me, banging on the door and shouting, “What are you up to in there with Mallard, monkey man?” a joke of which they never tired. People resent those they consider useless – in tribal societies non-contributors were cannibalised or sacrificed. Today they're subjected to medical experiments or forced to scrub industrial vats.

 

COE, MARION (1937 – 2002) It's the fault of a kind heart that it continues to seek qualities in others despite overwhelming evidence that they don't exist. To the very end of her life, my mother regaled her bedside visitors with instances of Spencer's sensitivity and encouraging them to buy his latest c.d. over the internet. Spencer, meanwhile, thankfully unbeknown to our mother, was assiduously insinuating himself with his so-called birth family the Patersons!

 

COE, MURIEL (1992 - ) Few would dispute the unsuitability of the modern school environment to the development of sensitive children. While Muriel might not be especially 'gifted' in any respect, her curiousity is indicative of an enhanced sensibility which might, at some stage, result in a career in one of the forensic sciences. For years, in fact, members of the family referred to her as 'Hamilton's assistant', a joke that, admittedly, became wearing (Muriel wasn't qualified to be my assistant). She displayed, however, a serious interest in my work which, allowed to evolve, could have resulted in some kind of apprenticeship. After two years in secondary school, unfortunately, Muriel has become less interested in investigative technique than hanging round Drumfeld churchyard, smoking cigarettes and presenting vicious lampoons of her former mentor for the amusement of her idiotic new cronies.

My disappointment in Muriel's behaviour is tempered by a compassion borne of experience. Her mother went through a similar phase, as did her Aunt Pamela. Had Christine removed her from secondary school, as, indeed, I urged after a visit in the guise of 'Jimmy the Janitor' first exposed Muriel's involvement with a cigarette smoking vampire sect, a solution might have been effected. As I reminded Christine at the time, however intelligent or sensible a person might seem, the incessant influence of a cretinous peer group can have a disastrous effect. Unfortunately, she ignored me. Muriel is now so enamoured of her new friends that any criticism of them, however constructive, provokes a temper tantrum and a barrage of unkind and inappropriate personal observations.

 

COE, SPENCER (1970 - ) I hesitate to include an occupation or summary of my brother's purpose. Any dispassionate observer of his activities would probably conclude that he is an aspiring pop star. By describing him as such on the Rob McCaskill radio show, however, I unwittingly provoked a temper tantrum that would have shamed a five year old. Had it not been for our sister's timely arrival, in fact, my bedroom door might have yielded to Spencer's frenzied kicks and shoulder charges. Fortunately for both of us, Christine responded to my telephone alert before I was compelled to use CUNG-COE.

My brother, apparently, considers himself suited to some higher purpose than the slavish pursuit of adulation. The thousands of tapes, letters and e-mails he has distributed over the years suggest otherwise. In deference to his own, flawed SELF-PERCEPTION, though, I'll refrain from describing him in terms he finds offensively dismissive and leave it to the reader to form his or her own conclusion. See Also EASTON, PETER

Night of Wolves

Intoxicants

Dickensian

Last of the Boy Detectives

John Hotspur

Young Dalrymple

 

COLONSAY – Hebridean Island, nestled between Jura and Islay. The birthplace of my Grandfather Sneddon, we spent many happy holidays here until Spencer and Christine's protests that there was “nothing to do” caused our parents to opt for caravan holidays in France instead. Over a succession of miserable, camp-site bound trips it became obvious that all Spencer and Christine really wanted to do was get drunk, smoke cigarettes and canoodle with similarly obnoxious new friends. My dossiers from two of these trips (Brittany, 1982 and the Dordogne, 1985) still survive in the Hamilton Coe archive. The most explosive document (The Gironde, 1984) was seized and destroyed by my brother.

Spencer's dissatisfaction with Colonsay was probably exacerbated by my popularity with the indigenous population. In my experience, people in remote areas have a greater respect for and understanding of natural powers derided or misunderstood by their inland counterparts. “There goes the wonderful boy!” the islanders would shout as the family Coe cycled past. Spencer and Christine subsequently insisted that this was an inept translation from the Gaelic, and that I was being mocked on the necessity of using a customised tricycle on account of the inner ear damage caused by the beating I received from Grandpa Coe. This was not the case. Even today my visits to the island are rewarded by unsolicited gifts of eggs and home baking. When I leave, the islanders still gather at the pier to sing the Song of the Wind and the Waves and dance their poignant Jig of Farewell.

 

COMPASSION – Not to be confused with empathy. A virtue essential to any effective investigator. Many people lose their way. Some blunder onto the wrong path by accident, others head wilfully into the darkness and entice others to follow. In the course of my own investigative career I've only encountered a dozen or so individuals entirely motivated by malice. Weaklings and numbskulls, however, are legion. A successful detective must know when to apply compassion and when to summon wrath.

 

CONNOLLY, BILLY Show-off, Boor.

 

CORKY (1965 – 1973) Dog. Resentful, perhaps, on being named after a cartoon cat, my great aunt Teeny's Scottish Terrier exhibited such pronounced symptoms of maladjustment that it should probably have been destroyed as a puppy. Aunt Teeny, unfortunately, was a slave to sentiment, a trait common to many dog owners, and attributed her dog's anti-social behaviour to ‘character'. Corky, an habitual snapper, succumbed to his bloodlust on Christmas Eve, 1972, subjecting me to a terrifying ordeal that was only curtailed by a fusillade of smacks from Teeny's slipper. My aunt, who consequently refused to acknowledge me or allow me into her house, opposed Corky's execution. “What was Hamilton doing in my room in the first place?” she demanded in a contemptible attempt to turn the victim into a perpetrator. Her efforts were, thankfully, in vain. In recent years certain members of the family, equally terrified of Corky at the time, have embraced the revisionist argument that he was, in fact, ‘a great wee dog.... full of fun.'

See also: DOGS; WILSON

 

COULL, ALEXANDER (1950 - ) Poison Pen Writer. As far as I'm aware, Coull was the most prolific writer of anonymous letters in modern times. An otherwise respectable and benign individual, his solitary transgression, nonetheless impacted upon numerous lives, not least that of this author.

Coull embarked upon his pernicious pastime when still in his teens. Otherwise timid and inoffensive, he became prone to palpitation inducing fits of rage. For months he struggled to find an outlet for his moods that didn't result in personal endangerment. Other youngsters might have turned to sport, but Coull had a horror of physical contact with other people. Unable to channel his aggressive tendencies, he was bedevilled by stomach complaints and disrupted sleep patterns, both common symptoms of repression. He eventually stumbled upon the outlet that would define his future when, having nurtured an inexplicably intense loathing toward Richard Hearne, creator of Mr Pastry, he wrote a thirty item list of why he found the character and its creator offensive. On sending this, Coull found himself at peace with the world, a brief respite ended when he was visited by police officers responding to a complaint from Mr Hearne.

Discouraged from further correspondence, Coull tried to channel his energies into charity work becoming a stalwart of various church initiatives. The experienced investigator recognises this symptom of transgression: my case files contain numerous instances of desperate efforts to placate inner demons with good deeds. In Coull's case, the distraction was initially successful. In 1970, however, chance meeting with George Harrison at a sorting office for items to be shipped to Bangladesh, enraged Coull in a way that could only be expressed in a ten page letter of breathtaking vituperation. On this occasion, he didn't sign it.

While we'll never know the full extent of Coull's correspondence, it's been categorically established that over the course of thirty years, he sent over ten thousand such letters to recipients ranging from Lulu and child singer 'Wee' Stewart Anderson to David Blunkett and 'Bono'. The Hamilton Coe archive contains five letters I received from Coull. The last of these, a neatly written diatribe in which I'm described as a 'snitch', a 'buffoon' and a 'bulb-headed freak' resulted in his capture. Using a combination of INTUITION and GRAPHOLOGY, I set a trap into which Coull blundered: unwittingly responding to an offer of a half-price Christmas hamper, his reply contained thirty seven separate hand-writing quirks identical to those of the anonymous author. In most cases in which handwriting analysis is employed, fifteen such instances are considered sufficient to establish responsibility for a text. Coull had effectively doodled a noose for himself.

Need I describe Coull's astonishment when, on delivery of his unexpectedly heavy hamper, he opened it to find nemesis in the form of the investigator he had dismissed as a 'bulb headed freak'? On this occasion, I was nearly undone when an attack of cramp gave Coull the opportunity to return the hamper's lid and secure it, confining me for several hours until Christine, eventually responding to calls from my mobile phone, arrived with assistance.

An otherwise decent man, unbalanced by a solitary character aberration, Alexander Coull has now returned to charity work and is often to be seen behind the counter of Pitlochry's Oxfam shop. I bear him no ill will.

 

CREEPWATCH - In many respects, the internet is an invaluable facility through which the informed user can easily access information and communicate with friends, old and new. To the foolish or naive, however, it contains innumerable potential hazards. I initiated 'Creepwatch' with the intention of alerting browsers to the lurking menace, providing an updated list of rogue sites or, where possible, stamping them with the circled 'C', a symbol I hoped might became an internationally recognised warning. As is often the case, though, my good intentions were thwarted by a combination of politics and incompetence. ROSS MCATEER, whom I employed to design and maintain the site, accepted a fee of £300 with which he set up a 'Live Journal' in my name. I only later discovered that this was a free service and that my journal's design would have taken minutes.

Still unaware of McAteer's skull-duggery, I spent successive evenings establishing Creepwatch's presence in the Live Journal community, listing suspect journals and leaving warnings on their authors' message boards. As one might expect, I was consequently besieged by hostile messages. Having spent my life confronting ogres, of course, I wasn't even slightly perturbed by their misspelt harangues. The inadvertent discovery, however, of a journal maintained by my niece, Muriel, much of which was devoted to someone she referred to as 'Uncle Schizo' was something else entirely. To be viciously lampooned by someone I had regarded as a protege, for an audience of numbskulls, was such a harrowing experience, that I immediately abandoned the Creepwatch service and left the Live Journal nonentities to their own pitiful devices.

 

CRIME TIME - My weekly hour-long slot is sub-titled Crime Time with Hamilton Coe. More often than not, however, it becomes Crime Time with Hamilton Coe and whoever happens to be passing the studio with an uninformed comment about criminal psychology. Having put a lot of work into my broadcasts, I'm naturally irritated by the necessity of dealing with contradictions from people who've been wrongfully encouraged to express opinions on matters they know nothing about. At the outset of my broadcasting career, I arrived at the studio on several occasions to be confronted by the sullen features of Miriam Tobin, Drumfeld's neighbourhood watch co-ordinator. To be blunt, Miriam was a numbskull, determined to dwell on matters of total non-interest to serious criminologists. Crime Time with Hamilton Coe is not a forum for discussing the necessity of double locking doors or checking on elderly neighbours. Miriam, however, was determined to intersperse my carefully prepared broadcasts with such nuggets of irrelevance. “What about the old people?” she'd squawk apropos of nothing at all. If her point was ignored or rebutted she merely repeated it with enhanced volume. When she didn't, as was frequently the case, understand an argument, she rolled her eyes and repeated, “For the love of Mike” over and over in the expectation that her antagonist would concede the point. I'm made of sterner stuff. While I'm instinctively polite, I won't hesitate to put a bully in his or her place. The effort of dealing with someone as obdurate and obnoxious as Miriam, however, was exhausting. McCaskill, ostensibly the show's host, merely interjected with idiotic comments such as “she's got you there, H!” On one occasion he asked us to pose for a publicity photo, grimacing comically, one's hands around the other's throat. Naturally, I refused inciting Miriam to launch into a predictable accusation that I was humourless. It was around this time that she had “For the Love of Mike”, which she'd been encouraged to consider a catch-phrase, printed onto t-shirts accompanied by a caricature of herself. In short, she grew too big for her boots, a situation exacerbated by the station who twice, when I was unavailable, renamed the slot Crime Time with Miriam Tobin.

 

CRISIS, MID-LIFE – Ridiculous justification for caddish behaviour imported from America. A sense of anti-climax and failure is, of course, to be expected in those who have lived as slaves to compromise. Anyone who imagines that squandered potential can be compensated by means of an illicit affair or purchase of a sports car probably had little to recommend him in the first place.

 

CROWLEY, ALEISTER Poet, Magician, ‘Character' – Remembered without affection in Inverness-shire for strutting around, brandishing his swagger stick at locals and threatening to turn tradesmen into camels. Interested parties can now follow Crowley's footsteps on the Great Beast Way, the ill-judged brainchild of Malcolm Copperthwaite, so-called party organiser and current resident of Crowley's Boleskine home. This idiotic scheme, initially welcomed by Inverness-shire Council, has resulted in the area being deluged by unsavoury ramblers, some of whom have caused disruption by experimentally summoning entities. Copperthwaite became a victim of his own stupidity when an ill-judged piece of sexual magic(k) caused his dreadlocks to fall out.

A young Aleister Crowley torments a familiar.

 

CRUISE, TOM (1962 - ) Actor. When Cruise offered his support to my theories on the modern trearment of depression, he was pilloried to the extent that the very mention of his name became sufficient to prompt smirks and lame jokes. In my experience, the surest means of undermining someone is to subject him to ridicule. When Cruise refused to retract his opinions, he became the victim of a merciless campaign in which he was demeaned in satirical cartoons and sketch shows that presented him as an unworldly odd-ball. As dependent on applause as any other actor, Cruise was demoralised by the hostility he had attracted, and gradually became subservient to the imbecilic agenda of 'The X Men', a Californian Doomsday cult whose members have so assiduously attached themselves to vulnerable members of the community that ten percent of the state's population are currently members.

When I last visited Los Angeles to work on the proposed Hamilton Coe television series, I tried to negotiate a meeting with Cruise. This was more complicated than I had anticipated. When I eventually tracked him down to an upmarket Santa Monica Mall, his minders, obviously alert to attempts to subject him to further ridicule, misinterpreted my benign intentions and tried to manhandle me. In the ensuing scuffle, I was forced to resort to CUNG-COE, inadvertently spilling hot coffee over Cruise's lap.

 

CULLEN, PETER (1966 - ) Disgraced teacher, Plagiarist. Aberfoyle based English teacher, Cullen first came to public notice after embarking upon an inappropriate relationship with one of his female students. Arguing that their friendship was based on a shared interest in music and cinema, he refused to admit to any wrong-doing. “A society that can't accept the possibility of platonic friendship,” he insisted, “has serious problems.” Predictably, the directors of Aberfoyle High School sided with society and Cullen was suspended. I have a certain sympathy for him. British people have become enslaved to the lure of gossip. My own friendship with my niece Muriel has provoked similar sordid innuendo. “She's not your date, Hamilton!” responded Spencer when I announced my intention of asking her to accompany me to Billy Ure's wedding. Later we were subjected to various items of offensive graffiti. While I regard such sallies with indifference, Muriel's confidence has been undermined. She's recently taken to loitering in the cemetery where she tries to distance herself from me by smoking and entertaining her ghoulish new friends with Hamilton Coe impressions. I inadvertently stumbled upon one of these performances while studying the gravestones of Covenanters for which the churchyard is, rightly, renowned. If anyone was guilty of ‘spying' on that occasion, incidentally, it was Shaun Magennis who had no business clambering over the Farquharson Memorial in the first place.

Shortly after his dismissal, Cullen was offered a contract with a London publisher on the strength of the opening chapter of his first book, a children's story based on the adventures of a young, female wizard and her mentor, Timothy Coffy, Master of Grimoires at the Wizard Academy. Cullen's success was widely featured in local papers. He was photographed celebrating in a wizard's hat, brandishing a wand. Unfortunately, the offer was subsequently withdrawn when a reader employed by the publisher noted eighty seven separate incidents drawn directly from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series.

 

Peter Cullen promotes his book.

CUNG-COE - Need we even discuss the moral repugnance of physical violence? Ideally, a man born with powers of intellect and logic should never need to demean himself by scufflying with adversaries. Anybody applying to attend my weekly Cung-Coe classes at the Drumfeld Community Centre (Thursday evenings, youths 6-7, seniors 7-8) must first sign a guarantee that my techniques will only be used for the purposes of self-defence. Before learning the basics of Cung Coe, the student spends three weeks studying methods of violence evasion. My potentially devastating techniques are only intended as a last resort.

The human anatomy is manifestly unsuited to the rigours of close range combat. The most effective predators of the animal kingdom have a low centre of gravity and strong, sharp teeth. The upright human, presents an easy target to any assailant, offering a choice of blows to various areas of particular vulnerability: throat, solar plexus, testicles and knees. The hand, meanwhile, wasn't designed to be used as a weapon. Its fragilities are even more pronounced when clenched into a fist. The practical reasons for avoiding physical confrontation are as compelling as the moral ones. If, however, an individual, without malign intentions of his own, and presented with no other option, is compelled to protect himself, a rudimentary knowledge of Cung-Coe will prove an invaluable asset. Whether his assailant is a boxer, wrestler or common-or-garden thug, my techniques enable the student to nullify his aggression and turn it against him. Combining the movement and intuition of animals and insects with the intelligence of man, I have assembled a range of strategy applicable to any situation.

Sensei Coe demonstrates a deflection technique

CURRAN, MADELINE (1977 - ) Nuisance, Slanderer. See FLETCHER, WILLIAM.

 

 

D

 

DAFT MONDAY - It might be stating the obvious, but an absence of joie de vivre is common to every depressive. Their smiles are forced, their laughter flat, their every action rendered sluggish by a lack of spontaneity. This torpor is only exacerbated by the prescibed drugs with which their sensibilities are further deadened.

The medical industry, of course, attributes depression to a combination of circumstance and chemical imbalance. We can dismiss the first of these, I think: certain circumstances would make anyone unhappy. It's fat-headed in the extreme to isolate a logical response and refer to it as an illness. By the same token pharmaceutical companies might one day make further fortunes manufacturing remedies for anger, jealousy or lust. These are aspects of the human condition: to artificially nullify them is a dangerous denial of nature. I'm equally unconvinced by the theory of chemical imbalance which merely resigns the 'sufferer' to the inevitability of unhappiness and dependence on medication.

In conceiving Daft Monday, I was curious as to whether Drumfeld's depressives, by assuming different characters, could liberate themselves from identities largely defined by the expectation of misery. After weeks of research within my sister Christine's support group, I conceived the notion of a 'Daft Parade' around Drumfeld in which the participants abandon themselves to the spirit of spontaneity. It occurred to me that within weeks, similar outbreaks of good natured nuttiness would erupt around the civilised world causing the medical conglomerates to drastically rethink their approach to a condition that would henceforth be referred to as 'Sadness'. As is so often the case, however, a grand scheme was undermined by pettiness. Some of the parade's invited participants, thrown into a panic by the prospect of a step beyond the mundane, consulted their doctors who, predictably, advised them against taking part. On the day, only a handful of people actually appeared making for an anti-climactic stroll around Drumfeld.

Subsequent to the event, Christine was contacted by her superiors within the mental health department and cautioned against my future involvement with Drumfeld's depressives. Apparently one of the parade's participants, referring to the 'humiliation' to which he'd been subjected, had lapsed into a near catatonic state. This individual, I should say, had failed to embrace the spirit of the day, constantly complaining about the poor turn-out and snarling at passers by. Eventually reduced to tears of rage, he attempted to punch me before hailing a passing taxi and going home. In scapegoating Hamilton Coe, the medical authorities failed to question his own bad attitude or examine the entrenched attitudes that had rendered him so sensitive to ridicule.

Scenes from Daft Monday.

 

DALRYMPLE, JOHN (?) Farmer – See DEVIL, THE

 

 

DARK MAESTRO, THE - Nom de Plum of WILLIAM URE. Having spent much of my life in the presence of ‘the Unseen' I find it difficult to share the popular terror of spooks. While ample evidence exists to support the existence of ghosts, a sensible response to one's presence is compassion rather than fear. The disembodied, guilt ridden spectres of the Whitechapel Murderer or Adolf Hitler, say, are less capable of wreaking havoc than their former, full blooded selves. There are, of course exceptions as a cursory overview of the life of Rod Hull will attest. His problems with Richard the Third, however, while deserving our compassion, were largely self-inflicted. If I knowingly invite a burglar into my home, I can hardly affect astonishment when he makes off with my belongings. The same principle applies to blundering encroachments into the spirit realm.

While I consider the supernatural genre fat-headed, I've done my utmost to support Billy in his aspirations. Over the years, I've found some of his 'spine-tinglers' quite effective. "Not to be read alone," I'll say when recommending one, though, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't hesitate to do such a thing. Anyone needing the reassuring presence of other people to read anything should probably consider a course of counselling. That said, Billy's stories aren't without merit. He's strong on atmosphere and doesn't resort to shock tactics, using a minimum of violence and 'industrial' language, resisting a trend that has reduced modern Scottish fiction to the level of a graffiti-ed bus shelter.

Not satisfied with merely writing his stories, however, Billy, no doubt frustrated by the absence of interest, has persisted in the folly of public recitals. His first venture into this field over twenty years ago ended in disaster. His Hallowe'en reading of 'The House on Gallows Hill' was sarcastically heckled by Spencer and his friends until Billy fled from the stage before the ghost even made its appearance. For years he restricted himself to writing, but, doubtless encouraged by his fiancee, he made a tentative return to performance with a Christmas recital at Drumfeld Museum. Despite Gazette critic Hugh Walker's assessment that 'this Dark Maestro is as frightening a bowl of lukewarm custard' Billy reprised the role for three successive Christmases before moving into the realm of professional entertainment.

The notion that any children's party might be enlivened by the presence of Billy Ure reading one of his ghost stories might seem preposterous, but he's extremely active nonetheless. Demanding only that the hosts ensure a reasonably behaved audience and provide a 'reasonably spooky ambience' he promises an 'unforgettable treat for more sensitive children.' A deluxe package involved Billy insinuating himself in the child's consciousness in the weeks leading up to the party, lurking around the vicinity in his Dark Maestro garb, instilling such a sense of escalating menace that, come the day of the party, his appearance cause what Billy's brochure referred to as 'a delicious frisson.' The deluxe option was abandoned when The Dark Maestro's appearance actually caused an irresistible urge on the child's part to punch and kick him. See also BAKER, TOM; BALSILLIE-URE, KAREN

 

Billy in full Dark Maestro regalia.

 

DARNLEY, LORD (1545 - 1567) First husband of Mary Queen of Scots. As a child I was troubled by episodes from Darnley's short life, particularly his murder of courtier David Rizzio. For years details from this crime, in which he was aided by a clique of swaggering yahoos, appeared to me in waking visions. Petulant and brutish, with a tendency to dress in his mother's clothes, Darnley died in mysterious circumstances when his body was discovered in the aftermath of an explosion, his neck mottled by signs of strangulation.

My investigation into Darnley's death for the proposed B.B.C. Scotland series 'Bloody Scotland' was cancelled after complaints in the Scottish Parliament as to tax payers money being wasted on the project. The irony of this, I'm sure, requires no further comment.

David Rizzio cowers from the approach of Darnley and his assassins

 

DAVIDSON, MATTHEW (1971 - ) Malingerer. Returning his parental home from college in 1990, Davidson declared himself dispirited by the state of society and embarked upon an existence of total uselessness. As anyone who knows me will confirm, I, too, am dispirited by the state of society. Unlike Matthew, however, I have determined to do something about it. On various occasions I've visited the Davidson house to offer Matthew the opportunity to participate in local initiatives. On the last of these I distinctly heard him shout, “If that's Hamilton Coe, tell him to fuck off!” This, unfortunately, encapsulates his attitude to the entire world.

 

DAYDREAMS – It would be a mistake to assume that daydreamers imagine themselves in elevated positions inconceivable to their day to day existence. My studies on the subject have revealed that many individuals indulge in protracted fantasies in which they're wronged, humiliated or bereft. Their waking hours are spent constructing imaginary scenarios that spill over into actual resentments. This is borne out by the bitter expressions often worn by those apparently in the depths of reverie.

Spencer, ostensibly an artist, freely confesses to having daydreamed away hours of his life constructing various scenarios in which I'm murdered or demeaned. These fantasies have been frequently translated into pop songs, e.g. Death in the Shed, Burning Boy, The Hammer Falls on a Fat Head and numerous others.

 

DEATH THREATS - To date, I have received forty seven death threats, not counting those dispensed by Spencer on a daily basis. For most people, the fear of assassination would cause an intolerable strain which is, nine times out of ten, the entire point of issuing the threat in the first place. To put the matter into perspective, of the people who've promised to kill me, only four have made genuine attempts on my life (not counting the most serious, committed by my Grandfather Coe when I was seven years old and not preceded by a warning.) When some thwarted bully starts bellowing the odds about wringing Hamilton Coe's neck or sewing him into a sack and beating him into mincemeat, I politely repeat the adage of sticks and stones and give the matter no further thought.

More sinister, perhaps, are the death prayers and spells of the old religions enjoying a resurgence through internet access. Few modern practitioners of black magic, however, possess the knowledge or temperament to successfully ally themselves to hovering entities or the elements. Their efforts invariably rebound with terrible consequences. See also GIBB, FRANCIS; SPINK, HEATHER

'Curse dolls' used by witches.

 

DELUSION, SELF - We live in the age of self-delusion. Frightened minds, unable to confront reality, create parallel worlds of their own. Spencer still sees himself singing and dancing for an audience of adolescents who e-mail him and stick his picture over their walls; Billy sits at his 1950's typewriter dressed in his Dark Maestro outfit churning out ghost stories, refusing to acknowledge that nobody's even slightly frightened of ghosts anymore. If one were to appear in Drumfeld churchyard he'd be pelted with cigarette ends and demoralised by sarcastic comments about his outfit.

Neither Billy nor Spencer can withstand a challenge to their flawed self-perceptions. They literally plug their ears with their forefingers and shout, “I'm not listening to you, Hamilton!” If either were to step to one side and regard his situation objectively, though, he'd realise the possibility of happiness. Throughout his life Spencer has laboured under the delusion that's he's creative. In his heart, he must realize the folly of this: how liberating it would be for him to acknowledge it, to resume with some attainable goal. Billy could buy a new outfit and turn his hand to tales of detection, a subject, at least, of which he has some knowledge.

 

DENTISTS - See QUINN, NIALL and SMELLIE, IAN

 

 

DEPRESSIVES

I've always taken a keen interest in my siblings' activities. Privately, I might consider Spencer's aspirations in the realm of 'pop' and 'rock' ill-conceived. Until recently, however, when my endorsement of his latest demo on the Rob McCaskill show provoked a frenzied renunciation, my encouragement has been unstinting. "That's an interesting lyric," I would observe, affecting intense concentration as I listened to Spencer droning about some unrequited fixation or a resentment he's nursed since adolescence. How often have I tapped my fingers appreciatively to one of his arrhythmic dirges? Not any more! Following his unconscionable outburst, I have no compunction in stating what is obvious to all but the most witless: that Spencer has nothing of interest to communicate other than a profound self-loathing roused by the merest human contact. His entire existence has been an exercise in pointlessness. That he persists in attributing his own shortcomings to Hamilton Coe reflects on him more than it does me.

Christine, on the other hand, weathered the storm of an adolescence blighted by the virulent strain of acne that has afflicted generations of female Coes. While photographs of Spencer from the period invariably feature his fragile sneer, none of Christine even exist. The very sight of a camera caused her to flee or cover the livid glow of her cheeks with her palms. To be an object of repugnance is a terrible thing for a young person: Christine, however, bolstered by the inhereted island genes of the Sneddons, remained resolute. She has consquently proved that there are better ways of dealing with personal problems than wittering on about them to the accompaniment of badly tuned guitars. As a psychiatric nurse, she has impacted upon the lives of countless depressives. While I'm at odds with the psychiatric establishment's over-dependence on drugs and analysis, I've made a point of supporting my sister in her endeavours on behalf of the downcast. Many of her patients, or 'friends' as Christine characteristically insists on referring to them, seem indifferent to the efforts expended on their behalf. I've lost count of the occasions on which impeccably organised table tennis tournaments or rambles have been ruined by an absence of enthusiasm. "I don't really feel up to it," says Mr Blue, only to materialise in the King's Arms hours later, apparently the life and soul of the party. See also DAFT MONDAY, DRUMFELD FILM CLUB, EMPLOYMENT SEMINARS.

 

DEVIANTS - See BAKER, TOM; BARR, JASON; BEITH, RONALD; BURNS, FRANCIS; COE, SPENCER; CROWLEY, ALEISTER; DARNLEY, LORD; EADIE-COE, HAZEL; GIBB, FRANCIS; JEFFERS, MARK; MANSON, MARILYN; NIMMO, SAMUEL; PIRIE, ROBERT; SNEDDON, GREGOR; SPINK, HEATHER; TEALE, NORMAN; WHO, DOCTOR.

 

 

DEVIL, THE – In 1678, John Dalrymple, a farmer, driven beyond his tether by the impending marriage of his former sweetheart, Peggy Moffat, to Captain Neil MacKenzie, summoned the devil to intervene. No record exists of Dalrymple's response to Satan's appearance, but I imagine he might have been as surprised as anyone else present. According to local legend, the devil challenged Dalrymple and MacKenzie to dance for Moffat's affections. The pair danced for three days, Dalrymple with the honest but basic steps of a countryman and MacKenzie on the tips of his toes in the continental manner now familiar to students of ‘traditional' Scottish dancing. As the third day drew to a close, MacKenzie, whose technique demanded greater effort than his rival's ponderous steps, suddenly expired in a ball of flame leaving Dalrymple to claim his prize. Unfortunately, the farmer's moment triumph was brief. Physically and mentally depleted by his ordeal, he aged rapidly becoming a grey and stooped figure virtually overnight. Unable to maintain his farm, he ended his days wandering the forest bemoaning his lot in tedious detail to anyone he encountered. To this day, a meeting with John Dalrymple's ghost augurs ill. History doesn't record what became of Peggy Moffat, though the account of the incident in the Parish History insists that she emigrated. The devil, meanwhile, is alleged to have returned to wreak havoc in Drumfeld on three subsequent occasions, the last of which, in 1903 resulted in his being tarred, feathered and driven into the hills (some accounts suggest that this might have been a case of mistaken identity, the consequence of over-exuberant Ne'er Day celebrations.)

Modern minds, while giving credence to infinitely more fatuous theories, recoil from the notion of a literal Satan. While I remain undecided on that score, a lifetime spent peering into the abyss has established the incessant activity of malign influence to which each and every individual is vulnerable. Mass communications now ensure that the threat, whether from Beast or Idea, is greater than at any period in human history.

 

DISGUISE, ADOPTION OF - In conducting an investigation, I'll occasionally resort to disguise. In my experience, a surly teenager reluctant to communicate with Hamilton Coe is invariably less reticent in the company of ‘Tommy the punk'. The efficacy of any disguise depends entirely upon its bearer's ability to immerse himself entirely into his new character. While investigating my brother's liaison with the Patersons, his so-called birth family, I lazily assumed the role of Marius, a trinket-selling gypsy with whom I had zero real affinity. I was following the family on a Sunday stroll when Spencer suddenly stopped, turned and sprinted across the road to attack me, landing several blows before assorted Patersons intervened to drag him away. While DOUGLAS PATERSON made light of the incident in his nightclub comedy act, I'm sure the family were all perturbed by this volatile aspect of their new relative. The rift that had always been a distinct possibility now became inevitable. See also MACLACHLAN, KYLE and PEARSON, GUY.

Would the real Hamilton Coe please step forward! Various disguises adopted in the course of investigations.

 

DOGS - Occasionally useful in a working capacity, otherwise charmless compounds of colon and bowel whose contribution amounts to soiling streets and savaging children. Throughout the twentieth century, dog breeders have competed to produce mutations whose physical limitations and brainlessness render them vulnerable to loathing and pity. Many of the so-called Toy Dogs currently popular are, in fact, anathema to nature. Laboratory tests have established identical empathy levels in certain modern breeds to those elicited from courgettes. Generally owned by shallow or sentimental individuals desperate for affection whatever the source. See CORKY; WILSON

 

An offence against reason and nature

 

DRUMFELD FILM CLUB – Established with the intention of providing a social resource for Christine's depressives. In my experience, people with this condition tend to exacerbate their problems by endlessly talking about them. It occurred to me that they couldn't do this while watching a film. This expectation was immediately confounded. We've yet to enjoy a session in which I don't have to regularly “shoosh” people, a natural rebuke that's elicited tantrums and complaints. If someone doesn't know better than to talk while other people are trying to enjoy a movie, then it's reasonable to assume that he's committing other gaffes that might attract adverse comment and contribute to his feelings of alienation and worthlessness. Not pointing these out seems as irresponsible as allowing someone to drown rather than risk embarrassing him by drawing attention to the fact that he can't swim.

Nobody else seems bothered by these interruptions, in fact most of the Club's members are so involved with their own melodramas that they resent the distraction of fictional equivalents, particularly those lending perspective to their own problems. Adhering to my personal preference for films made prior to 1940, I restricted those to themes of crisis, disease or self-sacrifice. Unfortunately, these caused such consternation that had rotten fruit been at hand, I'm sure it would have been hurled toward the screen. “I'd like to see Thelma Has-Been deal with a real problem!” scoffed Sharon McCabe, as said actress, face rendered gaunt by make-up, wept over the bodies of her murdered children. When I responded that if Sharon were to suffer trauma on a similar scale, she'd have t-shirts made up to announce the fact, the session deteriorated into recrimination and tearfulness with Sharon, whose biggest problem, frankly, is an inability to control her temper, accusing me of being a “bossy Hitler.” Christine now sits in and has pretty much taken over, delegating the role of movie selection to the club members with the effect that my Wednesday evenings are taken up by goblins, androids and serial killers.

 

DRUNKENNESS - The presence of a drunk within a family was once a source of shame. Nobody staggered through the streets wearing t-shirts emblazoned with cretinous slogans such as ‘My Liver is Evil and Must be Punished' etched over their flabby torsos in putrid yellow letters designed to resemble streaks of vomit. Whereas drunkards once skulked, fearful of public opinion, they now proclaim their proclivity with pride. The staff at my father's care home routinely report for duty still exhibiting the symptoms of a recent debauch. Last week my shin was skinned by a recklessly propelled tea-trolley. My sister and her friends, family women on the cusp of middle age, refer to themselves as ‘sluts' and ‘maniacs' though, in fairness, their nights out are actually restrained, certainly compared to those of my brother.

Since returning to Drumfeld, Spencer has established a routine consistent with every symptom of addiction. Rising late, he spends the best part of the day slouched in an armchair, his face fixed in a rictus of dread. Anybody passing can hear his stomach percolating, a guttural gargle like a drain blocked by slurry. As evening approaches he sets about working his way steadily through the collection of wine accumulated by over twenty years by our father and decimated by Spencer in the course of two months. Sufficiently bolstered, he phones Colette, his estranged wife. When his whimpering entreaties prove fruitless, he retreats to his room where he wallows for the remainder of the evening. In the next bedroom, I can gauge his escalating level of inebriation by the volume and tempo of his music. As he becomes incapable he replays the ponderous songs I remember from his adolescence at an anti-social volume. When I occasionally look in on him before going to sleep he stares into space, tears glistening on his collapsed cheeks like a child bewitched by goblins.

 

DUNN, MICHAEL (1955 - ) Nuisance, Pervert, Obscene Phone Caller. Later claiming to have been traumatised by his redundancy, Dunn, introducing himself as Radio Perth DJ Dougie the Dafty, beleaguered randomly selected victims with bantering nonsense. He recorded these calls for the amusement of pub friends who should consider themselves complicit in his inevitable disintegration. Fixating on Caroline Bisset, he beleaguered her with sexually ambiguous calls, cajoling her into participating in quizzes ostensibly being broadcast to an audience. Caroline became suspicious when her ‘prizes' appeared second hand and, in one occasion, soiled. Contacting the radio station, she ascertained that there is no such person as Dougie the Daftie. She then called the police. Having been traced by a phone tap, Dunn subsequently claimed to be suffering from a schizoid personality disorder of the type popularised by children's entertainer ROD HULL.

 

DYSFUNCTIONAL, MISUSE OF THE WORD – NINA KELLY refers to my “dysfunctional” upbringing. “Dysfunctional” has become a buzz word trotted out by armchair experts when they can't think of anything more specific. It's been overused to the extent that it's meaningless. For Nina, a chronic agoraphobic hooked on other people's transgressions, to apply the word to anyone else is, clearly, the richest of ironies. If I'm dysfunctional by her standards then it stands to reason that I'm perfectly adequate by anyone else's. She's not alone, however, in perpetrating the myth that my childhood was strange and gloomy. I don't want to disappoint anyone but, apart from the blips that occur throughout any childhood, the opposite is, in fact the case. Moodiness was frowned upon in my family, at least by my mother's side. My Grandfather Sneddon encouraged me to write down jokes and humorous incidents I might use as ice-breakers when meeting new people or to bolster me at times of apparent helplessness. Consequently, I still know more jokes than anyone I know: I have one for every conceivable situation, written down in thirty leather bound journals. This surprises people who, I think, expect me to be po-faced. A sense of humour is merely a facet of good manners which is, essentially, the willingness to put people at ease. Within minutes of meeting me, people, often enduring torrid circumstances, find themselves succumbing to rib-ticklers. Nina refers to my “parp of laughter, echoing crudely around houses devastated by heartache, as harsh and inappropriate as the bray of a wounded seal.” Laughter, as Grandfather often said, is a free gift. Why with-hold it?

 

E

 

EADIE-COE, HAZEL (1964 - ) Stalker. Despite my efforts to quash them, rumours persist to the effect that I'm married. The source of this misinformation is Hazel Eadie (or Hazel Eadie-Coe, as she calls herself) the woman who claims to be my wife.

I'm not the first person on whom Ms Eadie has fixated. Prior to meeting me she formed a similarly deluded attachment to Peter Sloss, the B.B.C. Scotland weather man. She first met me, in fact, while discussing the torment of sexual obsession on the Rob McCaskill radio show. Mistaking my solicitude for romantic interest, she immediately announced an amicable separation from Sloss and commenced upon a hare-brained pursuit of Coe that she's sporadically continued to this day.

While persistently disabusing Ms Eadie of the notion that we are involved in an intimate relationship of any kind, I've endeavoured to be compassionate toward her. It would obviously be folly to allow her into the house, but I've often instructed Gayle, my house-keeper, to take to coffee and sandwiches to the bus shelter immediately opposite my house where Ms Eadie sits, often for hours at a time.

Matters were complicated when Ms Eadie and Spencer enjoyed a brief, drunken liaison in the car-park of the Red Lion. This was appalling behaviour even by Spencer's standards and he was aptly rewarded weeks later when Ms Eadie telephoned claiming to be pregnant. This was almost certainly not the case: while both parties were too drunk to recall exactly what transpired, my surveillance operation revealed a sluggish fumble without any effective conclusion. Under the circumstances, though, I thought it judicious to let my brother sweat. He was sufficiently panicked to offer Ms Eadie £200 to terminate the pregnancy. She accepted the bribe and subsequently disappeared, presumably embarrassed to have broken her imaginary vows in such a horrible fashion.

Hazel Eadie in bus shelter.

 

EARS, SPENCER'S – My brother's humourlessness precluded him from bonding with our Grandfather Sneddon. While Spencer enjoyed tormenting other children with jibes and fiendish contraptions, he bridled when the tables were turned. As a child, for example, he had disproportionately sized ears, something that became less pronounced as he grew older. Grandpa would gently tease him about this attribute. “You could save money on electricity and let Spencer listen to next door's radio”, he might say, or “why do you need a kite when you can just put some string round Spencer's ankle?” It wasn't as if Spencer was singled out as the butt of the joke. When Christine entered adolescence and erupted in spots, Grandpa referred to her as Madame Vesuvius, while the standard joke for me was I was an escapee from Easter Island, this being on account of my large head. Admittedly, there were occasions, particularly as Grandpa grew deafer and started to shout, when Christine failed to get the joke and either started to cry or stormed up the stairs to her room. I had no such problems and, consequently have always been able to laugh at myself. If someone wants to crack a gag about the size of my head, I'll immediately confound him with three more, all recalled from Grandpa's repertoire. The very mention of large ears, however, is still sufficient to cause my brother to bare his teeth.

 

EASTON, PETER (1965 - ) Disc Jockey. Supercilious twerp who offered Spencer false encouragement by playing tracks from his 'demos' on the Beat Patrol, the Radio Scotland show dedicated to the inane musings of the emotionally fragile and incompetent. The reader can judge for himself by listening to Spencer's session from 2000.

Napoleon Complex

60 Motorbikes

Old Woman

Dread Observer

See COE, SPENCER

 

ELLIS, MARGARET (1950 - ) Neighbour from Hell. Few of the individuals found on these pages would be considered ideal neighbours, Ellis, however, made bad neighbourliness her raison d'etre. Her ten year vendetta against the Robson family was precipitated by a polite request that she refrain from playing Neil Diamond records at full volume after ten p.m.. When Ellis refused to desist, the Robsons were forced to seek help from Stirling council from whom Ellis rented her house. Ellis retaliated with a series of ridiculous complaints against the Robsons: they stole her washing, stared at her and followed her to the shops. Recruiting members of her family, most of whom, being unemployable, had time on their hands for the purpose of mischief, she ensured that menacing loiterers were rarely absent from the vicinity of the Robson house. Their presence, she insisted, was essential to her own safety.

Every Christmas Ellis, with the sentimental instinct common to sociopaths, was in the habit of festooning the exterior of her property with decorations. On the first of December following the instigation of her feud with the Robsons, she not only covered her walls with lights but placed figures representing Father Christmas and the three wise men on the roof. Appearing in the local paper, she affiliated herself with a local children's charity to which she promised to forward donations from anyone eager to photograph her hideously disfigured house. Dismayed by the stream of gawkers, the Robsons again contacted the council. Ellis was ordered to remove sixty per cent of the exterior decoration: she refused, claiming the order violated her right to religious expression. As is often the case, the council, confronted by a lunatic, chose to disengage. For the next five years, Ellis did as she pleased. Her many anti-social acts included training pigeons to attack the Robsons and their visitors, a daily hazard which caused Mrs Robson to become a recluse.

Margaret Ellis gathering phlegm

Invited by a local community to group to mediate between the factions, my efforts were confounded by Ellis's obvious sociopathic tendencies. Paranoid and self-righteous, she constantly referred to the unhappiness she endured during her childhood, much of which she appeared to have spent confined to a garden shed. Our interview was terminated when my rejection of her argument merely provoked threats and, regrettably, a projection of spittle.

Ellis's reign of unpleasantness was eventually ended, not by reason but violence when members of the community action group resorted to vigilante-ism, presenting local children with a terrifying scenario one would subsequently recall as "the destruction of Christmas."

EMPLOYMENT SEMINARS - My employment seminars were initially established with the intention of helping Christine's depressives, most of whom struggle to give a good impression of themselves, find worthwhile employment. Few people appreciate how drastically they can alter the way they're perceived simply by altering their body language. A man who slouches, rolls his eyes or scowls in the course of an interview, for example, is unlikely to be considered for any position. By remaining upright, making constant eye contact and smiling, though, his chances of success will be drastically enhanced. While the sensible reader might consider this advice obvious to the extent of being fat-headed, many of my original clients routinely botched interviews by lighting cigarettes or embarking upon tearful digressions about their personal problems. Under my guidance, the same hopeless candidates were offered positions for which they would never previously have been considered. Unfortunately, as it transpired, there was good reason for this. Not one of Christine's depressives was capable of remaining in a job for longer than a month. The slightest criticism was sufficient for them to quit, leaving co-workers with an additional burden and employers with the responsibility of finding a replacement.

Chastened by the realisation that I had enabled unworthy candidates to dupe their way into positions for which they were tempermentally ill-equipped, I offered my services to local employers. My seminars alert interviewers to the warning signs that he's dealing with an unsuitable applicant: excessive eye contact, for example, and repeated use of the intervier's name. Adopting beard and padding, I've even sat in at interviews in the guise of Harvey Kitson, troubleshooter and scourge of the bluffer.

 

EVERETT, STEPHEN (1958 - ) Museum Assistant, Oaf. Until the drab new age of 'relevance' was heralded by LIZ BISHOP, I enjoyed a long and happy association with Drumfeld Museum. As a child, I was intrigued by its dusty rooms and gloomy corridors, the very aspects of the building so repugnant to Bishop and her cohorts, but particularly evocative to anyone of genuine sensitivity.

When my mother retired, she took a voluntary position in the museum's shop and later arranged for Billy to help as a guide while he recovered from one of his emotional collapses, a position he retains to this day. Around this time I renewed my own acquaintance with the building, keeping tabs on Billy's progress and helping to supervise the Hamilton Coe exhibition in the unused Scott room. With Everett's arrival, however, our sanctuary was spontaneously transformed into the set of some hideous 'sitcom'. An afficionado of practical jokes and sexual innuendo, Everett, impervious to the irritation behind the strained smiles elicited by his antics, gradually overwhelmed his colleagues. "He's quite a character," became the consensus, 'character' now being a routine defence of anti-social personality traits.

My letter to Everett's employers at Stirlingshire council's department of culture, however, explaining his unsuitability to the position, resulted in my being deemed an unauthorised person. For three months, in fact, until I was cleared by the officious nincompoops at Disclosure Scotland, I was barred from the building. By the time I returned, Everett had insinuated himself to the extent that I was made to feel like the outsider. Incredibly, I was refused access to the staffroom, an insult compounded by Margaret Semple's murmured comment that "he steals our biscuits."

 

F

 

FACIAL GROWTH – A beard invariably indicates sloth, vanity or furtiveness. Sloth can be determined by the presence of discoloration by food stains, vanity by excessive luxuriance and furtiveness by a reluctance of the wearer to make eye contact. One should also note the appearance of the beard wearer's lips. Excessive redness indicates carnal or sadistic tendencies.

While the growth of a beard might, on occasion, by necessitated by incapacity, the experienced investigator will always regard a moustache with caution: there's nothing to prevent a man who can shave his chin from shaving his upper lip. The presence of a moustache indicates the same personality defects as the beard along with sexual deviancy and narcissistic personality disorder. This does not apply to the three countries in which the moustache is still considered fashionable, i.e. Uzbekistan, Armenia and Iraq.

 

FEAR – At an early age, I learned from my Grandfather Sneddon that a guiltless man need never be troubled by fear. What makes most people quiver other than the promptings of a guilty conscience? “Always be honest, upright and brave,” advised my grandfather, and with that in mind, I've always endeavoured to walk erect, my chin in the air. Spencer, on the other hand, stoops, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

Fear, it should be noted, is infectious. Billy Ure was largely raised by his grandmother, a foolish woman whose own choices were determined by irrational terrors. Today, her behaviour might have attracted the interest of clinical psychologists and been diagnosed as an obsessive disorder. At the time, though, it was attributed to superstition. Much of her belief system was absorbed by Billy who, to this day, won't wear a hat in the bathroom lest his head fall off.

 

FERGUSON, CRAIG (1962 - ) Talk Show Host. Originally hailing from the injudiciously situated new town of Cumbernauld, Ferguson has established himself as a 'wit' in another locality constructed against the dictates of nature: Los Angeles.

I was tricked into appearing on Ferguson's television show while by associates of Pamela's with whom I was negotiating the Hamilton Coe television series. At the timr I was pre-occupied with negotiations and only the assurance that Ferguson was a serious journalist with a long-standing interest in my work convinced me that I should apear on his show. Never having previously heard of him, I was only alerted to the deception when, minutes into the interview, he embarked upon a succession of 'comical' observations about my personal appearance. Anyone familiar with Ferguson's television persona will appreciate that these were delivered with the charm and comic timing of a drunk loitering outside a chip shop. For some reason, he was particularly attracted to the zipper on my cardigan, tugging on it like a curious chimp while the fatheads in the audience hooted encouragement.

Many individuals in my position, particularly those with a practical knowledge of Cung-Coe, might have taken it upon themselves to teach Mr Ferguson better manners. Throughout my career, however, I've learned the benefits of forbearance and merely retorted with some good natured 'cracks' of my own. That I was holding my own in the verbal sparring became apparent as Ferguson's audience, confused by the spectacle of a tethered goat mauling a tiger, fell silent. Ferguson's smile became strained before suddenly collapsing into a grimace of startling malevolence."Get this f__king idiot out of here before I break his jaw," he screamed before leaping from his seat and stalking off-stage. Even by the standards of his profession,this seemed grossly unprofessional. Had I not possessed the presence of mind to divert the audience with an improvised lecture, their shock might have turned to disgruntlement.

Ferguson eventually returned to the stage five minutes later and, interrupting me, delivered a remarkable speech in the course of which he referred to marriage difficulties, a drinking problem and the death of his dog. Concluding by again referring to me as "this f___king idiot", he returned to his seat and resumed the interview, an edited version of which was later broadcast omitting both Ferguson's outburst and my own wittier sallies.

 

FINDLAY, GEORGE (1928 - 1997) Educationalist. Rector of Meredith House, the only Kester approved facility in Scotland, Dr Findlay devoted the best part of his career to the promotion of the Kester ethos. In return for his years of dedication, rivals within the Kester community subjected Dr Findlay to slanders which persisted from the time of my own acceptance as a 'Kester Kid' in 1979 until his death.

I was, in fact, the last prospective pupil to be interviewed by Dr Findlay before his scandalously enforced sabbatical. Having stared into the eyes of madness on numerous occasions, I can attest that, regardless of apparent eccentricities, the doctor was in full command of his faculties. Conducting the interview from the interior of a large wicker basket, an expedient necessitated by a skin complaint exacerbated by sunlight, he nevertheless impressed me as a man of sense and compassion. Fixing me with a shrewd and kindly eye pressed against an gap between the basket's lid and handle, he assured me of a position in the school. This promise was reneged upon by his predecessor, Murray Kemp, whose 'interim' stewardship lasted for fifteen years and eventually resulted in the school's closure.

 

FIFE, KINGDOM OF (Nest of pests and anarchy)– According to tradition, the Kingdom of Fife was created when the giant Hamish McAlpine dammed the Firth of Forth using his own effluence.

FLATTERY –

Be wary of the flatterer
His words are set like snares
He lathers you with compliments
To catch you unawares

While his right hand pats your back
His left hand steals your purse
The blade with which he cuts your throat
Will tickle your tummy first!

Donald Sneddon

 

FLETCHER, WILLIAM (1940 – 2003) Teacher, Mischief Maker, Pervert. The slanders I endured as a youth were obviously damaging on a personal level. No adolescent enjoys being alluded to as possessing “a face like a malevolent planet”. My brother and his friends rejoiced in imitating the freakish version of myself featured in The People Who Saw Tomorrow and there was a brief craze amongst the district's ‘alternative' set of Hamilton Coe themed parties, one of which Spencer tricked me into attending. I received anonymous letters threatening to have me killed, exorcised or forcibly baptised and the Children of Courage and Achievement Award at which I was honoured (after a long campaign to have my talent recognised) was sabotaged by demonstrators and orchestrated egg throwers. I left the stage triumphant but covered in yolk. The Hamilton Coe Society formed by my aunt to keep well-wishers updated on my activities was deluged by enquiries from unsavoury characters demanding Hamilton Coe information packs and lapel badges. Rival societies were established by unauthorised persons disseminating completely false information and my aunt was eventually so destabilised by the pressure that the official society ceased operation, leaving six bogus versions competing to invent increasingly sordid and ridiculous Hamilton Coe adventures. These, incidentally, were the original source of many of the rumours propagated about my activities, several of which have been recounted as actual occurrences in Nina Kelly's recent book. While all of the authors united in predictably crude innuendo (that Hamilton Coe is a chronic masturbator, that he is a peeping Tom, etc) some indulged in extravagant flights of fancy that suggested I was a superman. One in particular sent out weekly cliff-hangers, each of which was produced with intricate attention to detail. I remember one in which a villainous confectioner baked me into a cheesecake, another in which I was lured into a so-called Chamber of Feculence in which I was slowly asphyxiated by foul emissions. Each of these episodes would conclude with the query, “Is this the end for Hamilton Coe, boy of mystery?” and, in truth, for most people it would have been. To construct a false identity for someone is a form of black magic. You force your victim into a limbo between his real self and the image you have constructed for him. It's a dangerous experiment, particularly when conducted by those too stupid to appreciate the consequences. I was determined, however, not to be overwhelmed by malice. When my aunt recovered from her stress induced breakdown we set about the grim task of identifying the various authors, compiling a dossier on each and distributing the information in a special thirty page newsletter, incorporating particularly foul samples of their handiwork. These newsletters were sent not only to our regular subscribers, but also friends, colleagues and employers of the perpetrators, not one of whom was under the age of twenty- five. The most obsessive, the author of the weekly cliff-hangers, was William Fletcher, an art teacher from Callander. Stripped of his cloak of anonymity he first protested that he was, in fact, an ardent admirer of Hamilton Coe and intended his work as a tribute. When this tactic failed, he resigned, attempted suicide and eventually left the area entirely to live with his sister. I often say that this is the Age of the Man-child: I might add that William Fletcher was one of its first prophets. The current Harrison Poe website, incidentally, is run by his niece, Madeline Curran, a young woman who is, apparently, not ashamed of the fact that she has dedicated her entire life to the construction of mischievously perverse images of myself.

 

FOCHABER'S ACADEMY – Boarding school in the Drumfeld area, now defunct. According to a recent survey, former pupils of Fochaber's are the most brutalised in the country. This information popularised the school's putrid red and yellow tie which was suddenly sported by the sort of frail and ghoulish teenagers who frequent art galleries and attempt to attract soul-mates by adopting the paraphernalia of physical disability.

Many Fochaber's pupils spent their Saturday afternoons in Drumfeld. Their behaviour and appearance confirmed the suspicion that its main function was as a depository for the sons of nonentity, sent there for no reason other than that they were unpleasant to have around the house. The name remains a by-word locally for an absence of aptitude or intelligence: “Are you fresh out of Fochaber's?” it might enquired of someone who's just spilled coffee over himself or walked into a lamp-post. In the aftermath of the scandals that eventually closed the school, many former pupils have sought the solidarity provided by support groups.

Many years ago, I infiltrated the premises in the course of an investigation. Billy, his hyper-active survival instinct for once deserting him, was apprehended by a group of prefects and briefly ‘roasted' over an open fire, an ordeal from which, I suspect, he has never fully recovered.

 

FORGIVENESS - Is it possible to overstate the importance of the quality of forgiveness? A soft heart can be wounded, but it recovers. When we harden our hearts against others, however, we abandon ourselves to a darkness from which there is no hope of dawn. However gross an insult or profound a betrayal, we must endeavour to forgive it. Likewise when our best efforts are ignored or rejected in favour of something tawdry and pathetic, it remains incumbent upon us to force a smile and to persevere. See also COE, MURIEL; COE, SPENCER; MALCOLM, PAMELA; URE, WILLIAM

 

FORREST, ANDREW (1976 - ) Matricide. The Andrew Forrest case remains something of a cause celebre. Readers with even the slightest interest in crime will be familiar with the basic story: Forrest, the morbid outsider with his poetry, experimental facial growth and inappropriate obsessions. Criminals of that type tend to attract an unmerited level of interest. Journalists of Nina's calibre like to trot out their ‘modern day Clyde Barrow' type stories. Not one of them, naturally, has the slightest inkling of what Clyde Barrow was actually like. The comparison is completely meaningless. If truth be told, Forrest probably had more in common with Lizzie Borden. We needn't dwell on the specifics of the case, though. My adventures have been extensively recorded elsewhere and, despite the level of interest that particular investigation continues to inspire, the details were pretty mundane. I'm not here to blow my trumpet. There are enough braggarts in the world. My purpose in life, at that time, was detection, so it ill-behoves me to expect praise for fulfilling it successfully. Suffice to say that my independent investigation was instrumental in securing Forrest's conviction. The Midlands police, sadly, refuse to acknowledge this. Few, if any, policemen will concede the fact that their role is largely janitorial. Their talents are adequate to the apprehension of muggers and wife-beaters and in this realm of what I refer to as basic criminality, their diligence is invaluable. In dealing with more complex issues, however, the average policeman, immaterial of how many courses he's been through, is hopelessly out of his depth. I've no intention, at this time, of further debating the potential role of gifted amateurs in detection. The facts speak for themselves. More often than not, entrusting a complicated investigation to a police officer is like putting a microwave in charge of a kitchen. He is functional, but lacks inspiration. Of course, since television writers encouraged policemen to construct images of themselves as mavericks, the issue has become even more confused. Fifteen years ago, a policeman could be identified by the combination of scowl and moustache. They were robotic but, by and large, competent. Now they've assumed artistic licence. They gel their hair, wear clothes their predecessors would have considered grounds for suspicion and openly discuss personal crises. They consider themselves creative, a terrible misconception that has undermined the quality of justice in this country to the extent that the very word elicits involuntary smirks.

 

FREUD, SIGMUND - A great deal is made of analysis: why is a man thus? What led him here? This sort of thinking, in my experience, leads to the logic of the scoundrel. Any offence can be exculpated by referring to some damage inflicted in childhood or adolescence. The effective investigator shuns analysis. He merely observes. His interest lies entirely in what a man is. Any fool can conjecture why. I'm constantly reminded of this in my work with depressives. Our universities are churning out smart-alecks eminently qualified to point out what causes an aberration without having the slightest notion of how it might be resolved. Most of the depressives I encounter through my sister's group are, in fact, merely responding to circumstances. Their lives are unsatisfactory: there's no reason why they wouldn't be depressed. Their symptoms don't indicate a clinical disorder, merely unhappiness. What's more, in many instances my research has revealed that culpability lies entirely with the individual in question. Time after time I've established a pattern of bad behaviour: sloth, drunkenness, infidelity. It became apparent to me that many of my ‘depressives' were actually victims of bad character. Members of the psychiatric establishment have, predictably, pooh-poohed my conclusion. They continue to drug people who actually need guidance and, in many instances, physical exercise.

 

FUNERALS - I have often attended funerals in the course of investigations. While sensitive to the occasion, the effective investigator retains a pragmatic detachment. An empathetic nature is laudable, but how many scoundrels have executed their depredations in the full confidence that any potential observers are blinded by tears? The eyes of Coe might radiate compassion but, nonetheless, remain dry. While others might make a virtue out of grief, any unhappiness I feel remains subservient to the demands of truth. Accordingly, at funerals, I'm less likely to be brandishing a handkerchief than a Dictaphone into which I can discretely murmur observations for future reference (a notepad, of course, would serve the same purpose but with the disadvantage of causing the investigator to avert his eyes in order to write coherently. At funerals, as I have found to my expense, noting mourners' responses occasionally causes offence.)

I often attend such events in disguise. The presence of an internationally renowned psychic can have a stifling effect on people's behaviour. It's essential, of course, that any disguise is appropriate to the occasion. ‘Tommy the Punk' will blend in at a business meeting as effectively as ‘Boris the Banker' does a rave, i.e. not at all.

 

FURNITURE - The personality of an item of furniture is, as one might expect, absorbed from the individuals who inhabit its vicinity. This applies to a wardrobe constructed from a B&Q flat pack as much as it does an Elizabethan dresser. Antiquity, in fact, is no guarantee of psychic resonance. While my analysis of a bed reputedly used by Mary Queen of Scots produced negligible results, an aluminium breakfast stool inherited by Christine from a recently divorced colleague transmitted such levels of malevolence that I took it upon myself to destroy it.

Impressions from inanimate objects can be only read by skilled psychometrists: one must be wary of the hack who simply delves into his own subconscious, responding to preconception or his own prevailing mood. See also PSYCHOMETRY

 

 

 

 

G

 

GARDNER, KAREN (1970 - ?) Delinquent, runaway. It's depressingly inevitable that Karen Gardner's family has chosen to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of her disappearance with a so-called ‘Festival of Youth'. For eighteen years, after all, they've used her name to celebrate nonentity with the ridiculous awards farrago that's bolstered by taxpayers' money. If a Karen Gardner Award has become a guarantee of non-achievement then what can we expect of the Festival of Youth? According to the Examiner, Keith Gardner has arranged for various local pop-groups to perform at the event. I know for a fact that my brother Spencer, whose entire repertoire consists of the bellowed recital of unsavoury fixations, has been engaged to participate. No doubt the usual miscellaneous pests and oddballs will be prominent, juggling or distributing pamphlets. It's not in my nature to be objectionable for the sake of it, but could anything be less appropriate? Drug peddlers, occult dabblers and perverts will descend on the Trossachs in their hundreds, eyes narrowed in the direction of their prey. I'm not being deliberately contentious in stating my objection to such venture. While I've no desire to engage in name-calling it seems obvious that such a fat-headed and inappropriate scheme could only be hatched by publicity hounds bolstered by two decades of false encouragement. Keith, who must, on occasion, pause to reflect that, had his sister never gone missing, he would be expected to fulfil some other role in life than general scaremonger.

 

GERMS - To splutter over someone is equivalent to hawking phlegm into his soup or punching him in the face. Young people, who claim expertise on any conceivable topic, now fail to recognise the simple courtesy of despatching their germs into a handkerchief. This negligence will at some stage, inevitably, result in a global pandemic.

 

GIBB, FRANCIS (1860 - ?) Satanist, Poet, Libertine. In recent years, the image of the magician has been sanitised by the sort of sentimental individuals who enjoy the company of dogs. As I write this, computer screens flicker across the country as a thousand would-be alchemists steel themselves against the dictates of nature. Liars and fantasists have always constructed alternative worlds in which their yearnings are satisfied and pasts undone. Access to previously secret rituals, however garbled or mistranslated, has now ensured that misguided individuals can summon entities to do their bidding over the internet, invariably with terrible consequences. The problem has become so sufficiently pronounced for a secret government department to monitor the activities of occultists. This concern is not as ridiculous as it sounds.

The last period of occultism created a universal psychic imbalance that contributed toward World War One and the subsequent depredations of the 20th century. The most talented, and nefarious, practitioner of the age was Francis Gibb, who resurrected the long dormant Sons of the Morning, a society dedicated to offences against reason and propriety. A glimpse at the Sons of the Morning manifesto, written by Gibb in 1884, reveals an adolescent preoccupation with self-abuse and human waste, albeit one couched in the sort of pompous prose style familiar to anyone with a passing acquaintance of the black arts. To the sensible reader, the author comes across as a dirty minded fat-head. Colossal self confidence, however, combined with an undeniable charisma ensured the sort of attention currently enjoyed by contemporary attention seekers such as Marilyn Manson.

 

GIBSON, FINDLAY (1920 - 1987) - Founder of the Gibson Institute, the world's first facility for the analysis and nurturing of psychically advanced children. My Aunt Alice, dipping into personal savings, took me to the Institute's deceptively homespun Florida base on three separate occasions. For successive years, I was subjected to stringent examinations under laboratory conditions, each time emerging with the Gibson Certificate of Authenticity, a guarantee of psychic ability accepted by police departments all over the world (if not Drumfeld).

 

 

 

GIFTED CHILDREN, CARE OF - The immune systems of psychically gifted children are often depleted by negative energy absorbed from those around them. My Uncle Gregor's presence invariably caused choking fits while a visit from the Hendersons was sufficient to induce seizure. It gives me no satisfaction to record that in both cases my instincts were subsequently vindicated, but at the time I was accused of play acting and, on occasions, dragged to my room, a potentially fatal response to a clairvoyant child's distress symptoms. Unsupervised, he might choke on his own drool or bludgeon himself to death in an effort to obliterate the unwanted images gathered in his mind. In fairness to my parents, until my aunt contacted the Gibson Institute, neither was offered any guidance in the specific needs of clairvoyants. Many gifted children, of all types, have their fiery essence drenched by incomprehension and disapproval. Ninety per cent have their potential nullified by the time the can walk. How many parents are competent to the task of raising a special child? Obviously, it's difficult to identify gifted children at an early age. My solution is that all children by removed from the home and reared by qualified nurturers until their individual capabilities become apparent. See also COURAGE AND ACHIEVEMENT, CHILDREN OF and KESTER, GIDEON

 

GRAY, ANGUS (1962 - ) Publican, Boor, ‘Character'. Since taking over the King's Arms in 1997, Gray has barred over three hundred people for offences ranging from chewing gum and smirking to 'hogging the toilet'. His desperation to feature on the television programme 'Britain's Unfriendliest Barman' has led him to beleaguer their offices with compilation videos of his most withering putdowns. A self-created monster, according to Christine his 'personality' comprises characteristics borrowed from Gordon Ramsay, Simon Cowell and Alan Sugar all of whom, apparently, have created a niche for themselves by reducing unstable individuals to tears in front of a large audience. The strain of living up to his reputation has recently caused Gray to develop a violent facial tic.

 

H

 

HAMILTON COE FOUNDATION, THE - The original aims of my foundation were three-fold: to encourage research into the use of psychic ability, to encourage potential in genuine clairvoyants and and debunk fakes and scofflaws. To that end, I've delivered lectures across Britain and North America, endorsed eight young psychics, exposed seventy three frauds and introduced a laminated Hamilton Coe Certificate of Authenticity recognised by police forces around the world. At some stage in the (hopefully not too distant) future, I hope to establish a holiday retreat for young psychics where they can develop their powers in a 'fun' environment. My first experiment in this field, unfortunately, had to be abandoned when it became obvious that six of the seven children in attendence were bogus and forcing Findlay Duff, the only genuine clairvoyant, to share his psychic impressions by means of Chinese burns.

It's now five years since the Foundation's inception. Sensible people, of course, pay little heed to anniversaries. Let's not attribute undue significance to a day that otherwise begins and ends like any other. When I blow my nose, I don't expect subsequent generations to commemorate the event with a public holiday. Contrary to mischievous speculation, the Foundation has had no part in any of the various demands that the local council do more to commemorate the occasion. What do I want with a Man of the Year award? The baubles of mediocrity gather dust on a million mantelpieces. While braggarts tunelessly parp songs of praise to themselves, only posterity acknowledges true achievement.

 

HANDWRITING, ANALYSIS OF - A rudimentary knowledge of graphology is useful but shouldn't be regarded as an exact science. In my experience, graphologists, in common with most investigators confined to solitary areas of expertise, tend to 'read' too much into their own findings, often dismissing more pertinent evidence extracted from other sources. Despite claims of its proponents, graphology is next to useless in establishing personality types, though it might determine a person's mood when he or she wrote the sample presented for analysis. My own knowledge of the art has been helpful on various occasions, most notably in the apprehension of the Station Rd vandals and laureate of the poison pen, Alexander Coull.

Handwriting samples from the Hamilton Coe archive.

 

HANSEN, ALAN. Football Analyst, Nudist. Over the past decade Hansen has established a New Year tradition of running naked through the centre of Alloa followed by a Goodwill truck which accepts unwanted Christmas jumpers. These, unfortunately, aren't used to clothe Alan, but distributed to local indigents. Hansen's misguided, if public spirited, gesture has, predictably, encouraged exhibitionists elsewhere. Last year, Drumfeld's Hogmanay celebrations were completely ruined when members of the local amateur football team who pledged to run naked from Drumfeld to Inverbeg, unfortunately contriving to get lost in a sudden blizzard en route.

Alan Hansen, fully clothed

 

HAPPINESS - In my extensive experience of aberrant behaviour, what most people refer to as ‘depression' is often an entirely logical response to circumstances. The expectation of unhappiness will, more often than not, summon the reality and a vicious cycle is created. A scientist might argue that our lives are dictated by our D.N.A., that we are condemned to eternally repeat the same pre-programmed follies. I would counter that, while we might inherit demons, our spirits are unique and in some, if not all cases, capable of resistance. I emphasised this point in the Paterson dossier I sent Spencer for his thirty-first birthday, naively hoping that he might be liberated by the knowledge that his wretchedness was almost entirely attributable to genetics. At the dossier's conclusion I listed meditative exercises and diet and lifestyle emendations which I was sure would aid him emerge from his pit of self-loathing.

 

HARDY, FRANK AND JOE – Fictional Detectives. The ability to look into men's hearts is often dispiriting. What people like Nina blithely refer to as a ‘gift' is, actually, a terrible thing to bear. Before we continue, please think about this. The depiction of young detectives in popular fiction tends to be misleading. They're popular and constantly surrounded by admirers. Did either Hardy boy resort to going to the prom with Aunt Gertrude? Of course not! This is a popular misconception. In reality, the young person who exposes wrong doing is shunned, ridiculed and dangled naked from the flagpole with the word “spy” daubed on his torso. And this human aversion to the truth-teller doesn't take into account the fear inspired by the supernatural elements of clairvoyance. The average child is intolerant and cruel. He detests anyone who's different. If another, more sensitive, child intuits that his father beats his mother or stays out late with other women, he doesn't acknowledge the truth in the revelation or even accept it as a possibility. Instead he points his finger and shouts “freak!” encouraging his friends to surround the truth-teller and pummel him. I'm not looking for pity, merely understanding. A considerable percentage of clairvoyants are susceptible to the bleakest of depressions. Seven out of ten, apparently, contemplate suicide before reaching their teens. This shouldn't come as any surprise. Who wants to be privy, for example, to his parents' darkest desires? Should a child have his thoughts corrupted by the intrusive fantasies of taxi drivers or supermarket assistants? How is he to communicate with these people? Every genuine clairvoyant will, at some stage experience violent rejection. A child can't determine between regular thoughts and those sparked by enhanced intuition. Tact isn't inherent. A five year old can't be expected to remain silent when unexpectedly offered secret knowledge. Clairvoyant children tend to be considered socially inept. It's inevitable. Nobody wants thoughts he's reluctant to acknowledge even to himself parroted by a five year old. The potential for embarrassment is overwhelming. As my powers became apparent, my parents' circle of friends rapidly dwindled. My Uncle Gregor refused to visit for over three years after I received a vivid impression of him prancing in front of a mirror, his great red face framed by a wig, his thighs sheathed in silk. His red face and spluttered denials betrayed the accuracy of my intuition. I was immediately overwhelmed by an second image, this time of Gregor dashing my head off our fireplace and passed out, a frequent occurrence throughout my childhood and adolescence that Nina Kelly mischievously dismisses as a punishment evasion technique. (Throughout his life, incidentally, Gregor projected a constant stream of repressed urges. His company, even when I was older, was an ordeal. No talent was required on my part to discern his hatred. He conveyed it with every word and glance. Troubled and angry people often conceal their true feelings behind a mask of apparent jollity. Nina implicates me in my uncle's death, referring to a “campaign of harassment.” This was, in fact, a perfectly legitimate investigation fully detailed in my Casebook as the Mystery of the Hidden Diary.)

 

The Hardy Boys from the 1970's t.v. series

 

HARRIS, JANE (1975 - ) Pest, Scaremonger, ‘Activist'. Persistent visitor to Drumfeld where she pesters locals and visitors on the subject of animal testing in the Woollen Mill. A misconception of obscure origin. Monkeys liberated from research facilities, incidentally, have been known to attack and should be approached with caution.

 

HAWTHORNE, RONALD (1957 - ) Celebrity Psychic. In 1993 Nina Kelly, considering herself an expert in the realm of supernatural detection techniques, released a completely risible book called Written in Blood in which the careers of various clairvoyants were assessed with the total lack of clarity or perspective which has become her trademark. Any genuine authority on the field failing to be repelled by the book's garish cover and actually examining its contents might be surprised to discover that our most prominent and sought after clairvoyants are Ronald Hawthorne and Phyllis Yuill. Until recently, Hawthorne's entire existence was devoted to predicting the death or disgrace of minor celebrities. His clientele, according to his own biography, included Michael Barrymore, Elton John and Cherie Blair. Since various indiscretions caused him to be banished from the salons of Mayfair, he was reduced to trawling crime scenes in his crushed velvet suit. His technique has never varied. On arrival, having attracted sufficient attention, he sinks to his knees, never missing his strategically placed towel, clutches his temples and gibbers while members of his entourage take notes. On the occasions I've personally witnessed this performance, he's been led away by his ‘personal physician', screaming and gnawing his trademark beret. On at least two occasions that I know of, he's been so traumatised that he's required hospital treatment. Quite simply, he has neither the sight nor the stomach for the role.

 

 

HEGARTY, ALEXANDER (1938 – 2003) A plausible rascal, though not, I would contend, a particularly likeable one, Alex Hegarty was a frequent visitor to the Coe house throughout my childhood. For years, the Hegartys' arrival preceded the Hogmanay bells, causing Christine and I to flee his slightly metallic, cigarette breath. We'd watch from the stairs as the Hegartys encouraged our parents to remove their shoes and dance to Gary Glitter and Bay City Rollers songs on the radio. When I was seven years old, this ritual was disrupted by the most significant vision I had, up to that time experienced. Watching Alex Hegarty, face fixed in an expression of belligerence, clap his hands and stamp one foot in time to the music, the familiar features of our lounge dissolved around him, rearranging themselves as a woodland clearing. My parents and Myra Hegarty were no longer visible, though I was aware of their presence. Only Hegarty danced, his flared tartan trousers causing dead leaves to stir around his feet. Suddenly a young woman stepped from the undergrowth and walked slowly toward him. As she looked up, we made eye contact, causing me to be overwhelmed by a sensation of terrible sadness. Pointing at the prancing Hegarty with one hand, she held up the other, palm toward me, to reveal the number 4 written vividly in red. At that moment, Hegarty himself turned to face me. His eyes burned with such animal intensity that I recoiled, banging the back of my head against the wall. By the time I recovered my equilibrium, the scene had returned to normal.

For the next ten years, I tried to establish the meaning of the vision, a quest for truth that resulted in a rift between my parents and the Hegartys. Matters were complicated when I recognised the girl from the clearing performing one of Spencer's Saturday morning 'pop' shows. It was the rock singer Suzi Quatro. For years I had imagined she had been a victim of violence, perhaps murder. Now it occurred to me that I had tapped into Mr Hegarty's inner world. Unfortunately, my parents, completely estranged from the Hegartys after a distressing incident in which I was dragged from my hiding place in their tumble drier and cuffed about the kitchen, refused to telephone and ascertain whether Ms Quatro had played a prominent role in his sexual fantasies of the time.

My assault in the Hegarty kitchen, incidentally, was the catalyst in Mrs Hegarty's decision to leave her husband. While I failed to establish his role in a murder, my investigations did uncover various affairs with clients that must have put their marriage under considerable strain. Evidence of a propensity for violence was, I think, the last straw.

 

HONESTY - Most people consider themselves to be honest. If pressed, they'll make frank observations about their friends and neighbours. Not in a judgemental sense, of course. They merely wish to be helpful. On occasion, they might even confess to shortcomings of their own. This usually happens when the consequences of these shortcomings threaten either reputation or liberty. “I'm disgusted with myself,” someone might candidly squawk before embarking on some course of self-improvement. Drunks, wife-beaters and gossip mongers are all prone to such moments of self-revelation in the immediate aftermath of exposure.

 

HOUDINI, HARRY (1874 – 1926) – Stage magician killed, according to various theories, by a blow to abdomen, poison or black magic (all methods, co-incidentally, used in attempting to despatch Hamilton Coe.) After the Dillon Forrest investigation, Christine, Muriel and I went for the celebratory meal customary to a case's conclusion since I used to go to Jurassic Burgers with Billy Ure. It was, at the outset, a pleasant enough evening, albeit one tinged by its association with shattered lives. I remember attempting to lighten the mood by explaining to Muriel how, if necessary, I could simulate Houdini's Chinese Water Torture stunt by escaping from Marcocilli's ornamental fish tank. This conversation was overheard by members of the party at the next table who, with escalating belligerence, encouraged me to put theory into practise. They were drunk, of course. While they weren't deliberately offensive, their intemperate hilarity in summoning inappropriate images of me confined within the tank, chained and naked, soured the evening, as did the repeated offer of financial incentives to make good my boast: grubbily crumpled dollar bills pelted in my direction. My niece, who was twelve at the time, has always seen me in a heroic light which others might consider incongruous with reality: Muriel is fifteen years old, prone to moodiness and burdened by the occasional presence of a father who is fat-headed and vain. Nobody enjoys seeing his or her hero debunked and, while I'm accustomed to derision, she was obviously distressed by my treatment at the hands of our fellow diners.

Marcocilli's superb coffee is normally my favourite part of the meal. On this occasion, with consideration to Muriel, I chose to forego the pleasure. While I was waiting for the bill, however, one of my tormentors turned sideways and sneezed, propelling a viral spray into the side of my face. While I don't dispute that this was unintentional, the consequence was a virus that incapacitated me for weeks and depleted my psychic abilities.

 

HULL, ROD - A tragic illustration of the dangers of psychic possession. Hull arrived in Britain from his native New Zealand with the reputation of being a brilliant young stage actor. Rehearsing for the role of Richard the Third, he immersed himself so thoroughly in the mindset of the character that he was possessed its vengeful spirit. After committing a succession of compulsive assaults of escalating severity, Hull took to strapping his less controllable right hand and padding it with socks. When this proved ineffective against the strength of the hunchback's rage, he improvised Emu, the violent puppet with whom he became inextricably linked for the rest of his career. Watching Hull as a child, I was stricken by the terror in his eyes as he struggled to control the hate filled monarch, still bleeding from the wounds of Bosworth, writhing ferociously at the end of his arm. Hull eventually died after a dispute with ‘Emu' over whether they should watch the F.A. Cup Final or an afternoon screening of Laurence Olivier's interpretation of Richard. In the course of the ensuing struggle, Hull somehow ended up on the roof of his isolated cottage, from where he was thrown to his death.

 

HUMOUR, SENSE OF - Today a good sense of humour is considered a cardinal virtue, perhaps the cardinal virtue. People who seek company through the sort of free magazine normally found trampled on the soggy floors of streetcars eschew genuine humour for what they refer to as g.s.o.h. All the world's lonely hearts, it seems, really desire is someone with whom to laugh in the face of whatever adversity has isolated them to the extent that they have to advertise their personalities in columns also used to sell sex, used cars and unwanted Christmas presents. The most unprepossessing dullard will stubbornly proclaim his g.s.o.h. even as the object of his repartee prepares to fling herself from the nearest window rather than endure another of his witless anecdotes. The absence of humour is as serious a failing as the absence of compassion or mercy. Nobody likes to be told he lacks a sense of humour. The asset is claimed by bullies as justification for what, viewed objectively, amounts to anti-social behaviour. What they claim as humour is, in reality, a total absence of self-restraint, the abandonment of reason to the darkest human urges. Every day, people endure the grossest indignities rather than leave themselves vulnerable to the accusation that they can't take a joke. They tolerate having their chairs whipped from under them as they sit down, insects introduced to their lunchboxes, their personal details plastered over the walls of communal toilets. It's only a matter of time before ‘it was only a joke' becomes a legitimate criminal defence. We must see things for what they are. A man whose handshake transmits electric shocks harbours a pathological yearning to inflict more serious pain. In appropriate circumstances, the whoopee cushion is a harmless source of fun (I've owned several myself), the packet of gum that conceals a steel snapper, however, is a weapon of attrition. Spencer owned various such devices. This is indicative of what he refers to as ‘humour'. It is actually belligerence.

 

HYSLOP, JOHN (1950 - ) Child Psychologist. Ostracised in some quarters on account of his unsentimental approach, Hyslop has declared it his mission to ‘liberate society from the tyranny of its children and children from the expectations of their parents.' Arguing that many parents, lacking maturity and intelligence, use their children almost entirely to fulfil needs of their own, he advocates stringent assessment of child-rearing ability and, where necessary, separation.

 

I

 

IMPRESSIONISM – While my knowledge of television personalities is limited, the most cursory inspection of tabloid newspapers is sufficient to determine that they lead lives of relentless unhappiness. Separated from their roles and audiences, they struggle to function, their own flimsy personalities being insufficient to the demands of day to day existence. They're the equivalent of black holes into which other people instil ideas and expectations. Away from his stage, an actor is akin to a prop abandoned to a cupboard. According to my research, the most troubled entertainers are impressionists. This is no mere co-incidence. To successfully impersonate another human being is to abandon oneself entirely to exterior influences: to step out-with one's own skin. In so doing, and without appreciating the possible consequences, impressionists render themselves extremely vulnerable.

Consider the strange case of Canadian impressionist Mark Sangster, a moderately successful nightclub entertainer whose repertoire included the usual cast of movie stars, politicians and television personalities. Following the psychic upheaval of a divorce, his impressions became increasingly violent. He spoke in strange languages, unfamiliar to any of his audience members, while his features contorted until he became unrecognisable. On several occasions, witnesses claimed that, in the course of an impression, he grew a thick beard. At other times he shrank in stature, clawed at his eyes and vomited ectoplasm. On leaving the stage, he would have no memory of the performance. After a spell in a private mental facility, Sangster returned refreshed and was offered a place on a televised talent show. His performance, however, was disastrous: after embarking upon a conversation between Humphrey Bogart and Woody Allen, he suddenly digressed into a foul diatribe about Jews in the entertainment business, his points punctuated by violent blows to his own nose. Apparently oblivious to the audience's boos, he tore open his shirt and, smearing a cross over his chest with his own nasal blood, he bellowed an oath in Aramaic before vomiting translucent bile and collapsing. Reduced to unsolicited performances in bars and nightclubs, Sangster spontaneously combusted when trying to impress a group of women with an impromptu impression of Peter Lorre in the course of which, three of those present attested, his features blurred before briefly revealing the leering face of Adolf Hitler.

 

INFORMATION – At no point in history has so much useless information been so easily accessed with the consequence that individuals are unable to assimilate essential knowledge. Many mental disorders are caused by untidy minds cluttered by a proliferation of facts and statistics. The incoherent babble of a madman resembles nothing so much as a cupboard overflowing junk. The effective individual must realistically assess what he really needs to know and disregard everything else.

 

INGENUE - Suggestive word used by seedy, middle aged Californian males to describe young actresses notable for their looks rather than ability. Also used by my biographer, Nina Kelly, in referring to herself. It's over twenty years since I first encountered Nina, although even then I remembered her from her previous career as an actress. Anybody who watched the first series of the 1970's detective series Dirty Secrets might remember her portrayal of Detective Katie Wilson. In the opening credits she pursues a large, bald headed miscreant, her face rigid with concentration and arms extended on either side, as if the expanse of pavement was a high wire. Every time I watch one of the show's very occasional reruns, I'm amazed by the folly by which Nina, a trust fund maintained flower-child, was cast as a streetwise cop. In retrospect, it's such an obvious blunder that it seems like an act of deliberate mischief perpetrated by one of her many personal enemies. Anybody else would have been humiliated, but Nina, apparently oblivious to the catastrophe of her performance, in her inevitable web-site attributes her replacement after a single series to political differences. Of course, the fact of being woefully miscast shouldn't necessarily entail the destruction of an actor's entire career. One might wonder why she never resurfaced in less significant roles more in keeping with her talents. Nina would have made a perfectly adequate barmaid or prostitute. As long as the part didn't require any depth of understanding, I'm sure it would have been within her capabilities. She possesses, after all, the essential thespian traits of insincerity and over-reaction. I should really have no compunction in relating the exact circumstances of how she managed to render herself unemployable. She's hardly exercised restraint in relating her version of my history. The fact is that her subsequent banishment from the television studios was unrelated to her relative absence of talent. I won't, however, stoop to dealing in gossip. This isn't the place to trot out Nina's various personal crises. All that need interest us is what qualifications she might possess to write about me.

 

 

INGLIS, PHILIP (1963 - ) Charlatan. Inglis initially established himself in the Drumfeld Community Centre as a Reiki Master. When it became apparent that there was no demand for this dubious skill which involves the thrashing of supplicants with a rattan cane, he reinvented himself overnight, offering free introductory re-birthing sessions. For weeks he was allowed to incite panic attacks and hyperventilation in his subjects by forcing them to return to foetal breathing techniques. Immediately after sessions with Inglis, several clients were traumatised by flashbacks to childhood, not always their own. Deborah Mallon found herself being pursued around a strange house by a bull-faced man wearing trousers tied under the knees with twine; Malcolm Corbett imagined himself to be trapped beneath the roots of a huge tree where he'd been confined by witches. Not even the presence of his family could reassure him that he was, in fact, in the safety of his room, surrounding by his possessions. Inglis attempted to reverse these unwanted developments by forcing his unhappy clients to perform even deeper breathing exercises. When this merely exacerbated matters, he resorted to use of his cane.

Philip Inglis, a posturing nincompoop

 

INSTIGATORS - See BALSILLIE-URE, KAREN; BISHOP, ELIZABETH; COE, SPENCER; GIBB, FRANCIS; HARRIS, JANE; KELLY, NINA; KRANKIE, WEE JIMMY; LENNON, JOHN; MAIR, DUNCAN; MALCOLM, RICHARD; MANSON, MARILYN; MINTO, COLIN; MURRAY, EWEN.

 

INTELLIGENCE - The average person is too clever for his own good. By ‘clever' I don't mean intelligent. He might have information at his fingertips; he might even be able to repeat it, parrot fashion, but mere repetition doesn't tally with comprehension. Quite the opposite. In my experience, the more someone speaks, the less he understands. Only when he acknowledges his ignorance might he actually start toward attaining intelligence. Few people, however, are able to do this. Everyone is in competition. Nobody wants to cede an advantage. Let's take Joe Average. He's completely bewildered by almost every aspect of his day to day existence. He'd like to seek assistance, but he knows that if he says “I'm sorry, I don't understand this,” rather than offer guidance, the other fellows are likely to crow, “Listen to the fool! He doesn't understand!” This is often the one thing he's learned from years of “education”. Therefore, Joe desperately tries to convey an impression of expertise while, beneath the surface he knows next to nothing. He might wallow in ignorance, his work might be second rate, but at least he retains the upper hand. Over the years, he's become such an accomplished dissembler that he even fools himself. He presents himself as an authority on matters he isn't equipped to understand. He might even attempt to instruct other people. If someone were to expose him as a fraud, he'd react with indignation and refer the matter to lawyers (also dabbling in matters beyond their comprehension) who would demand apologies and reparation from the person who dared tell the truth. I present this as a hypothetical case, but, laughably, it pretty much encapsulates the problems I encountered with Muriel's school when I demanded an enquiry into teaching standards. Anyone curious as to why we're currently transforming our young people in substandard dolts equipped only to sell undesirable items over the telephone or construct idiotic websites should read on.

 

INTUITION – While my technique is mainly intuitive, my ‘hunches' are, in themselves, insufficient to convict a malefactor. The fact that I've been consulted by police departments from Canberra to Bucharest is irrelevant: justice requires evidence, without it we're limited to name-calling which in itself is an offence. Many psychics lack the courage or discipline to follow up on their intuition. I have made a study of various investigative techniques in order that any allegation I might make against an individual is backed up by a leather bound dossier containing proof.

It's impossible for me to explain to the layman precisely what causes the symptoms of apprehension that alert me to the vicinity of menace. The causes vary, as indeed do the symptoms themselves. At various times throughout my career, the presence of evil has manifested itself aurally, as a low cacophony of urgent voices, visually, in the form of visions or dark, pulsating auras, and even as a smell. When I was a child, such impressions caused me to suffer palpitations, nosebleeds and sensations similar to electric shocks. As I refined my technique, however, and mastered a child's natural terror, I experienced nothing more than a tingling sensation, most pronounced around the extremities of nose, feet and hands. This sensation, not unpleasant, had various minor side-effects: watches and digital devices in my vicinity malfunctioned, dogs whimpered or snarled, according to their temperament, and balloons stuck to me.

 

INVERSION – Through no fault of their own, certain individuals possess traits associated with the opposite gender. This is sometimes comical: nobody is threatened by a woman who smokes a pipe or a man who knits. The invert should be wary, though, of limiting human potential by defining him or herself entirely by aspects imposed by sexual quirks.

 

J

 

JACKSON, PAUL (1967 - ) Community policeman. I've never, regrettably, enjoyed the happiest of relationships with the local police. The neutral observer might think they'd be eager to utilise the asset on their doorstep, but since childhood, my offers of assistance have been rebuffed. While my powers have made me a household name in parts of North America, Europe and Australasia, I can stroll through Drumfeld without attracting a second glance.

Professional detectives feel threatened by the encroachment of gifted amateurs. No particular talents are really necessary for the roles fulfilled by our policemen and women. Their purpose is largely janitorial and requires nothing more than basic levels of integrity, diligence and physical fitness. The most effective police officers are those who accept their limitations and, whenever necessary, defer to powers superior to their own.

Paul Jackson, Drumfeld's community police officer, I will concede, has fully accepted his limitations. Unfortunately, the only duties he has concluded himself competent to fulfil involve etching numbers onto property as a precaution against future theft (an inevitability if Jackson is the only deterrent) and organising football matches between teams of indigents and drug abusers. Quite simply, the man is a disgrace to the uniform he wears in the slovenly manner of a pop star experimenting with a new 'look'.

On the various occasions I've required Jackson's assistance, he's dithered and prevaricated, more than once locking himself in the toilet. Passing a drunken fracas outside the Red Lion last December, I noticed his frightened, fat face peering at proceedings through a hedge. When I urged him to intervene, he muttered something about correct procedure and threatened to have me charged with 'obstruction' if I gave away his location.

Jackson failed to redeem himself when my life was threatened by fellow psychic, KEVIN OF SUMMERSTON. Apparently irritated by comments I made during a radio interview, Kevin arrived in Drumfeld accompanied by leering cohorts and, from the vantage point of the war memorial, bellowed his intention of engaging me in a 'square-go'. As a master of the various techniques of CUNG-COE, my over-riding concern in such a scenario was less for my own physical safety than Kevin's. I suspected, however, that having made his grand gesture, he would lose interest. Unfortunately, I was mistaken.

Over the following weeks, Kevin and his accomplices became frequent visitors to Drumfeld, swaggering around the town, blatantly violating the by-laws against public consumption of alcohol and threatening anyone who attempted to chasten them. When I telephoned Jackson to register a complaint, he muttered something about a family bereavement and suggested that I "just fight him and get it done with." This, incidentally, was also Spencer's solution, one reiterated by goading chants of "Hamilton's a shite-bag" with which he and his friends kept me awake when returning from one of their binges. Kevin eventually desisted when the Virgin Mary appeared to him in a dream and cautioned him against his behaviour. A timely intervention: my patience was wearing thin.

 

JEALOUSY – A cancerous emotion. While anger might be vented, jealousy has no outlet. Once it insinuates itself, it festers, often turning to obsession and insanity.

 

 

JEFFERS, MARK (1962 - ) Artist. Christine and, to a lesser extent, Spencer, are both fixated on delusional images of their younger selves. Christine has gradually filled her home with artefacts from our shared childhood. I'm not sure why this should have become a halcyon period. As I recall she spent an inordinate amount of time weeping in her bedroom. Despite the inconveniences of single parenthood and divorce, she's incontestably happier now than she ever was then. She persists, however, in accumulating the detritus of the past. Most recently she commissioned local artist, Mark Jeffers, to paint an oil rendition of a photograph of the three of us at her eleventh birthday. Putting aside the anomaly of commissioning what she obviously considers the preservation of innocence to a noted degenerate, she's forgotten the fact that, shortly after the original photograph was taken, Spencer ruined the party by jabbing Kirsten McCall in the eye with a sharpened stick.

 

JEFFERSON, ARTHUR STANLEY (a.k.a. STAN LAUREL) Comedian -

 

 

JOKES - Within minutes of meeting me, people, often enduring torrid personal circumstances, find themselves succumbing to a rib-tickler. This surprises people who expect me to be po-faced, but I know more jokes than anyone else I know. It was Grandpa Sneddon who first encouraged me to write them down to use as icebreakers. Consequently, I have one for every conceivable situation, written down in thirty leather bound journals. Nina Kelly refers scathingly to my books of Jokes and Humorous Incidents, a phrase taken directly from Spencer who alleges it originated from our Grandfather. Not so! The only person who has ever referred to my journals as books of Jokes and Humorous Incidents is Spencer, so if anyone is to be mocked on that account it should be him. (My cousin Pamela, unfortunately, whether through spite or forgetfulness repeated the error in her aborted Harrison Poe narrative.)

My brother, unfortunately, has absolutely no sense of humour. Obviously, like most people, he thinks he has, but for him a humorous situation is based entirely upon someone else's embarrassment or misfortune. He's no idea how to tell a joke. I doubt if he even knows any. I know at least seven hundred. In her book, Nina refers to my “parp of laughter, echoing crudely around houses devastated by heartache, as harsh and inappropriate as the bray of a wounded seal.” This comes from Spencer who has always complained about my ‘stupid laughter'. He doesn't know how to laugh: he sniggers! When Spencer is amused nobody in the vicinity can escape the impression that he's laughing at them.

 

 

JOLLY ROGERS, THE - American High School society, ostensibly dedicated to good deeds and high jinks, joined by DANIEL NELSON three weeks before his disappearance.

 

 

JURASSIC BURGERS – Theme restaurant in Perth, now defunct. Years ago, Billy Ure and I would celebrate the successful conclusion of a case by going to Jurassic Burgers, a now defunct restaurant with a prehistoric theme where we would open and conclude proceedings with a cry of “Friendship! Integrity! Valour!” After the Karen Gardner case, recounted in detail by Nina Kelly, I altered the last of these to “Justice” in order to spare Billy, who hadn't covered himself in glory in the course of that particular investigation, the embarrassment of extolling a virtue he clearly didn't possess. Since being stricken by several breakdowns, Billy's role largely diminished and I, until the conclusion of my investigative career, reverted to the original slogan, though, I have to say that neither Christine nor Muriel declaimed it with much gusto.

 

K

 

 KELLOGG, FRANCIS (1960 - ) Magician, Menace – Responsible for ruining dozens of birthdays, (not so) Fabulous Frank has established himself as the least competent children's entertainer in Central Scotland. Hired for my niece Muriel's tenth birthday party, he turned up an hour later than scheduled accompanied by a glassy eyed young woman with the appearance and vocabulary of a prostitute. Attributing his tardy appearance to the death of his rabbit, he embarked upon an act of such ineptitude that even the youngest of the guests anticipated the outcome of his dubious ‘tricks' with cries of “It's up your sleeve!” and “There's something under his wig!” This latter observation infuriated Kellogg: despite its singular appearance, his hairpiece wasn't, in fact, a prop, and he lambasted the audience for its insensitivity. “I used to have lots of hair!” he whinged, “Before I had cancer!” Declaring himself too distressed by the memory of his illness and the death of his rabbit to perform any more tricks, he produced some balloons which he desultorily manipulated into unrecognisable shapes he insisted tallied with those of animals. His assistant, meanwhile, locked herself in the toilet for over an hour, eventually emerging unsteady and dishevelled and vomited within three feet of Muriel's cake. When I first exposed Frank, writing to the Central Scotland Magic Circle, he immediately showed another aspect to his personality. For months, I received threatening phone calls from Kellogg and his associates.

Not so Fabulous Frank

 

KELLY, NINA (1955 - ) Author, Fabricator, Hysteric. Until two weeks before the actual release of Hamilton Coe – A Hero for our Times, I had no idea that Nina Kelly was even working on what she refers to as a 'definitive account' of my career. We can dismiss this particular claim as vainglorious piffle. Let's not be mealy mouthed about it. Nina isn't even qualified to give a 'definitive account' of my breakfast. While the cover notes (accompanied, incidentally by a photo which must be at least twenty years old) refer to Nina as 'the undisputed Queen of True Crime', the most cursory reading of anything she's ever written is sufficient to establish it as the work of a text-book hysteric. Over the course of a ten year writing career, she's perpetuated innumerable distortions, accusing the innocent, exonerating the guilty. She's the equivalent of a taxidermist taking unconnected animal parts to create a monster. The head of a German Shepherd crammed onto the body of a turkey, teetering on the mangled hind-legs of a fox. Not to put too fine a point on it, the woman is a maniac.

As with any of Nina's previous books, there's as much point rebutting specific details as trying to convince a lunatic that his dog can't actually talk. If it weren't for the potential damage to the Hamilton Coe Foundation and the slanders she's perpetrated against individuals less able to defend themselves, I'd be inclined to maintain a dignified silence. Nina's ill-will will eventually destroy her before it does me. She's already housebound by paranoia and panic attacks.(Incapable of conducting her own research, she sends emissaries in Team Kelly tracksuits to gather information, subsequently rearranged to suit whatever fat-headed theory she's trying to promote.)

 

KESTER, GIDEON (1880 - 1959) Educationalist. In the 1930's, Gideon Kester, arriving in Britain from Berlin where he had established a reputation as an iconoclastic but brilliant lecturer, established the world's first Kester school in Kent. A residential facility, the school, in keeping with Kester's philosophy, was devoted to nurturing the diverse talents of gifted pupils which had been stifled in more traditional estblishments. Over the next twenty years, five more Kester schools opened across the country. In 1979, after a stringent interview and background checks, I was accepted as a day pupil in Meredith House, the only Kester endorsed institution in Scotland. This offer was subsequently withdrawn when the school's headmaster, George Findlay, was placed on a sabbatical amidst rumours of alcoholism and nervous collapse.

Naturally, this was devastating. My imminent enrolment had already been featured in the Drumfeld Gazette accompanied by a photograph of me in my distinctive Kester uniform of neckerchief and liederhosen. My subsequent rejection was noted by a malevolent sub-editor who ran a story headed "Hamilton Coe - Not Even Remotely Gifted", this apparently being a quotation from the school's interim headmaster. Drumfeld Primary School's headmistress, Irene Black, a woman who had singularly failed in her duty to protect me from the vengeful incomprehension of my classmates, was also quoted saying, "I find inconceivable that Hamilton would have been considered in the first place." For the next five years, the Coes' attorneys pursued an apology from the Kester Foundation and a retraction from Ms Black. Neither were forthcoming. My education, in the meantime, was delegated to a succession of tutors, culuminating in the monstrous Ronald Beith.

 

KEVIN OF SUMMERSTON a.k.a. Kevin McGarry (1976 - ) Hooligan, psychic. Formerly a notoriously violent follower of Glasgow Rangers, McGarry's transformation was precipitated by a prolonged assault by rival supporters. After three days in a coma, he recuperated to tell of various visions he had experienced. Rabidly Protestant in his former life, he converted to Roman Catholicism after receiving visits from mysterious, cowled figures. Most of Kevin's visions betray a religious fixation and fascination with violent pornography.

 

KNAVES - See ADAMSON, PETER; BAKER, TOM; BARR, JASON; BEITH, RONALD; COE, SPENCER; COULL, ALEXANDER; CROWLEY, ALEISTER; DARNLEY, LORD; DAVIDSON, MATTHEW; DEVIL, THE; DUNN, MICHAEL; EVERETT, STEPHEN; FERGUSON, CRAIG; FLETCHER, WILLIAM; GIBB, FRANCIS; GRAY, ANGUS; HAWTHORNE, RONALD; HEGARTY, ALEXANDER; INGLIS, PHILIP; JACKSON, PAUL; JEFFERS, MARK; KELLOGG, FRANCIS; LENNON, JOHN; LESTER, DR PHILIP; LEWIS, MARK; LIVINGSTONE, CALUM; LOGUE, COLIN; MALARKEY, RICHARD; MALCOLM, RICHARD; MANSON, MARILYN, MCATEER, ROSS; MILNE, ALAN ALEXANDER; MUNN, CALVIN; MURRAY, EWEN; NIMMO, SAMUEL; PEARSON, GUY; SANDERSON, CRAIG; SNEDDON, GREGOR; TEALE, NORMAN; WALKER, HUGH; WATSON, EDWIN; WHO, DOCTOR; ZEKLOS, IORGU.

 

 

KRANKIE, WEE JIMMY – Womanchild. One of my earlier television appearances was on the B.B.C.'s Saturday morning show Going Live. Having long stopped watching television, I was unfamiliar with the shows format or the identity of any of the other guests, a rag-tag bunch of pop singers and naturalists who flounced about backstage, their vivid auras crackling with such migraine inducing vanity and malevolence that I was forced to briefly seek solace in a cupboard. On being ejected by a stage-hand, I was immediately set upon by a badly behaved child who'd been causing chaos around the set all morning, dashing in front of cameras, thumbs raised and shouting incomprehensibly, completely impervious to the attempted restraints of his exasperated father. “What's your name?” demanded the boy as I struggled to compose myself. “What are you famous for?” Obviously sensing his belligerent intentions, my aunt cuffed him across the head and, as he turned to flee, tripped him, causing him to fall and strike his head on the base of a lighting unit. As the father rushed toward us and leaned over the stricken, twitching boy, I was overwhelmed by one of the most unsettling images I had, at that time, experienced, one which, even now, I'm reluctant to present for public scrutiny. It is, however, contained in the Hamilton Coe archive to be released on my death.

 

L

 

LANGUAGE - The intuitive capacity in most humans is limited by language. This also applies, perhaps paradoxically, to our ability to communicate. Quite simply, our vocabulary is inadequate to our needs. How can we possibly know someone, or make ourselves known, which such a paucity of words at our disposal. Is it really surprising when an individual, frustrated by the inability to articulate himself, resorts to jumping off a bridge or punching someone in the head? His loquacious colleague, meanwhile, blessed with a larger vocabulary but zero comprehension, flummoxes his audience and himself. His words are a meaningless babble contrived to get what he thinks he needs. Unfortunately, as he no longer has the capacity to know what he needs, his efforts are in vain.

Can we understand another person or communicate with them without resorting to language?

“Oh, God, Hamilton's doing that staring thing again,” complains Spencer when I attempt to establish a non-verbal bond in a roomful of chatter. This is the sort of scepticism that negates any possibility of progress. As he smirks triumphantly, he's oblivious to the fact that, without overtly demonstrating the fact, at least seven people in the room are laughing at him.

 

LENNON, JOHN (1940 – 1980) – Currently revered as an iconoclast, I suspect that within fifty years, Lennon will be chiefly remembered as a hypocrite and negligent parent. A vicious and unstable individual, his main legacy is a revolutionary reassessment of the status of celebrities. Formerly content with their roles as servile attention grabbers, they now expect to be consulted by world leaders on matters of global import.

 

LESTER, DR PHILIP (1959 - ) So-Called ‘Life Coach' - Some people are doomed to failure from the outset. They can't help themselves. It's not a question of bad posture or incorrect breathing. There are no night classes for such people. They can trawl the self-development sections of bookshops for solutions to whatever impediment they imagine is holding them back. They can visit psychotherapists and hypnotists, allow themselves to be fleeced by cults and peddlers of whatever transcendental nuttiness is currently in vogue. They can pay good money to be thrashed, pierced or smothered in blankets. They can buy semi-precious stones and tape them to the appropriate parts of their anatomies while chanting secret words purchased from bald-headed men with stalls at music festivals. It makes no difference. No-one will ever refer to such a person in terms other than those of disparagement or condescension. Nor will anyone ever gaze into their eyes with mad abandon or think of their sad, silly faces as they sit alone listening to the same song over and over, heartsick and pleading for God or whomever to miraculously transport that particular sad, silly face into the immediate vicinity. “Do you think of me at all?” they might ask plaintively, a demand that elicits a bland reassurance. “Well of course I think of you! I'm always thinking of you!” The people they most want to yearn for them, in fact, are guaranteed to be yearning for someone else. Someone so appalling it causes actual pain just to think of them. Some shallow, self-confident dolt with nothing to recommend him other than the conviction that he will prevail. Not only are they thinking of them. They're meeting up, eating out, going to nightclubs and then going home together. Our heroes, meanwhile, sit at home, opening their second or third bottle of wine, listening to their special records, muttering their mantras of self-affirmation: “I am a valuable person! I am a loving person! I deserve to valued and loved!”

In the latter part of the 20 th century, an industry evolved through which unscrupulous individuals preyed on the guilt ridden, underachieving and gullible. The ‘Life Coach' is this phenomenon's most recent evolution. I leave it to the reader to decide who is more culpable, the man presumptuous enough as to offer advice for profit or the man who seeks it.

 

LEWIS, MARK (1967 - ) I always enjoyed a cordial relationship with Mark's mother Constance. Our friendship was cemented when my investigation revealed irregularities in the Lewis household that resulted in the dismissal of a gardener and Mark's departure for boarding school. Discretion prevents me from elaborating, but details are contained in the Hamilton Coe archive, scheduled for release in May 2020, a definite black letter day for Mark! I was of further use to Mrs Lewis on various further occasions, once locating a missing cat and later exposing the roguish intentions of a salesman introduced to the household by her son. At other times, I would simply enjoy Mrs Lewis's company, occasionally dropping in for a cup of tea and a chat. When Mark was present, he did nothing to conceal the fact that he didn't welcome my presence: a natural hostility from one whose wiles had more than once been thwarted by my intervention. Later, immediately prior to Mark's marriage to Barbara, relations between us deteriorated when my investigation revealed not only her grandfather's war-time association with Mosley's black-shirts, but his subsequent rapid departure from a series of teaching positions. As the old man was scheduled to play a prominent role in the wedding, providing a bible reading, I thought it only fair that Mrs Lewis be aware of his calibre. My own presence at the wedding, in the guise of ‘Sammy the Sweep', a caution against further shenanigans on the part of the bride's family, caused further problems when Barbara's grandfather, startled by my sudden appearance in his wardrobe collapsed and, unfortunately, suffered a stroke.

When Mrs Lewis died in 2002, I was more surprised than anyone by the revelation that she had rewritten her will in my favour. Mark, I regret to say, took the news without grace, alleging that I'd taken advantage of his mother's dotage, insinuating myself into her affections and encouraging her to alter her legacy. This is as unsubstantiated as it is offensive. If I visited Mrs Lewis it was out of concern. I've never had any interest in financial gain, as many grateful recipients of my assistance will attest. Mark's claims reflect on his own perspective far more than they do mine. When my mother died I'd have been unperturbed to learn that she'd left everything to the paperboy (though, admittedly, I would have been concerned had Spencer been given the opportunity to squander an undeserved inheritance.) Despite the fact that he is, by any standards, a wealthy individual, Mark was still pre-occupied by his mother's will at the funeral and caused a disgraceful scene when he spotted me in the front row. His demands that I be removed, I'm happy to relate, were ignored, but he's subsequently made a nuisance of himself, objecting to various Hamilton Coe Foundation initiatives on the grounds that they're funded by the ‘contested' inheritance. The inheritance has not, in fact, been contested by anyone other than Mark and he'd be advised to swallow his sour grapes lest they choke him.

 

LIVINGSTONE, CALUM (1968 - ) Secretary of Callander and West Perthshire Rotary Club. The charitable purposes of many organisations are, unfortunately, negated by the presence of scoundrels in their midst. Well-intentioned groups are frequently undermined by strong-willed individuals who exert a malign influence on their less worldly fellows. WILLIAM URE, encouraged to join the Rotary Club by his then fiancée, now wife, KAREN BALSILLIE, subsequently fell under the spell of her cousin to the extent of inviting him to be his best man. How an associate of less than two years standing could be expected to fulfil this solemn obligation is, frankly, beyond my comprehension. Billy sheepishly attempted to justify ‘his' choice by citing Livingstone's talent as a raconteur and after dinner speaker, a meaningless argument when my own experience of delivering lectures and encyclopaedic knowledge of jokes is taken into account. My invitation having been withdrawn through Ms Balsillie's machinations, I eventually attended the reception in the guise of ‘Federico the sommelier'. Livingstone's unsuitability for the role of best man was confirmed by his speech: a succession of smutty one-liners culled from the internet.

 

LOGUE, COLIN (1970 - ) Modern Studies Teacher, Agitator. I've often argued that the modern secondary school provides an unsuitable environment for children, particularly those with talents that might arouse the envy of their peers. This situation has been exacerbated by the relatively recent phenomenon of the 'manchild'. Put simply, most of the teachers charged with instilling good sense and order have, in every significant aspect, failed to make the transition from adolescence to adulthood. Desperate to be liked, they pander to their charges, eagerly resonding to the sort of nicknames that, in the course of their own schooldays would have elicited thrashings. Muriel's modern studies teacher, Colin Logue, for example, actively encourages students to refer to him as The Rogue, a nickname which, in its modern connotation, indicating a likeable scallywag, is appropriate only in that it rhymes with his name. Until recent times, of course, it would be assumed that a man walking around with the word 'Rogue' pressed onto the back of his jacket had been condemned to carry a terrible warning. One would have expected the brand to be accompanied by physical mutilations, severed thumbs, perhaps, or slit nostrils. Logue, however, wears his customised outfits with every appearance of self-satisfaction.

 

LOMBROSO, CESARE (1836 – 1909) Criminologist. See EARS, SPENCER'S.

 

LOVE - Even the most dim-witted observer must be able to discern the obvious link between criminal transgression and misplaced affection. A cursory inspection of the annals of crime reveals dozens of individuals rendered misanthropic by rejection. Inadequate personalities are unable to cope with the overwhelming emotional upheaval caused by what they imagine is love. This, more commonly, in fact, is desire, want or need, but we needn't quibble on that score. If someone wants to kill his fiancee with a bat, he can attribute his motive to love until he's blue in the face. The facts speak for themselves. Let's not behave like psychopaths and then claim to have been unbalanced by higher feeling.

The confusion is exacerbated, of course, by the self-appointed spokesmen of higher emotions, singers, poets and artists who treat the pursuit of love with the insight and maturity a child might the pursuit of chocolate. To covet is not to love. Need this even be discussed by intelligent people? It seems obvious that a relationship in which the participants are smothered and repressed has nothing whatsoever to do with love. Let's not behave like psychopaths and then claim to have been discombobulated by higher feeling. This is to resort not only to humbug but also reckless misuse of language. I wouldn't labour the point, but the most celebrated relationships of our age are united by the hallmarks of dysfunction and abuse. The ideals of romance have been debased by those whose yearning for attachment is based entirely on self-interest.

Spencer, predictably, argues that I know nothing of romance. “Why would I be interested in a virgin's theories on relationships” he sneers. Occasionally, if others are present, he regurgitates a fantasy in which I'm twisted by self-abuse. This is an ironic insult coming from someone whose own solitary indiscretions precipitated the resignation of a housekeeper who inadvertently surprised him in an act of semi-public sordidness. It should also be remembered that this is someone whose own marriage culminated in his being hospitalised with stab wounds.

It's always easy, of course, to spot the beast in others, less straightforward to recognise its traits in ourselves. Most criminologists are so preoccupied by the activities of child abductors or serial killers that they ignore the million small acts of self-affirmation that contribute more to human misery than any mafia. They want consultancy roles on television shows and, as nobody is interested in making a series based on, say, Mrs C's deliberate poisoning of visitors with spoiled milk this petty but interesting piece of aggression is overlooked. Any idiot can trace the sequence of events that lead to a succession of mother substitutes being throttled with skipping ropes.

 

Love... or mere lustful yearning?

 

LOVECRAFT, HOWARD PHILLIPS (1890 - 1937) Author. Until his early twenties, Lovecraft was known as an affable if slightly zany young man. After briefly joining the Rotary Club, however, and inadvertently stumbling over one of their rituals, he became a recluse, writing stories inspired by Rotarian mythology. His mysterious death in 1937, I suspect, was a direct consequence of his indiscretion.

H.P. Lovecraft

LUCIFER SECT – Cult. See SONS OF THE MORNING

 

 

M

 

MACKENZIE, CAPTAIN NEIL (?) – See DEVIL, THE

 

MACLACHLAN, KYLE (1959 - ) - In the immediate aftermath of my mother's death, my cousin Pamela, resident in Los Angeles where she's been employed since 1998, returned to Drumfeld for the first time in over a decade, ostensibly to help with the funeral arrangements. As my father's incapacity through Alzheimer's and Spencer's preoccupation with his so-called 'birth family' had placed the burden of responsibility firmly on my shoulders, I was grateful for her assistance. Little did I suspect that she'd returned from Los Angeles with the express purpose of accumulating material for a proposed television series about a character, Harrison Poe, who was obviously based on me. I was only alerted to her ploy months later when I inadvertently received a wrongly addressed e-mail with various scenarios attached in which, without beating about the bush, I'm portrayed as a bungler and a fool.

It's only natural, I suppose, that my adventures should attract the interest film-makers. Since the PEOPLE WHO SAW TOMORROW debacle, though, I've been wary of the consequences of media exposure. While I can withstand the derision of numbskulls, I have to consider the people I've represented over the years: those without the means or the fortitude to stand up for themselves. The man who mocks me, also mocks them. With this in mind, I immediately made plans to fly out to L.A..

Need I describe Pamela's astonishment when, a week later, an informal meeting she and her cohorts had arranged with Kyle MacLachlan, the actor approached to portray 'Harrison Poe', was interrupted by Klaus, a German auotograph hunter who suddenly removed his Alpine hat and handlebar moustache and declared a close personal interest in proceedings! Pulling up a chair, I stated my case: while I didn't object to a film based on my casebook in principle, I explained, the tone of Pamela's outline was completely inappropriate. Nor was I confident that Mr MacLachlan was qualified for the role. In order to inhabit my skin, after all, he would have to be prepared to confront some of my demons. Did he possess the moral authority to portray a man who has mastered monsters?

For the next month, I stayed in Pamela's apartment, liaising between the various interested parties and sketching out an appropriate approach to my life story. MacLachlan, a humorous and thoughtful individual, eventually conceded that he would be incapable of satisfactorily interpreting the moods of Hamilton Coe. He suggested John Candy as a possible replacement, but my inquiries established that Mr Candy was, in fact, dead.

As the project disintegrated, Pamela's mood toward me, strained from the outset, became frosty, reaching a nadir when I returned from a conference to discover she'd changed the locks.

Hamilton Coe?

 

MAHLER, GUSTAV – The musical titans of the past all possessed the facility to tap into the eternal. I use the past tense without hesitation: Mahler was possible the last of the truly great composers. His successors are incapable of greatness, not because of personal shortcomings (though all too often contemporary composers are querulous and pre-occupied their own celebrity and political stance) but an absence of inspiration. Just as the skies have been polluted but excessive light from the planet, our spirits have been dimmed by external stimuli.

 

MAIR, DUNCAN (1952 - ) Founder of the Scottish Mystical Alliance, an organisation with more interest in its members' commercial opportunities than psychical research. Their monthly meetings are attended by a collection of dubious, kilted characters, many with a broad range of criminal convictions. Out of curiosity, I applied for membership but was rejected on the grounds that, by Mr Mair's definition, I am not a mystic. By this, I assume he means that I can a) recognise skulduggery when I see it and b) go to the toilet unattended.

While S.M.A. members are mainly engaged in prophecy and communicating with spirits, several, encouraged by television, have expressed an interest in ‘moving into' criminal investigations, a field they cynically regard as a potential goldmine. Unfortunately, they're completely unsuited to the purpose: at least fifty percent of the Alliance's members are alcoholics and nearly all possess religious fixations indicative of profound mental health problems.

Mair's ‘Book of Prophecies', a compendium of his members' visions, paints a dark picture of Scotland's future in which monsters emerge from lochs and forests while fire rains on the cities. Hedging his bets as always, Mair refuses to clarify whether these ‘visions' are metaphorical or literal. See also KEVIN OF SUMMERSTON

 

 

MALARKEY, RICHARD (1946 - 2005) Civil Servant, Obsessive Newspaper Correspondent. More often than not, the so-called voice of reason has a limited vocabulary and is overly reliant on the word 'no'. The universal arrogance of the narrow-minded makes scant allowance for possibilities beyond the realm of logic. Malarkey, a near neighbour of Billy's, was a case in point. In ten years, he had over three hundred letters published in a variety of newspapers. The topics ranged from Scottish Independence, of which he was a passionate advocate, to the sort of local government issues in which no sensible person takes more than a passing interest. “Why haven't the Station Road plant pots been painted?” he demanded. Or “Whatever happened to the proposed Elder Road play area?” While this compulsion to meddle might be attributed to loneliness it often indicates a potential menace. My investigations into Malarkey's past (his origins were in the Huddersfield area) concerned me sufficiently to commence a surveillance operation in the course of which I trapped while trying to escape his house via the kitchen window. Malarkey's demeanour on this occasion made it clear that, if not for the fact that I had not summoned assistance by means of my emergency whistle, he'd have cheerfully throttled me. Billy Ure, incidentally, failed to distinguish himself on this occasion, fleeing and watching from the safety of his bedroom window as the fire brigade arrived and, after an hour's negotiation with Malarkey, released me by first removing his window.

Malarkey's retaliation was predictable. He bombarded the social services with letters regarding my absences from school several of which resulted in visits from social workers my grandfather referred to as ‘the great unwashed'. My occasional newspaper appearances never failed to prompt a missive from him demanding an explanation as to why I was being ‘dragged around crime scenes like a performing seal' rather than attending school. When he wasn't attempting to interfere in my upbringing, he was dashing from his house to force cyclists onto the street from the sidewalk or berate dog owners for failing to scoop their pets' waste. He eventually died of an apoplectic seizure while attempting to stop an able- bodied woman from using a handicapped toilet.

Dolts and malcontents often try to justify acts of pettiness by assuming for themselves the mantle of the righteous. Their behaviour doesn't benefit society, merely placates their own rage which might be better addressed by stringent self-analysis or counselling.

 

MALCOLM, PAMELA – (1970 - ) In 1980, the Drumfeld Examiner commemorated the successfully recovery of Constance Lewis's cat (a minor case that doesn't even feature in the archive) by printing a photograph of the Hamilton Coe Detective Agency. My own copy of the article was destroyed by Spencer in the course of his 2005 Christmas rampage, but by referring to my enhanced memory skills, I can recall every significant detail. I'm at the picture's centre, naturally, surrounded by Billy Ure, Spencer and my cousins Richard and Pamela Malcolm. One might ask exactly why Richard and Spencer, neither of whom had assisted in the case, were included. An excellent question. Aunt Isobel, an habitual meddler in matters outwith her personal concern, insisted that they be included. In the ensuing stand-off, I was prepared to send the photographer away, but eventually negotiated a compromise that the accompanying story refer to them as Hamilton Coe admirers rather than active investigators. With hindsight, I should have stuck to my guns. I probably would have done if not for the fact that Spencer was already in the throes of his first existential crisis: earlier that summer, Pamela and I, in the course of an unrelated investigation, had established the fact of his adoption. This might account for the forlorn expression he wore in the photograph, completely at odds with the general sense of jubilation prompted by the safe return of Mrs Lewis's cat.

Unlike her brother, Pamela was an enthusiastic investigator. A more natural and courageous detective than Billy, who feared and resented her, she played an integral role in several of my most challenging early investigations. Without Pamela's cool head, I might never have emerged unscathed from the Thompson farmhouse while she was on hand to rescue me from the incoming tide after the sham Christians of the Summer Crusaders buried me up to my neck on Kiloran Bay. She also intervened on various occasions when I was threatened by louts and delinquents hell-bent on countering the powers of intuition and logic with violence. Anyone eager to pummel Hamilton during the months of summer or Christmas, invariably had Pamela to contend with. At any other time, I'm afraid, Billy Ure was the only deterrent and his instinctive response to encroaching menace was to chew his lips into a jelly or crawl under the nearest hedge.

In 1984, however, Pamela's dedication to investigations diminished as she became enthralled by the malign influence of Valerie Cuthbert. That summer, Pamela arrived in Drumfeld with her new friend en tow. Valerie immediately made herself objectionable, making provocative observations and turning my shed into a smoking haven. When I reported this latter offence to my parents, she and Pamela responded by refusing to speak to me and, incredibly, smoking openly. As both were under sixteen, this behaviour wasn't only offensively precocious, but against the law. With hindsight, the official complaint I lodged at the Drumfeld Police Station (still in operation in these days) might have been an over-reaction. Certainly, the ticking off the girls received from P.C. Quigley did little to improve relations between us. For the remainder of the holiday I was left to conduct investigations with only Billy to assist me, while Pamel and Valerie consorted with Spencer and Richard. To add insult to injury, the four connived in sending me on a wild goose chase with a series of cryptic messages and archaic diagrams chalked on walls around Drumfeld. After weeks of false clues that led me into nettle patches and fields inhabited by vicious geese, the mystery was resolved by the discovery of a parchment on which was written 'Hamilton Coe is a speccy, fat snitch' hidden inside a hollow tree.

Five years ago, Pamela's work in television took her to California where she has remained. Returning to Drumfeld to assist in arrangements for my mother's funeral, a brief reconciliation came to a sudden conclusion when I inadvertenly received e-mail attachments detailing a proposed television series about a character called 'Harrison Poe'. See also MACLACHLAN, KYLE

Pamela's Manuscript Chapter One

Pamela's Manuscript Chapter Two

 

MALCOLM, RICHARD (1968 - ) A baleful influence on Spencer from childhood, my cousin, Richard, was at his most pernicious through his teens. Arriving in Drumfeld in a succession of ludicrous outfits, subsequently copied by Spencer, he would attend local discos, skulking in a corner, sipping from one of the foreign lagers he insisted on drinking while sneering at the locals. Occasionally, he'd dance like an idiot to one of the gloomy records nobody else enjoyed, his long black coat flapping as he pirouetted on the tips of his pixie boots. Several feet away, Spencer would attempt to imitate him until being chided for ‘cramping his style' on which he would sheepishly retreat to the periphery of the dance-floor and watch the conclusion of Richard's moronic exhibition from a distance.

For years, the Malcolms came to Drumfeld for Christmas lunch, another opportunity for Richard to assert his sense of superiority to everyone else in the vicinity. The inability, or refusal, to enjoy simple pleasures is the trademark of the smart alec and the boor. In my experience, a man's character can often be gauged by the enthusiasm with which he participates in carolling. If Richard sang at all, as the reader might anticipate, it was to sully proceedings with smuttily altered lyrics brayed in sepulchral tones of exaggerated dullness. As everyone else present attempted to enjoy themselves, exchanging jokes and pulling crackers, Richard rolled his eyes, scowled and angrily rebuffed any attempts to tousle his fringe with a paper hat. His appalling behaviour was encouraged by his mother, my Aunt Isobel who laboured under the delusion that her son was, indeed, cleverer than anyone else present. While his sarcastic remarks should have elicited cuffs, they were rewarded by her sycophantic laughter. Spencer was, if anything, worse, robotically repeating Richard's ridiculous opinions, going so far as to respond to Aunt Isobel's solemn announcement that Richard, then sixteen, loved men by embarking upon a gay phase of his own. A lack of opportunity in Drumfeld limited this to wearing eyeliner and smoking French cigarettes, traits he immediately abandoned when Richard turned up the next Christmas, dressed like a stevedore and with a girlfriend in tow.

 

MANSON, MARILYN - "Rock'n'Roll," sings Manson in one of his early hits, "ain't noise pollution." Some of us might beg to differ, particularly when it incites suicide, substance abuse and mass murder. The argument that modern rock music exerts a deliberate and pernicious influence on its followers is guaranteed to provoke derision. "Is it Marilyn Manson's fault," demands Muriel, "that teenage misfits slaughter their classmates citing his instructions?" Hitler, she's taken to adding, influenced, no doubt by her modern studies teacher, was the world's biggest Wagner fan and nobody talks about banning him. This sort of non-argument merely illustrates the good sense in removing intelligent children from the school system. Hitler was unhinged by war, poverty and a psychopathic personality disorder inherited from his grandparents. Wagner had nothing to do with it! Mr Manson, on the other hand, has gone out of his way to influence the most vulnerable and alienated members of the community. He leers down from their walls and bellows from their hi-fis personal computers. When his fans persistently commit depredations against their fellows, it's incumbent upon the responsible investigator to study the effects of his music.

A young Marilyn Manson

 

MASTURBATION - Demeaning and furtive habit that reduces men to the level of monkeys. Non-specific side effects are depression, energy depletion and premature aging. Specific symptoms include swollen joints (particularly on the fingers), excessive nostril hair, mouth ulcers and facial tics. The notion that compulsive self-abusers can be identified by hairy palms is, however, a myth, no doubt disseminated to discourage the habit.

Fear of damnation was, for centuries, a sufficient deterrent. A century of scepticism has, however, heralded an age of masturbation. The habit has become widespread and openly acknowledged. Last year, a collection of minor celebrities threatened to participate in a sponsored ‘self-love in' proceeds of which would be donated to the BBC's Children in Need charity. This plan was only thwarted by last minute police objections prompted not by the scheme's hideous nature, but fears that central London, the proposed scene of the outrage, would be flooded by voyeurs and rendered vulnerable to terrorist attack.

On a more personal level, I've often entreated Spencer to abandon the incessant self-abuse that has sullied his moments of reflection since puberty. To enslave and degrade the object of one's affection in the most secret amphitheatre of the imagination creates a lasting image that will inevitably assert itself in reality. It's ironic, incidentally, that my detractors are constant in presenting a demeaning portrayal of me clawing at myself like a monkey. I am, in fact, one of the few remaining people unaffected by the laissez-faire attitude of the sixties who still recognises masturbation not as a comical rite of passage or companion to loneliness, but a literal act of black magic, as spiritually and physically endangering as drug addiction. Consequently, my relations with women, while chaste, are invariably affectionate and lasting. Before sneering, sceptical readers might experiment with a month of abstinence and study the evidence for themselves.

 

MCALPINE, CONNOR (1997 - ) Badly behaved child. A persistently disruptive element in the Drumfeld Museum, McAlpine was eventually barred after defacing a poster promoting the museum's Hamilton Coe exhibition, “Voice of the Voiceless”. In their wisdom, the museum's new management have not only rescinded the bar, but invited McAlpine to submit work for exhibition.

 

MCATEER, ROSS (1980 - ) Self styled ‘multi-media entrepreneur', Incompetent. I have neither the time nor the inclination to dabble in the inter-net. As I've mentioned on various occasions, I have enough business in the real world without becoming involved in a parallel universe mainly inhabited by numbskulls. I originally employed McCateer to maintain the Hamilton Coe Foundation website. Unfortunately, he completely failed to come to grips with the task of updating information and keeping out saboteurs. Other organisations making the mistake of employing McCateer have, I gather, experienced similar problems as he pre-occupies himself with his own web-sites dedicated to his black labrador, WILSON, and the televisions shows he enjoyed as a child.

What exactly, I often wonder, is his purpose? He's very good at making indeterminate characters scurry across the screen but little else. Apparently he suffers from some kind of nervous debility. It's difficult to get any sense out of him. Whenever I telephone, I'm forced to deal with his mother which is obviously of no use, since I didn't hire her to create my web-site in the first place. I'm not unsympathetic, but it's a little too easy for Ross to accept a commission and then bail out because he can't stop crying.

 

MCGREGOR, ROB ROY – For several years now, the Trossachs have been plagued by a host of Rob Roy impersonators who pester tourists and squabble amongst themselves. Their number is mainly comprised of TARTAN ARMY ‘foot soldiers' and absconded mental patients from Glasgow. The problem is particularly pronounced around Balquhidder where McGregor is buried. Andrew Morton, who lurks about the churchyard in full Highland regalia, face daubed in flour, claims to be the actual ghost of Rob Roy and invites visitors to have their photograph taken with him, demanding fees of up to £100 from anyone foolish enough as to capitulate to his badgering. The area's other Rob Roy's defer to Morton's heightened lunacy and allow him to intermediate between them. While it could be argued that his allocation of zones and time-tables has partially stemmed the Rob Roy profusion, many locals argue that the McGregor name should once again be proscribed.

 

MEMORY, FALSE - We obviously refer to memory for information, but it's important not to distort what we find. Spencer and, to a lesser extent, Christine, are both fixated on delusional images of their younger selves. Christine has gradually filled her home with artefacts from our shared childhood. I'm not sure why this should have become a halcyon period. As I recall she spent an inordinate amount of time weeping in her bedroom. Despite the inconveniences of single parenthood and divorce, she seems happier now than she ever was then. She persists, however, in accumulating the detritus of the past. Most recently she commissioned a local artist to paint an oil rendition of a photograph of the three of us at her eleventh birthday. Putting aside the anomaly of commissioning what she obviously considers the preservation of innocence to a noted degenerate, she's forgotten the fact that, shortly after the original photograph was taken, Spencer ruined the party by jabbing Kirsten McCall in the eye with a sharpened stick. I'm not sure if Spencer remembers. It was hardly the worst of his depredations. If anything, half blinding a younger child is the sort of thing he might boast about. Something about the picture, though, obviously troubles him. He won't look at it directly, but casts furtive, sideways glances, his mouth involuntarily tightening into a snarl. Spencer's own version of his younger years tends to be constructed from a compound of self-pity and loathing. He is nearly always wrong in every significant detail. I can't simply expect the reader to accept the fact that I have remarkable powers of recollection, but I can refer him to the Anderson Institute in Portland which specialises in memory research: various papers in their archive testify to my capacity. Spencer, on the other hand, struggles to remember what age he is. For the past three years, he's insisted that he's thirty-four. I leave the reader to decide whose account is more reliable. If he chooses to believe Spencer, a man who can no longer tie his own shoelaces, then he is confronted by a harrowing picture of a sensitive child left to the mercy of lunatics. If, on the other hand, he accepts the word of Hamilton Coe, whose life has been dedicated to the search for truth, however unpalatable, he'll recognise the self-serving fabrications of a scoundrel.

 

MILLS-MCCARTNEY, HEATHER (1968 - ) Philanthropist. The bloodthirsty tendencies inherent in the average Briton have been diluted into an insatiable appetite for someone else's humiliation. My brother (and even, to a lesser extent, my sister) is in his element when gloating over the errors of judgement made by those whose aspirations are thwarted by some defect of their own personalities. Those most driven by ambition, of course, have always possessed the rogue instinct that pushes them toward disgrace. The ancients referred to it as 'hubris', but until recently its manifestation caused mourning rather than general jubilation. When Gille de Rais, hero of France, was exposed as an infanticidal black magician, for example, the road to his place of execution was lined by peasants earnestly praying for his soul. Any modern celebrity indicted for such an offence would find his or her public considerably less generous.

Prior to her marriage to Paul McCartney, Heather Mills was best known for the loss of her leg to a man-trap. How many of us, I wonder, could rise above such a calamity. Channeling the energies previously dissipated in night-clubs, Miss Mills dedicated herself to the welfare of animals and fellow amputees. This is a matter of public record (though, in light of the vilification to which she's been subjected, total indfference.) Most people, however, remain oblivious to the influence of the Mills sponsored 'think tank' which met every month to discuss matters of national importance. While Ms Mills attended these meetings, I can attest that she never once attempted to impose herself upon the discussion, preferring to observe and take notes.

I'm not, unfortunately, at liberty at this time to disclose the identities of the other members of the forum we light-heartedly referred to as 'The Rumour Mill'. I can only assure the informed reader that he or she would recognise amongst its number some of the finest minds, in every sphere, of our generation. In the aftermath of Ms Mills' ill-conceived marriage to machiavellian man-monkey Paul McCartney (a union which, I advised her at the time, was prompted by his instinct for publicity) the 'think-tank' was suddenly abandoned. See also LENNON, JOHN

 

MILNE, ALAN ALEXANDER (1882 – 1956) Author, Bad Parent. Throughout the 1970's dreams featuring Milne's malign creation Pooh Bear invariably anticipated periods of unease. See also WILSON

 

MINTO, COLIN (1960 - ) Nuisance, Trespasser, Poet. Self-appointed figurehead with the Ramblers' Association. Sporadically appears in Drumfeld with the express intention of going where he is not welcome. Three years ago, Minto had to be rescued from cows agitated by his garishly clad presence amongst their young. Surrounded and jostled, he managed to climb a tree in which he was forced to spend the night. This incident, which anyone else might have considered a source of excruciating embarrassment, was commemorated in one of his ‘poems'. These, written in a Scottish vernacular of Minto's own invention occasionally appear in the sort of periodicals sold by indigents.

 

MOFFAT, PEGGY (?) – See DEVIL, THE

 

MONKEYS, DANGER OF – See HARRIS, JANE

 

MONOPOLY Board Game – See COE, ADAM

 

MORTALITY – As a sickly child, beleaguered by visions, I confronted and conquered my fear of death at an early age. There are two realms of human existence: of the seen and the unseen. Few people are at liberty to wander both but those who do understand the fragility of the boundaries that separate one from the other.

When Muriel was younger I would take her to Drumfeld church yard where we would trample dead leaves into the path and contemplate the individual histories gathered beneath soil. Ironically, Muriel now habituates the church yard with ghoulish associates whose incomprehension of human boundaries is so pronounced that they imagine themselves to be vampires.

 

MUNN, CALVIN (1968- ) Rogue charity collector, Scoundrel. Munn first came to prominence distributing pens outside Greenbank Bus Station in return for donations to Enable, a charity for children with learning difficulties. His modus operandi was to thrust one of his malfunctioning biros into the hand of an unsuspecting passer-by and then harangue his victim with allegations of theft or heartlessness until a suitable donation was forthcoming. This venture came to a sudden end when a young woman, pursued by Munn, tripped on the kerb, striking her head against the sidewalk as she fell. After two years in prison, Munn returned to Greenbank. Claiming to have experienced an epiphany while being sexually assaulted by a gargantuan cell mate, he became a Jehovah's Witness. In the guise of a lamb, he resumed his previous career, preying upon the elderly to whom he distributed tracts while slyly extorting money. See also ASQUITH, COLETTE

 

MURRAY, EWEN (1970 - ) Exhibitionist, Drunk, Unfit parent. Murray compensated for limited access to his children by donning a Spiderman outfit and, for obscure reasons, gluing himself to the Sherlock Holmes statue in Edinburgh. Expecting a sympathetic response, he was disappointed to be spat upon and pelted with various objects. Edinburgh is, of course, an unfriendly city whose inhabitants nurse a visceral loathing toward the performance artists who hog its by-ways through-out the summer months. As Murray neglected to make clear his dubious purpose, passers-by assumed he was a left-over from the Festival. Subsequent legal attempts to negotiate meetings between Murray and his estranged sons have been complicated by his habit dressing as Spiderman or Father Christmas. The boys, having entered the age when the very presence of a parent within a ten mile radius is sufficient to incite fits of squirming embarrassment, are dismayed by their father's insistence on drawing attention to himself by assuming the identities of role models only considered impressive by much younger children. Murray, hurt and bemused by their sudden hostility, planned to retaliate by denouncing his sons on huge banners hung from the Houses of Parliament. His ploy was thwarted when members of his own organisation (Kids Need Dads) reported him to the authorities.

 

N

 

 

NECKLACE, AFFAIR OF THE MISSING- While the recovery of my mother's pearl necklace might not, strictly speaking, qualify as an adventure, the unerring instinct with which I located it in under Christine's pillow was the first indication of my vocation. The pro-Hamilton mood that followed coincided with a period in which Christine, having exhibited a reprehensible trait, remained firmly in the dog-house. Her seventh birthday, which fell the week after the initial shockwaves of her disgrace, was a subdued affair, the proposed trip to the Safari Park being cancelled in favour of a dinner at which the only guests were our grand-parents. Christine's violent retribution, a sneak attack from behind while I was saying my prayers (at the time, I was a particularly devout child), was the first of many beatings I suffered on account of my art.

While we never discuss the matter, I'm sure with the application of hindsight, Christine appreciates the intervention that prevented her from following an entirely different path. Ironically, my recent discovery that my niece, Muriel, was experimenting with cigarettes, entailed a complete role-reversal.   In the fullness of time, I expect that Muriel might reconsider her own immediate response to my ‘interference'

 

NELSON, DANIEL (1946 - 1968) - On the twelfth of August, 1968, less than a month, co-incidentally, after my birth, Daniel Nelson staggered into the Strangers bar in Greenbank, Wisconsin, his shirt saturated with his own blood. Within minutes, despite efforts of the staff to revive him, he was dead: the probable cause a stab wound to the upper chest inflicted by a long, thin blade. I say 'probable' because the wound was only one of several. Daniel had been stabbed a total of seven times. Blood stains in the vicinity of Strangers suggest that the fatal assault took place within a vehicle from which the dying Nelson was ejected before making his way to the bar. One witness recalled having to swerve to avoid a man he assumed to be drunk stepping from the rear door of a black car. As the 'drunk' staggered toward oncoming traffic, the car from which he emerged accelerated away. This was almost certainly Daniel Nelson.

With no apparent motive, the Greenbank Police Department assumed that Nelson's murder was a random act of savagery. Various local thugs and degenerates were questioned but none detained. By the time Nelson's remains were released for burial a month later, the police had acknowledged defeat. "It was just one of these things," recalled retired detective Ray Hollis when I contacted him years later. "We did everything we could." His complacency wasn't justified by the facts. When the investigation, headed by Hollis, failed to elicit a confession through violence it was abandoned. Despite the promptings of Nelson's parents and sister, nobody within the Greenbank P.D. thought to establish links between Daniel's murder and a strange incident three years earlier when a teenager, missing for a week, was found by loggers in the forest that rings Greenbank, muddled and without the slightest memory of where he had been. The name of the youth was Daniel Nelson.

An intelligent investigator regards co-incidence as a red flag. Every event in our lives is in some way linked. When the pattern of someone's existence is afflicted by such improbable misfortunes twice within a limited timescale, we're obliged to sit up and take notice. "Just one of these crazy things," insisted the idiotic Hollis when reminded of his negligence. Nobody familiar with the official investigative process, encumbered as it is by a slavish demand for 'evidence', should be entirely surprised by his attitude, though his lack of curiousity seems remarkable even by the standards of his vocation.

Certain names possess a resonance for no apparent reason. This applies even to those without any pronounced psychic gift. Why randomly combined syllables should leave one person cold while causing another an overpowering sensation of forgotten knowledge is testament to the threads that connect us. Even before I was apprised of the facts of Daniel's case, the mention of his name was sufficient to create a mental picture that tallied with the reality in every particular. I can see him now, his broad smile tempered by the apprehension that the world might not consider him entirely acceptable. No-one else might have suspected this lack of confidence in a champion debater who, incidentally, studied the same book on public speaking I inherited from my Grandpa Sneddon. Is it possible that Daniel possessed some foreknowledge of his fate? His sister, Irene, thought so. “Daniel was never the same after he went missing,” she told me. “The spark was gone. He withdrew into himself, it was as if he was waiting for something to happen.”

 

NEMESIS – A transgression against one is a transgression against all. He who assumes the mantle of nemesis must prepare to be ostracised.

 

NIMMO, SAMUEL (1967 - ) Actor, Dwarf – In casting Samuel Nimmo as Hamilton Coe, the producers of the People Who Saw Tomorrow demonstrated both contempt and ignorance of their subject. Nimmo, at the time a fifteen year old actor stunted by a metabolic disorder and physically unsuitable for most of the parts he auditioned for, had no conception of how to tackle the role. I don't know how much research he did, if any, but his performance exhibited zero comprehension of the clairvoyant experience. The repercussions were immediate. I was deluged with hate mail and renounced from seventeen different churches. One particular zealot threatened to have me forcibly baptised, adding that contact with consecrated water would cause my skin to melt. For weeks I was unable to venture outside without an adult escort and on these occasions children would point at me and emit a bloodcurdling shriek, an impression of Nimmo's version of my investigative technique. It took years for my reputation to fully recover from the damage inflicted.

Nimmo's freakish performance attracted the interest of the sort of voyeurs who intentionally seek out bad art in order to reassure themselves of their own intellectual superiority. The influence of such champions was, however, minimal. Blindly encouraged, Nimmo briefly re-located to Los Angeles, the worst city in the world for someone of his temperament and appearance, where he auditioned for various ‘Child of Satan' roles popular at the time. In this, he was stymied by his unequivocally sinister appearance: in the popular imagination, the son of the devil is superficially cherubic. Nobody glimpsing Nimmo would imagine him to be anything other than a bad egg.

An outsider by appearance only, Nimmo craved acceptance and was mortified by his treatment in America. In Britain, his rejections had been sweetened by words of encouragement: nobody would have referred to his appearance as a factor, however obvious. L.A. casting directors, however, thought nothing of laughing incredulously as he entered the room. One was so incensed by Nimmo's temerity in auditioning that he emptied the contents of his ashtray over his head.

Embittered by rejection, Nimmo returned to Britain where he was reduced to appearing in pantomime and being physically demeaned in rock videos. Footage of him dressed as an imp or satyr occasionally resurfaces on the music shows Spencer watches in the early hours of the morning. It was at this time that he formed an unreciprocated fixation on the actress Kate Winslett with whom he appeared on an episode of Casualty, a BBC soap opera set in a hospital on which Nimmo regularly appeared as a corpse or malign, inner city child. To this day, Nimmo claims to have secretly married the actress: in an eerie parallel to my own problems with SAMANTHA EADIE-COE, he was, in fact reported for harassing her after an incident outside her apartment reported in various newspapers.

Later that year, Nimmo (now calling himself Sammy Nemo) increased his notoriety by claiming to be fourteen years old and attempting to join a scout troupe. Attributing his haggard appearance to a rare disorder, he eagerly participated in a Duke of Edinburgh camping exhibition before being exposed by concerned relatives. Nothing excites British journalists more than the suggestion of paedophilia to which Nimmo's subterfuge was attributed. Almost certainly innocent of this, his behaviour was, in fact, a desperate attempt to reclaim the innocence lost when he fell in with the makers of The People who Saw Tomorrow. See also KELLY, NINA and PEOPLE WHO SAW TOMORROW, THE.

 

NOSTALGIA - As I frequently remind my audiences, a man who remains rooted in the past is unable to fulfil his role in the present. The genuinely creative person doesn't squander his thoughts on issues that are no longer relevant: he's absorbed in the here and now. Retrospection is as pernicious as any other addiction. Let's not be sentimental about the affliction. What we commonly refer to as nostalgia is just an affectionate word for a compound of senility, surrender and regret. Those who indulge in it inhabit a realm of ghosts. We obviously refer to memory for information, but it's important not to distort what we find there. I've given various lectures on this topic at Drumfeld Public library. On each occasion, I've been thanked by individuals stricken by the spontaneous realisation that their entire lives are still dictated by incidents that should have long ceased to matter. What purpose does it serve to dwell on the mortifications of childhood? If I was so inclined, I could, recount the daily lunchtime ritual of being pelted with my classmates' unwanted sprouts or the trauma of being dragged from Karen Gardner's laundry basket. “My life was ruined!” I could wail. Instead I'm grateful to have been offered the opportunity to persevere. There are storms over the course of anybody's life. We measure someone's character by his ability to weather them.

 

NUMBSKULLS - See ADAMSON, PETER; ASQUITH, COLETTE; BECKHAM, DAVID; CHRISTIE, FRASER; COE, SPENCER; DUNN, MICHAEL; EVERETT, STEPHEN; INGLIS, PHILIP; JACKSON, PAUL; KELLOGG, FRANCIS; LESTER, DR PHILIP; LIVINGSTONE, CALUM; LOGUE, COLIN; MANSON, MARILYN; MCATEER, ROSS; MINTO; COLIN; MURRAY, EWEN; QUINN, NIALL, SMITH, ELAINE C.; TOBIN, MIRIAM; URE, WILLIAM.

 

 

 

 

O

 

OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER – Psychiatric condition borne of inappropriate childhood fixations. The problems of several of Christine's depressives have been compounded by this complaint, particularly in the wake of its being popularised by the footballer David Beckham who, by his own account, spends hours arranging the coca-cola cans sent to him as part of a sponsorship deal. Mr Beckham, in many respects a simpering nondescript, admits to sleepless nights fretting about the mundane household arrangements delegated to a staff of thirty. His mania for the minutiae of day to day routine, however, is contrasted by pronounced narcissistic personality traits. Unable to play football on account of a hamstring injury, Mr Beckham recently called a press conference to declare himself Emperor of Pluto.

 

P

 

PASHLEY PICADOR - The only lasting physical effect of the assault to which I was subjected by my Grandfather Coe is damage to the inner ear that causes occasional disorientation. While I'm usually nimble, occasions have arisen when I've found myself unable to make my way down step-ladders or across narrow bridges. These obstacles can be negotiated, either by calling for assstance with my emergency whistle or resorting to an undignified descent on my buttocks. Since the day of the attack, however, I've been unable to remain on a conventional bicycle. Certain members of the extended family maintain that I never mastered this art in the first place: not so! I was, in fact, a precociously adept cyclist.

Rather than miss out on the healthy pleasures of cycling, I've owned a succession of trikes, the most recent of which has been the Pashley Picador, a product I wouldn't hesitate to endorse. My niece, Muriel, however is less enthusiastic about my Picador, claiming, in fact, to detest the sight of it. Until recently, I respected her request that I desist from cycling through the centre of Drumfeld between four and six, the hours when she and her friends were returning from school. Sensitivity, however, as I've had cause to remind her, should be reciprocal. The discovery that I've been savagely lampooned by Muriel both locally, in Drumfeld Churchyard and internationally, over the internet, has rendered me indifferent to accusations that I'm 'the most embarrassing man in the world'. Consequently, when cycling through town, if I see Muriel and her friends, I don't hesitate to ring my bell and wave.

PASSION – Word formerly synonymous with ardour and conviction, now commonly misused to condone absence of restraint. In the past ‘passionate' people were recognised by an inner glow, today they tend to be ill-mannered and violent advocates of idiotic causes.

 

PATERSON, DOUGLAS (1970 - ) Comedian. When Spencer located his so-called birth family, the Patersons, he formed a particular bond with Douglas or ‘Doug'. Doug had a comedy act that he performed in local night-clubs. This comprised of a litany of tedious observations about day to day life: toilet paper running out, dates taking a long time to get ready. Although I don't watch television, I could tell from audience anticipation of his punch-lines that most of his material was second hand. My brother's appearance obviously offered him a fresh, original approach and he started incorporating Spencer into his act. I'm ashamed to say that I felt the thrill of vindication watching Spencer watch Doug recount the various complications entailed by the appearance of a thirty-two year old baby brother. From the rear of the hall I could see his neck redden and foot tap the parquet floor in a semaphore of agitation. Part of the new routine involved his difficulty in dealing with an attractive new half-sister. Watching Spencer writhing in his seat, I could tell that Doug, whether by accident or design, had struck a nerve. Like a dog that habitually attaches itself to its owner's leg, Spencer has always been incapable of separating affection of the heart from that of the groin, an affliction that has clouded his judgement since puberty and blighted nearly all of his male/female relationships. I'm occasionally thankful that Muriel's transformation into womanhood has been blighted by acne lest she become subjected to her uncle's unwholesome fixation. His newly discovered half-sister, Lisa, certainly possessed the sort of charms to which someone like Spencer might be susceptible and, having observed his body language around her, I suspect that it was some compulsive indiscretion that led to his their final rift.

Apart from confirming Spencer's tendency to grossly inappropriate behaviour, my investigation into the Patersons established that at least four members of the extended family suffered from depressive related illness while three others were alcoholics. Spencer (and Doug's) mother was hospitalised on at least three occasions and died of drink related causes. His father was married four times and twice charged with spousal abuse. According to Doug's Uncle Charlie, the more pronounced of the alcoholics, who I approached in the guise of 'Sandy the sea-dog' and plied with whiskies in exchange for gossip, at the time of Spencer's father's death he was in a 'partnership' with his dog. I suspect that this last piece of information was an invention but the rest of my Paterson dossier was testament to a collection inherited traits replicated in Spencer and imported into the house of Coe.

Douglas Paterson

 

PEARSON, GUY (1964 - ) Former brother in law of Hamilton Coe, Dullard, Cheat, Heir to Pearson's Garden Centre Empire. It's always been my experience that people of limited imagination tend to be dogmatic in their opinions. The universal arrogance of the narrow-minded makes scant allowance for possibilities beyond the realm of logic, dismissing them with epithets like ‘charlatan', ‘lunatic' and ‘chancer'. More often than not, the so-called voice of reason has a limited vocabulary and is overly reliant on the word ‘no'. From experience, I can testify that the naysayer's faith in the natural order is shaken when the elderly ‘bellboy' at the hotel in which he's been conducting his affair suddenly steps from the wardrobe, straightens up, removes his beard and reveals himself to be the object of his scepticism. In Pearson's case, this agent of revelation was none other than Hamilton Coe!

Presented with a dossier of his transgressions, Pearson moved to Falkirk, where his father had recently taken over an existing garden centre, and assumed a managerial role. Guy's father, incidentally, once offered me a position shifting bags of mulct, a deliberate insult I believe he has come to regret.

 

PEOPLE WHO SAW TOMORROW, THE – In the wake of NINA KELLY's disgraceful conduct at my home (see SUICIDE, ATTEMPTED) we expected her employers to dismiss her and send someone competent to the task of investigating my powers. Instead they produced not one, but four episodes of The People Who Saw Tomorrow in which I was portrayed by SAMUEL NIMMO, a malign looking dwarf with a metabolic disorder who attempted to convey an impression of psychic intuition by pointing at people and shrieking in a hideous falsetto. Nimmo, incidentally, has subsequently been arrested on numerous occasions for acts of gross depravity. Nina, meanwhile, wrote her first book on the subject of psychic detection, a volume in which charlatans and schizophrenics are glorified and I'm dismissed in the chapter Frauds, Sharks and Weirdoes as a “morbid Scottish adolescent who spends his time stealing underwear and sifting through his neighbours' rubbish.” This was a deliberate misinterpretation of incidents that occurred in the course of investigations. Sophie Haggard's technique, in contrast, comprises entirely of throwing teabags at people, yet Nina, perhaps empathising with the plight of a fellow psychotic fat woman, afforded her an entire chapter, crediting her with the resolution of various cases including at least one that occurred in the realm of fiction. The fact that I had been extensively tested under laboratory conditions and had received laminated certificates of authenticity from research facilities and universities in London, Munich and Tampa Bay, Florida went unrecorded.

 

PERTWEE, JON (1919 – 1996) Actor. Any parent of a clairvoyant child must be constantly on guard for potential causes of psychic disruption. While microwaves mobile phones and even digital watches can interfere with thought patterns, the most pernicious enemy of the clairvoyant child's development is television. This is hardly surprising when one considers the number of images with which the ultra-receptive mind is bombarded. Apart from the unfolding narrative seen by everyone else, the psychic has to deal with mental images projected by the writers, actors and others involved with the production. In my experience, shows such as Dr Who are particularly upsetting, not because of the preposterous plots and characters, but the private lives of the unsavoury individuals involved in the programme's production. Jon Pertwee, the third actor to play the Doctor, but the first with whom I was personally ‘acquainted', also played Worzel Gummidge, a turnip-headed symbol of cruelty emanating from depths of the universal subconscious. Gummidge was adapted from the stories of Barbara Euphan Todd in the sort of sadistic frenzy that normally results in murder. Had parents been aware of the damage this monstrous scarecrow was wreaking in their children's psyches they would have destroyed their television sets.

Unable to recover from the psychic disruption of assuming the roles of Who and Gummidge, Pertwee's latter years were spent on the Isle of Wight where he gained a reputation for shooting any dogs that wandered onto his land.

 

Jon Pertwee as Dr Who

 

PIRIE, ROBERT (1860 – 1920) Artist. For years the Scott Room of Drumfeld Museum contained the Pirie Collection. It was the one room in the building I was loath to enter. Pirie's gloomy landscapes never failed to cause me apprehension, prompting feelings of isolation and escalating panic. Staring into the canvases, I had the distinct impression of something trapped behind the paint. As a teenager, my impressions became more specific: frightened women wandered lost through Pirie's hills and forests. Researching his life and times, I was intrigued to discover that Pirie was a member of the Sons of the Morning sect and resident in London throughout the period of the Whitechapel murders. Forming an unlikely alliance with Pauline Semple, a feminist agitator, I campaigned to have Pirie's paintings removed from the museum and analysed: a simple enough request, strenuously resisted by the local council. It only recently occurred to me that the individuals who most strenuously opposed the aims of the Coe/Semple coalition were members of the Rotary Club, the society that evolved from the Sons of The Morning.

The Pirie collection was largely destroyed in a fire at a Glasgow Museums' warehouse where they were in storage having been lent to the city for an exhibition of Scottish landscapes. While the blaze was attributed to an electrical fault, I have every reason to suspect the involvement of Rotarians desperate to retain their secrets.

 

POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809 – 1849) Fiend, Murderer. A so-called creative person is invariably driven by exactly the same motives that might compel someone else to break a window. It's unfashionable to advocate the destruction of art-works, but nothing produced in a malevolent spirit can do anything other than replicate that ill-feeling in others. Edgar Allen Poe, for example, wrote while in such a foul humour that nobody reading him can fail to be effected. My brother, Spencer, became infatuated with his work while in his early teens and was subsequently prone to bad skin, moodiness and solitary pleasures. I vividly remember the embarrassing circumstance of being trapped under Spencer's bed while he unsuccessfully attempted to seduce Tara Gibb. Looking up, I was startled by the appearance of Poe's scowling face pressed against the window-pane, forefinger pointed toward me. Unable to restrain myself, I cried out and suffered the indignity of being dragged from my hiding place by the ears. To this day, Spencer remains afflicted by Poe's baleful influence. He sulks and loiters, leaving disgusting emissions. See also MASTURBATION

 

POE, HARRISON - My fictional American counterpart, contrived by my cousin Pamela for the enterainment of numbskulls. See also MACLACHLAN, KYLE and MALCOLM, PAMELA.

Pamela's Manuscript Chapter One

Pamela's Manuscript Chapter Two

Pamela's Manuscript Chapter Four

 

PORTKIRK – For months now, users of the Station Road public convenience have been confronted by crudely scrawled claims that Drumfeld is “the suicide capital of the Western Highlands.” I'm happy to reassure visitors that this is not the case. That dubious title, if allotted at all, must be given to Portkirk whose suicide rates per head of population are comparable to any of the Japanese city in which self-destruction is the only socially acceptable response to the most minor disappointment or humiliation. Portkirk, it should be said is situated within half a mile of Rannoch Moor: ill-will is retained in mires making them unsuitable places for human habitation. For slightly different reasons, towns in the vicinity of mines, disaster zones or battlefields are also psychically unbalanced and, in my opinion, should be abandoned. Such drastic measures, however, certainly wouldn't apply to Drumfeld which is situated in accordance to every conceivable natural law.

 

PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSAULT - With the co-operation of various dubious characters, NINA KELLY proceeds through my adolescence and man-hood, dismissing what she understands of my philosophy and investigative techniques and completely ignoring what she doesn't. As has always been her wont, she's in her element when dispensing with any pretence of academic objectivity and resorting to personal abuse. As far as Nina's concerned, when no lucid argument can be summoned, insult will suffice. Few of us can withstand the shock to the system generated by three hundred and ninety pages of unkind observations. For most people self perception is largely determined by the response they elicit from others. Experimenting with volunteers, I've established how effectively the average person can be demoralised by candid observations. One negative comment is sufficient to cause anxiety, five or more total despondency! One of my subjects, someone I considered relatively thick skinned, was so dismayed by a relatively innocuous remark about her personal hygiene that she broke down and subsequently resigned from her position in the Foundation. Naturally, I'm made of sterner stuff. After a lifetime of peering into the darkness I seldom recoil from what looks back at me. In any case, while I'm astonished that Nina hasn't moved on, I've heard it all before.

 

PSYCHOMETRY - Five years ago, I enjoyed my most celebrated success as a detective, the Dillon Forrest murder. Having established NINA KELLY'S credentials, is it necessary to point out that her version of events is wrong in nearly every respect? She refers to me constantly appearing in trees or patches of foliage, items of underwear pulled tightly over my scalp, a comical image, perhaps, but one with little bearing in reality. While this isn't the place to go deeply into my method, I should briefly explain the art of the psychometrist. To the receptive mind, every object retains impressions. It's entirely possible reconstruct an entire life-history from a discarded cigarette butt. Certain objects can be analysed more effectively than others. Underwear, for example, retains the essence of its wearer. An experienced psychometrist knows that a sock, vest or pair of underpants will yield more information than less intimate items. Over the years I've been the victim of various misunderstandings on this account, most of which have been repeated by Nina with leering relish. Anyone who knows me, however, is aware that if I'm wearing a bra on my head, some darker business is indicated than the indulgence of a puerile fetish.

Like most forms of clairvoyance, psychometry is potentially hazardous. An emotionally or mentally fragile practitioner has to exercise caution. Every clairvoyant knows at least one horror story of someone overwhelmed by what, for want of a better phrase might be termed the psychic residue contained within some apparently innocuous object. I've always been robust. Perhaps that's why in investigating the murder of COSMIN BALCESCU I behaved so incautiously. When I held his glove over my brow I immediately went into a seizure. I've no memory of what happened. According to Christine, I convulsed violently and bellowed in a dialect she instinctively associated with gypsies. When I emerged from the fit, the front of my brain hissed gently, like a damp sponge placed on a hot ring. The mind previously sensitive to information gleaned from a bar of soap or a cigarette butt, was as sluggish as gum discarded on a radiator. For the first time in my life, my mind was blank.

 

Q

 

QUISLINGS - See COE, MURIEL; MALCOLM, PAMELA; URE, WILLIAM.

 

 

QUINN, NIALL (1973 - ) Dentist. In most cases, common or garden incompetence should be insufficient cause for vilification. Unless stupidity is combined with malice, the Glossary of Infamy is no place for mere numbskulls. My sister argues that Quinn has already 'suffered enough' at my hands. Her compassion is commendable. I remember her making almost exactly the same case for her ex-husband. "Leave him alone, Hamilton," she pleaded. "You're putting an enormous strain on our marriage." As it turned out, unfortunately, my investigations into Guy's nocturnal activities were vindicated by the revelation of thirty seven separate transgressions, any one of which might have provided grounds for separation.

While any unhappiness caused by Quinn might be attributed to inexperience and 'honest mistakes' his incompetence was compounded by responsibility. As a dentist, he was in a position of trust. The inflamed gums and exposed nerves of Drumfeld were placed at his mercy. A week should have been sufficient for him to acknowledge his unsuitability to the task. Instead, as a straightforward inspection of his rubbish revealed, he numbed himself against reality with hashish and alcohol. For the six months of his tenure, Quinn was in the vicinity of Cloud Cuckoo Land. The cries elicited by his mistreatment, meanwhile, were drowned out by inane banter and the constant barrage of 'pop' blaring from his surgery radio.

The resentment and self-pity exhibited by Quinn subsequent to his dismissal are inappropriate. In my opinion, the trauma and damage inflicted over the course of his tenure render him equivalent to any other violent assailant. Rather than excoriate the machinations of Coe, he should consider himself fortunate to be at liberty to pursue a more suitable career in Take Away deliveries.

 

 

R

 

 

RACISM - Throughout my career, my enemies have sought to discredit my work and opinions by means of childishly sly defamations. At various times I've been referred to as a pervert, a schizophrenic and a fantasist. Christians have threatened me with forcible baptism while Satanists have nailed hexes to my door. My own brother has threatened to kill me on numerous occasions while my successes have earned me the undying hostility of celebrity driven psychics who vainly consider themselves my 'rivals'. Not even a lifetime of execration, however, prepared me for the onslaught provoked by my use of the word 'niggardly' on the Rob McCaskill show.

With hindsight, I should probably have anticipated the furore. Rob immediately reddened and stammered something about an "inappropriate choice of words" while his other guest of the evening, the astrologer Patrick Rice babbled ominously about Mars circling Neptune. Neither was mollified by my assurance that 'niggardly', meaning 'miserly', bears no relation to the repulsive and archaic racial pejorative contained within its first syllables. "Will you please just stop saying it," implored McCaskill, his voice cracking with apprehension, as I offered a definition to illustrate that my use of the word had been entirely appropriate. "It's just not acceptable." Rather than persist in such a fat-headed debate, I negotiated a change of subject. The mood for the remainder of the show, however, was subdued.

Returning to the house, I was immediately confronted by a jubilant Spencer. Transfixed as he is in a semi-permanent state of self-loathing, my brother is unbearable on the rare occasions he considers himself vindicated. "You've really done it now," he drooled. "If there's one thing everyone hates it's a racist." A repetition of my earlier explanation was met with a slurred, "Why don't you take your racist thesaurus, jump on your penny farthing and f__k off back to the 1950's?"

The next day, I was contacted by several newspapers. Naturally, I refused to apologise for the offence of possessing a larger vocubulary than my interlocutors. Within a week, the issue had assumed monstrous proportions. I was banned from the Rob McCaskill show 'pending an investigation' (which, as I pointed out, might have been conducted by a straightforward inspection of a dictionary) and Muriel's school contacted Christine to cancel my proposed appearance at their careers' day. Spencer, meanwhile, became a leading light in the organisation of a preposterous 'Love Know No Color' (sic) festival to be held in the Town Hall.

"We're here to silence the voice of hate," Spencer babbled excitedly when interviewed about the project on Radio Scotland. "Hamilton might be my brother, but I can't defend the indefensible. As an artist my primary allegiance is to the human spirit." While I'd hesitate to comment on Spencer's 'artistic' allegiances, I know that as a scoundrel, his primary, in fact, only allegiance has invariably been to his own bruised ego.

No student of history can be surprised by the misappropriation of altruism to cloak vindictiveness. "Down with Hamilton!" cried my enemies, not one caring a hoot about the cause they purported to cherish as they paraded through Drumfeld, terrifying children with their nasty, screwed up faces. For successive Saturdays, a hard corps of about twenty descended upon the town where they made themselves objectionable by brandishing placards on which my own features were juxtaposed with Adolf Hitler's. Encouraged by P.C. Jackson's craven refusal to apply reasonable force, the agitators made their way to the House of Coe itself, sprawling across the front lawn, drinking super-lager and thrashing arryhthmically at their bongos. Several, aided by Spencer, even entered the house, citing medical conditions that demanded toilet access. My reluctance to acknowledge their doctors' letters was, naturally, interpreted as further evidence of fascistic tendencies.

The identity of leading protesters (apart from Spencer, Jason Barr, Matthew Davidson and Heather Spink were all prominent) betrayed the transparency of their motives. Local minority groups, many of whose members had enjoyed my friendship and assistance, staged counter demonstrations, brandishing unadulterated pictures of Hamilton Coe and singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow", a sentiment countered by boos and and obscenities. As opinion turned in my favour, the protesters, unable to coherently argue their case, started to lose interest. By week four, only five appeared. Spencer was particularly agitated by accusations of 'political correctness', charges he attemped to refute in a second Radio Scotland interview, over the course of which he referred to my supporters as 'Uncle Toms', a genuinely offensive turn of phrase that resulted in his being barred from three local restaurants.

A week later, I marked my return to the Rob McCaskill show with a plea for reconcilation that was favourably compared to Martin Luther King's 'I Have a Dream' speech.

 

REIKI - See INGLIS, PHILIP  

 

RESTRAINING ORDERS - Spencer has always made much of the three restraining orders I was subjected to in my teens. These were heavy handed instances of police over-exuberance and on each occasion my 'harassment' was eventually vindicated. The measures taken against Spencer were of an entirely different type. In a matter of weeks he managed to destroy a family that, apart from a little public teasing, had only shown him kindness. Spencer was no longer welcome in Musselburgh and all contact between the estranged semi-siblings was being conducted through lawyers. The local papers ran a story about Spencer's demands that the Patersons hand over items of sentimental value from the mother he never knew. The story was accompanied by Spencer standing at her grave, looking the worse for wear. For their part, the Patersons alluded to sexual indiscretions, drunken rages and soiled sheets. Having already rejected Spencer thirty years ago, they now took legal steps to ensure the distance between them remain permanent.

The court order banning Spencer from approaching the Patersons was imposed three days before our mother's death. Few people, I think, can have had to bury their mother on an afternoon and then endure their brother's death threats in the evening. At the time, I resolved never to speak to Spencer again. Six months later I refused to attend his wedding, to which, admittedly, I'd not been invited, preferring to observe the ridiculous beach service from a pedalo, a ruse that nearly resulted in tragedy when an unexpected tide pulled me toward the open ocean. Christine, thankfully, forewarned of my intentions, noticed my predicament and called the coast guard.

 

RESTRAINT, ABSENCE OF – See PASSION

 

RIPPEROLOGY - A tasteless and prurient interest in the crimes of the Whitechapel Murderer. The fact that the deviant(s) behind the so-called 'ripper' murders remained undetected was an undoubted boon to their subsequent celebrity. Similar sprees have been largely forgotten on account of the negligible personalities of the nondescripts responsible.

The Whitechapel slayings were almost certainly committed by the 19th century equivalent of a Rotary Club events' committee. Revelation would, naturally, be disastrous for what has become one of Britain's most successful industries.

 

ROTARY CLUB, THE – I'm not in the habit of blowing my trumpet. My record speaks for itself. Any reasonable person surveying the most cursory list of my accomplishments would acknowledge my contribution to society. My endeavours in the realm of investigation have been well recorded, but when future generations mention Hamilton Coe, I'm confident they'll also allude to qualities of philosophy, philanthropy and goodwill. The Rotary Club of Callander and West Perthshire, however, despite being offered leather bound dossiers and video presentations containing evidence of accomplishment, have rejected my application for membership on three separate occasions. “You're not a professional person,” explained district secretary CALUM LIVINGSTONE on the last of these occasions, “and you've been harassing our members.” To the first of these charges, I'd respond that my purpose transcends the inconceivable, office-bound pettiness of such labelling. If however, I'm forced to argue the point, I'd contend that BILLY URE, a Round Table member for the past two years (and, co-incidentally, Mr Livingstone's sister's fiancé at the time of his induction) works at the Drumfeld Museum on a voluntary capacity. If Billy qualifies as a ‘professional' person then so does the octogenarian who welcomes me into the supermarket. The allegation of harassment is more serious: if I've ‘harassed' members of the Round Table, it's on account of criminal or anti-social activities on their part. The suggestion that my investigations have been prompted by petty motives of jealousy or resentment is offensive, not only to me, but the victims of transgression I've dedicated my life to representing. See also ADAMSON, PETER; LUCIFER SECT; SONS OF THE MORNING and URE, WILLIAM

 

ROWLING, JOANNE Author. See CULLEN, PETER

 

S

 

SANDERSON, CRAIG (1976 - ) Ventriloquist. When Sanderson introduced Hamilton Coe, Junior to the world at the Drumfeld Reach for the Stars charity evening, there were concerns that the joke might rebound. Investigators with less confidence in their abilities would have bridled at the affront. Had Sanderson attempted to introduce a Ronald Hawthorne puppet to its source he'd have provoked an immediate tantrum and received a lawyer's letter within the week. I'm made of sterner stuff. As anyone who knows me would have anticipated, I laughed louder than anyone and, at the skit's conclusion, applauded until my hands were raw. So pronounced, in fact, was my enjoyment that my sister and niece removed themselves from my vicinity and sat elsewhere. Nobody who has witnessed the extent to which I enjoy a good JOKE would ever accuse me of lacking a SENSE OF HUMOUR.

In the weeks following the Reach for the Stars event, I did everything possible to assist Craig in making his creation credible, sending case studies and suggestions for future performances. It occurred to me that Hamilton Coe, Junior might be an ideal means of conveying my message to youngsters, contacted schools and youth groups on Craig's behalf and even sent him some appropriate scripts for such a venture. Craig, unfortunately, thought he knew better. Having harnessed the essence of Hamilton Coe, he tried to channel it in directions from which it could only rebound against him. In subsequent performances, Hamilton Junior became increasingly objectionable as Sanderson capitulated to the demands of adult audiences. “Stop that right now, Hamilton!” became his catch-phrase as the puppet rubbed himself aggressively against whatever young woman had wandered into the vicinity, his hinged jaw fixed in a leer of idiot yearning. After cautioning Sanderson against the path he'd followed, I was compelled, as was my right, to demand the puppet's destruction thus establishing a legal precedent for others parodied in this fashion.

Craig Sanderson with 'Archie' , predecessor to Hamilton Coe, Jr

 

SAUNDERS, GAYLE (1960 - ) My housekeeper. Employed by Christine immediately after our mother's death, Gayle proved a staunch ally against the social service numbskulls whose ostensible purpose of attending to my father was neglected in favour of two hour coffee breaks and telephone misuse.

Shortly after Spencer's inglorious return to Drumfeld, Gayle threatened to resign on account of disgusting emissions with which she claimed my brother had clogged the shower. "We don't even need a housekeeper," snapped Spencer in response, attributing the cause of Gayle's complaint to excessive shower gel use on my part. Laboratory analysis (conducted at some expense) proved otherwise.

 

SERIAL KILLERS - We should be wary of flattering the boors, numbskulls and misfits responsible for such crimes with the notion that they are, in fact, intellectually superior to their victims. The source of this myth can be attributed to the creative imagination. Novelists and film-makers will, naturally, attempt to imbue their creations with emotional depth. "What manner of deep seated resentments," they wonder, "would cause a man to make a hobby of murder?" The fact is that so-called serial killers resent society no more (and in most cases a great deal less) than gluttons, poison pen writers or obsessive newspaper correspondents. Their personalities are unremarkable save for a lack of restraint and total absence of imagination.

 

SHEAD, TRACY (1976 - ) Glutton. Barred from the Star of India's Wednesday ‘all you can eat' buffet after embarking upon a series of three hour lunches over the course of which she devoured quantities consistent to parties of four, Sneddon, a local councillor, took legal action, accusing the restaurant of false advertising and injury to her reputation and feelings. When her claims were dismissed, she organised a campaign of harassment against the restaurant, sending groups of accomplices to consume such unreasonable quantities that the staff were compelled to pull down the buffet shutters. Armed with the testimonials of her fellow gluttons, Ms Shead argued that the 'All you can eat' gimmick was a sham and that the Star of India pursued a policy of discrimination against 'over-sized' people.

 

SHYNESS - The word ‘shy, applied to anyone over the age of twenty is invariably a euphemism for ‘dull', ‘inept' or ‘stupid'.

 

SICKERT, WALTER (Artist) See WHITECHAPEL MURDERER, THE

 

SILENCE - As someone of enhanced sensitivity, I'm particularly irked by the constant presence of small disruptions: music emanating from headphones like a cacophony of trapped flies, the inconsequential babble of a one sided cell-phone conversation. Many people are incapable of being alone with their thoughts: they're so overwhelmed by sensations of inadequacy that, without distractions, they're reduced to tears of anxiety. The silence of eternity is, however, essential to me with the consequence that I constantly find myself at odds with my fellows. However politely I request that someone switch off his Walkman or continue his conversation where no-one else can be disturbed by its meandering inanities, I elicit an abusive response.

 

SMELLIE, IAN (1937 - 1983) - In her Harrison Poe memoir, Pamela's narrator, Patsy, make a ruefully humorous allusion to the death of her dentist. 'Mr Adison' was driven to suicide by a series of adolescent pranks perpetrated by Patsy and her friend Megan. This apparently pointless digression struck a chord as I recalled that Pamela's childhood dentist had died in similar circumstances. Discreet enquiries revealed that the real life Ian Smellie, already afflicted by the dark moods common to members of his profession, took his own life after being besieged by prank callers. This brought to mind the a spate of phone calls I received at the same time. One, I recall, invited me to travel to Glasgow in order to be interviewed for Blue Peter. Others arranged meetings with non-existant informants in a variety of undesireable locations. On each occasion, the realisation that I had been duped was accompanied by suspicious skirls of distant laughter.

According to Smellie's surviving daughter, he was demoralised by the resurgance of taunts, based on his surname, that recollected the miseries of an unspeakable childhood. "Children can be cruel," she rationalised. This is undeniably the case, but how does it reflect upon a grown woman who reflects upon the offences of adolescence with such callous indifference?

 

 

SMITH, ELAINE C. Actress, Columnist, Voyeur. Displays symptoms of Munchausen's Syndrom by Proxy. While I was still active in criminal investigations it wasn't uncommon to arrive at a crime scene to find Smith already in attendance. Smith and I were both guests on the Jackie Park radio show discussing crime trends from the respective points of view of acknowledged expert and minor-celebrity. Miscalculating her own status, Smith reduced what might have been an informative interview to farce, contradicting me by repeating what I later discovered were her television catch phrases. The next week she referred to me as a ‘ghoul' in her Daily Record column an example, if I may say, of the pot calling the kettle black.

As a past winner, I objected to the inviation extended to Ms Smith to participate in the CHILDREN OF COURAGE AND ACHIEVEMENT AWARDS as jurist and presenter. Unfortunately, my reservations were ignored with disastrous results. Ms Smith, as any sensible person might have anticipated, completely hijacked the proceedings. Starting with a huskily bellowed rendition of 'Try a Little Tenderness', a song I often hear emanating from Spencer's room in the course of one of his binges, she then embarked upon a grisly bombardment of 'patter'. This was so excruciating that there was a gradual exodus of people unable to endure any more of her gormless observations. By the time she got round to tearfully acknowledging the nominees (all, incidentally, selected on the basis of misfortune) the hall was only half full and remaining audience members so heartily despised her that her every announcement was greeted with jeers.

Elaine C. Smith 'gies it laldy'.

 

SNEDDON, ALICE (1940 - ) My first chronicler, Aunt Alice carefully noted all of my early impressions, producing them, often years later, when their veracity became apparent. Without her constant support I would almost certainly have suffered the same fate of many other gifted children, subdued by discouragement and scepticism. While other members of my family might have preferred my silence, Alice was indefatigable in asserting my rights. “Let Hamilton speak!” she'd demand in a voice that brooked no dissent. Put to the test, she even had sufficient faith in me to break off her engagement to Vincent Christie when his presence caused me to collapse, stricken by a vivid impression of him clad in a suit of meat. This vision, incidentally, was subsequently vindicated in a manner I am currently unable to disclose.

When I was seven years old, Aunt Alice used her own savings to take me to the Gibson Institute in Florida where my faculties were tested under laboratory conditions. Nina Kelly, with the dogmatic insistence peculiar to numbskulls, dismisses the Gibson Institute as a “trailer park operation dispensing meaningless certificates.” It was, and remains, in fact, a recognised university of parapsychology whose “meaningless certificates” are internationally accepted guarantees of authenticity. While I've no desire to blow my own trumpet, I can refer anyone seeking my own credentials to the Institute's archive where he'll find an unparalleled succession of test results.

Later, it was Alice who distributed the first Hamilton Coe bulletins, keeping interested parties updated on what I was up to. She also transported me to investigations across Britain, often at her own expense. While the reader might think these excursions grim, I remember them as happy occasions filled with song and laughter. With hindsight, it's obvious that Aunt Alice, who negotiated with victims' families and often hostile police forces, was shielding me from negative responses to my presence. This pressure was exacerbated when I was demonised on THE PEOPLE WHO SAW TOMORROW television show, in the wake of which my parents were pressurised into curtailing my investigative activities, a capitulation Aunt Alice interpreted as a personal rebuke. She was further troubled by allegations that she embezzled the funds for trips from her employers. These allegations, I regret to say, while exaggerated, weren't entirely without foundation. The combined circumstances contributed to a breakdown in her health manifested by a facial twitch and episodes of uncontrollable sobbing.

Taking advantage of the situation, Vincent Christie reappeared on the scene. Despite my strenuous objections they were married within six months. A year later, they had a son of their own, Fraser, a simpleton.

 

SNEDDON, DONALD (1903 – 1980) My grandfather's character was borne of adversity. Relocated from his native Colonsay to Glasgow at the age of five, he was forced to endure the taunts of his new schoolmates who dubbed him ‘Island Boy' and ‘Rufus' on account of his red hair. Further scapegoated by teachers on account of his sense of fair-play, my grandfather was regularly tawsed for other people's misdemeanours (often ones to which he himself had drawn the teachers' attention). I remember lying stricken by one of the illnesses that dogged my childhood, listening him recounting these injustices from my bedside. If I close my eyes, I can still see him kneading his brow with his taut knuckles, tears of anger rolling down his cheeks.

Active throughout his life, in a professional capacity as a florist, recreationally as an author (see RALPH STEADFAST), poet and after dinner speaker, retirement caused my grandfather to brood over indignities he had previously confronted head on. I experienced a similar failure of will in the aftermath of the virus that depleted my powers. The man of calibre, however, is galvanised by adversity. "Pucker your lips, Donald, old son," my grandfather would say, wiping his eyes as he dragged himself from the depths of memory. As I watched him from my sickbed, he did just that, sending out a whistle, initially hesitant but gathering strength until the room was filled with a trill of celebration. "As long as I have enough breath in my lungs to whistle," he said, "and someone to whistle for, I feel like the luckiest man alive." Neither Spencer nor Christine enjoyed our grandfather's spontaneous melodies. "I wished he shut up," Christine once hissed as he accompanied a tune on the radio. "If they wanted some idiot whistling along, they'd have put it on the record." Within three months, he was dead. While we've never discussed it, I suspect that repressed guilt contributed to the peculiar virulence of her acne.

 

 

SNEDDON, GREGOR (1942 - 1990) Indiscretion has proved the undoing of many otherwise accomplished investigators. The blessings of a keen eye are nullified when accompanied by a loose tongue. The informed reader might wonder as to gaps in the Case Book. "How," he or she might wonder, "can a history of Coe omit mention of the Kenneth Cowan scandal? And what about the Marion Hazard mystery?" Some might conjecture that I'm silenced by legal constraints or fear of the 'tap on the shoulder'. To the first of these I remind the reader that, unlike other psychics, I've never made a statement that wasn't backed by evidence. To the second, while hesitating to blow my trumpet, I point to my status as the world's leading exponent of the techniques of Cung-Coe, a mere novice of which might broach the darkest alley without trepidation.

Any omissions from the Glossary are accountable to my compassionate nature. In time, of course, established facts must be revealed, particularly when lies persist in their stead. Where-ever appropriate, though, I'll defer revelation until a time appropriate to reconciliation. In the instance of my Uncle Gregor, unfortunately, his unexpectedly sudden death, the consequence of a dissolute lifestyle, precluded the possibility of us discussing his various transgressions in a spirit of good-fellowship. Regrettably, he persisted in the hostility displayed tpward me throughout his life by requesting my exclusion from his funeral service. That his last wish had such negative connotations, I'm afraid, is indicative of a life dedicated to inversion and pettiness. When they are eventually released in 2020, my Gregor Sneddon file will present a portrait of boy whose struggle against nature consumed him as he entered manhood. Until then, however, in consideration to the surviving Sneddons, I'll keep my counsel.

 

 

SOCIAL SKILLS – A technique I learned from Grandpa Sneddon, one which continues to elicit Spencer's particular scorn, is to take the effort to remember things about people. Obviously, a good memory is an invaluable asset to any kind of investigator, but it's also a social skill. Today people tend to be self-absorbed. They're not interested in anyone else. Even the people they profess to love are only tolerated because they serve a purpose, be it emotional, sexual or whatever. Why should a busy businessman remember a waitress's name or hairstyle? Unless she's particularly attractive, he barely even looks at her. She serves no purpose other than to serve his food speedily and without spillage. I know the name of every waitress within a thirty mile radius of Drumfeld! Within seconds of entering an establishment, I can tell if any staff member has changed her hairstyle, bought new shoes or lost weight. People like to be remembered, so I then make sure I tell them. For some reason, when I'm with Spencer, which, admittedly, isn't a regular occurrence, this never fails to prompt groans and apologies. “Nobody wants you to notice them,” he says, a point of view one might expect from someone who recognises nobody's needs but his own. Of course, someone in Spencer's position, who frequently needs to shave and exhibits various tell-tale symptoms of a recent debauch might not want to be noticed. It's a habit of nonentity, I find, to project our own preferences onto everyone else.

I'm not being deliberately unkind when I say that my brother has zero social skills. He has no idea how to establish a rapport with someone. If I were to put this to him, of course, he'd bridle and say that he doesn't want to establish a rapport, thank you very much. This isn't true. Spencer yearns for affection more than anyone I know. Unfortunately, he has no idea how to talk to people. This has always been his problem. Unless people are talking about him, he's not interested. His eyes glaze over, his lip starts to curl. He can't help himself.

 

SOLITUDE – Prerequisite of genius in any human endeavour. The true man of destiny is condemned to walk alone.

 

SONS OF THE MORNING (a.k.a. THE LUCIFER SECT) – A Satanic cult of uncertain origin, its members, feckless members of the minor aristocracy alienated by Puritanism, became notorious in the seventeenth century. Their depredations ranged from the church desecration to the mutilation of livestock, offences punishable at the time by death. By the nineteenth century the group, still outlawed, had lost many of its anti-Christian associations and was primarily a networking group for well-to-do Hell-raisers. In the 1880's Francis Gibb attempted to revive the society's former traditions, hosting black masses and initiating neophytes with missions. The WHITECHAPEL MURDERS of the period, wrongly associated with Freemasonry, were almost certainly linked to his offshoot of the society.

When Gibb disappeared in 1890, the Sons of the Morning ceased to operate in any capacity.

In 1905, however, they resurfaced in America as ‘The Rotary Club'.

 

SPINK, HEATHER (1968 - ) Witch. A fellow pupil at Drumfeld Primary School, Spink immediately attracted my notice as she skipped around the playground, her blonde fringe ringed by a garland of daisies. To the untrained eye, she gave impression of harmlessness. Softly spoken and shy, her imposture might have been effective anywhere else. She had not, however, reckoned on the presence of a classmate with enhanced intuition. A vivid, red birth-mark on the back of her left hand, throbbing with malign energy, alerted me to the fact that simpering Heather was not as she appeared. Later persistent impressions of semi-transluscent fat flies hovering around her, gorged on blood caused me further concern. The final, and as far as I was concerned, conclusive piece of evidence against Heather came in the vision of a tiny old woman who crawled behind her, dragging herself by her knuckles.

Naturally, I was eager to warn our classmates of these presentiments. One might argue that I acted rashly, but circumspection only comes with age. For Heather, the consequences of exposure were immediate: found guilty of witch-craft in a playground trial presided over by Judge Hamilton Coe, the first and last time I assumed such a role, she was immediately ostracised. This was never my intention. I'm not, by nature a cruel person, and despite the shadow that clouded her personality, the pain Heather endured on account of her isolation gave me no satisfaction. As far as I was concerned, it was sufficient for our classmates to be forewarned of the potential repercussions of her friendship.

By the time Heather's parents removed her from the school some of the other children had become dependent upon the presence of a scapegoat. After a week of simmering resentment, they turned on me. The trial of Hamilton Coe was brief and brutal, the verdict 'Guilty' and the sentence that I be tied to a tree and pelted with mud, the first of several mortifications that eventually led to my own removal from Drumfeld Primary.

Throughout my teens, I closely monitored the behaviour of Heather and her younger brother Declan. My early intuitions were entirely vindicated as their transgressive behaviour led to both being expelled from a succession of schools. Declan, with whom Spencer, always attracted to bad character, attempted to forge a friendship, attained notoriety as Drumfeld's first teenage Hitlerite, shaving his head and strutting around town in bovver boots. I suffered more than one pummelling at his hands, indignities reversed when my investigation was instrumental in his apprehension for substance abuse, assault and twenty seven separate counts of vandalism. Relocated to a residential school and surrounded by more accomplished thugs than himself, the menace was menaced and eventually broken, returning to Drumfeld a stammering advocate of sandals and non-confrontation.

Heather, however, persisted in transgressive behaviour. Formerly a member of Karen Gardner's set of promiscuous delinquents, she was almost certainly involved in Karen's disappearance. The last time Karen was seen in Drumfeld, she was with Heather and an unidentified man in the lounge bar of the Red Lion. (On that occasion, incidentally, Heather, irritated by a barman who refused to serve her alcohol, left a small effigy fashioned out of a beer mat attached to the underside of her table. Within a week, the barman was seriously injured in a car accident. Over the years, I've also received various items containing curses including mutilated animals.)

When she was eighteen, Heather moved to Glasgow, ostensibly to study but, as it turned out, to pursue a drug habit and immerse herself in the city's Satanic underworld. Ten years ago, I adopted the persona of 'Donald the Druid' in order to investigate her activities. After inadvertently rendering myself insensible with a drug-spiked cake, I came within seconds of being subjected to a facial tattoo, emerging from my trance as the needle whirred hideously over my left cheek.

Three years ago, Heather returned to Drumfeld suffering the effects of septicaemia caused by a profusion of bacteria on her numerous facial piercings. Rendered hideous by her seeping wounds, she is largely housebound. See Also BLACK, IRENE

 

STEADFAST, RALPH – My childhood was punctuated by the sort of metabolic collapses suffered by most clairvoyant children. The human immune system can only withstand so much and psychics are often as sensitive to germs as they are impressions. When I was twelve I embarked upon a regime of vitamins and stretching exercises that bolstered my constitution to the extent that, until I succumbed to the virus that virtually stripped me of my powers, I suffered nothing more than the occasional cold. Throughout my early childhood, though, my name was a by-word for sickliness. Between the ages of seven and ten, I spent successive Christmases in bed, listening to raucous laughter emanating from downstairs. The confinement might have been intolerable had my Grandfather Sneddon not introduced me to Ralph Steadfast, the hero of a series of stories he had written for publication in the boys' comics still popular at the time of my own childhood, but now sadly obsolete. The Ralph Steadfast stories, first illustrated by my grandfather's friend, Malcolm Crossley, and latterly my Aunt Alice, made such a profound impression on me that these Christmases spent in his company were possibly the happiest of my life.

Parapalegic from birth, Ralph, despite being confined to a wicker bath-chair, pitted his wits against sundry enemies of humanity. Assisted by slow-witted but able bodied accomplices, Timmy Rogers and Rosco Mulhearn, Ralph thwarted the machinations of Nazis, voodoo priests and cannibals, none of whom reckoned on his powers of persistence. At various times, Ralph was lowered into wells, attacked by wild dogs, fired from a cannon and, on one terrible occasion, cooked alive by the Kahuna magician Obu. Malcolm Crossley's illustrations, tragically destroyed in the course of one of Spencer's drunken rampages, perfectly captured the indefatigability with which Ralph confronted these ordeals. A glower of indignation from the simmering pot in which he was confined was all that was required to alert both the reader and Obu to the imminent triumph of good over evil, triumph assured on that occasion by the timely arrival of Rosco with a detachment of marines. It was this story, ‘Diving For Peril', incidentally, that prompted the Victor comic to express an interest in adopting Ralph Steadfast as a regular character, an offer withdrawn after a change of editor. I still have the letter rescinding the original agreement. The Steadfast stories, it asserts, are “too peculiar and sadistic for a modern readership.” Since this readership subsequently deserted the comic in droves, it would appear that the editor miscalculated. One can only imagine what sort of generation might have evolved had Steadfast been available as a role model.

Neither Christine nor Spencer shared my enthusiasm for the Ralph Steadfast stories. Spencer's loathing was obviously connected to his own justifiable feelings of inadequacy. Christine, however, claimed that the stories gave her nightmares and, several years ago, was so enraged by my reading them to Muriel that I was banned from the house until promising never to repeat the ‘offence'. I can't help but think that Steadfast's influence might have discouraged Muriel from her current life of loitering about churchyards with assorted undesirables.

 

SUICIDE - Suicides almost always reflect the personalities of those who commit them. While someone who has lived a life of recklessness might choose to end it by jumping to his death, an habitually cautious individual will make his way to eternity by an alternative route. Investigating the death of Peter Heller, I reasoned that, as a dentist, he had the means of a painless demise at his disposal making it unlikely that he would jump from the roof his hotel. As we have observed, however, American detectives, exhibiting a lack of initiative common to their British counterparts, will unquestioningly accept any scenario, however improbable, rather than confront the necessity of a full investigation.

 

SUICIDE, ATTEMPTED - I first encountered NINA KELLY several years after the disintegration of her acting career. She visited my home in her new role as a researcher for the television series The People Who Saw Tomorrow. My mother, expecting a camera crew, prepared a buffet. Instead a solitary fat woman appeared. Nina, who had bloated considerably since her Detective Wilson period, was unsteady and slurred her words, she devoured most of the food with her fingers, failed to ask a single intelligent question and responded to my answers with snorts of disparagement. As the interview developed, I was bombarded by images of a basement lit by a single bulb and a red-headed girl with plaintive eyes and flared nostrils. When I mentioned this to Nina, she recoiled, excused herself and went to the bath-room where she remained for fifteen minutes. On returning, she crammed some sandwiches into her bag and fled. The next morning we woke to find her car still parked outside the house. Nina was curled shivering and clutching her stomach on the back-seat. Further investigation revealed that she had pilfered and devoured the contents of our medicine cabinet. We complained to the production-company. It's very poor etiquette to turn up at someone's house and attempt to commit suicide. We didn't even know the woman.

 

T

 

TABLE TENNIS - As a registered coach, I've nurtured various youngsters to competetive standard. A Coe trained player can be identified by his swashbuckling style and high standards of sportsmanship: life skills, in my opinion, are to be prized more than any sporting technique. At the recent Scottish championships in Drumchapel Sports Centre Glasgow, the Drumfeld contingent, while failing to win any medals, made an impression by remaining to regale eventual winners with renditions of 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow.'

 

TARTAN ARMY, THE – Exhibitionists. Traipse around Europe shouting “Look at us!” For decades, the Tartan Army have cavorted in fountains, playfully exposed themselves and generally exhibited so many other symptoms of low self esteem that sympathetic hosts feel obligated to send them home with hastily improvised good behaviour awards. That the recipients refuse to disdain such condescension, going to far as to brag about it, bespeaks a terrible emptiness.

 

 

TEALE, NORMAN (1953 - ) Drunk, Peeping Tom. Teale inherited the Gateway to the Highlands caravan park from his wife Valerie's parents. Under his supervision, the site, formerly the recipient of various awards from the Caravan Club, degenerated into an eyesore. Never an enthusiastic host, his drunken outbursts and indifference toward guests' comfort and safety ensured that few visitors returned. By the time of Valerie's sudden death in 1993 the only regular guests were those eager to take advantage of Teale's laissez faire attitude to unacceptable behaviour. Unsuspecting first time visitors rarely stayed longer than a night. In 2000, health and safety inspectors, alerted to dangerous conditions within the site, discovered that the only functioning electrical items within Teale's caravans were the concealed tape-recorders and cameras.

 

THOUGHT, DISORDERS OF – The inner monologue familiar to everyone is the greatest impediment to clarity.

 

TOBIN, MIRIAM (1947 – 2006) Loudmouth. See CRIME TIME

 

TROTTEVILLE, FREDERICK ALGERNON. See HARDY BOYS, THE.

 

U

URE, GORDON (1945 - 1977) - The case I refer to as Mystery of the Man Who Was Not was the first in which Billy Ure, who had only recently returned to Drumfeld to live with his grandparents, assisted me. Various factors connected with the mystery continue to perplex me. Gordon Ure , Billy's father at whose cremation the case actually reached its denouement, remains an enigma. I only met Gordon twice before he died.   Even at that age, I was able to form vivid impressions of individuals from the briefest acquaintance: Gordon's character, however, remained indistinct. Looking at photographs in my archive, his face is a blur as if he were more liquid than solid. “Your father,” I said to Billy at the time, “is full of tears.” While this observation provoked one of Billy's sulks, it seems, with hindsight, to have been particularly apt.   Billy, incidentally, has assumed the same peripheral role as his father: will some people impact upon life whether as instigators or in a supportive role, others are content to hover, as ineffectual as the ghosts with whom Billy, in his Dark Maestro role, has such an affinity.

 

URE, WILLIAM (1968 - ) Author, Docent - Nearly a year has now passed since Billy's marriage to Karen Balsillie. Shortly before the wedding, having already being relegated from the role of best man to that of an usher, I received an extraordinary letter, ostensibly from Billy, informing me that I was no longer welcome in any capacity. While no reason was given, I could only assume that the letter was a response to one I sent Billy a week earlier listing sixty seven reasons why his marriage represented a catastrophic error of judgement and imploring him to think again. Although signed with Billy's unmistakably hesitant signature, the reply was typed in a lavender coloured font that would only be used by woman (and, without wishing to stoop to abuse, one of limited intelligence.) Naturally, after nearly thirty years of friendship, I felt entitled to an explanation. Despite my misgivings, after all, I had accepted Billy's decision, even reassuring him as to my willingness to serve as best man. My speech, touching upon the rare investigations in which Billy conducted himself with anything approaching courage, had already been written before I was informed that Ms Balsillie's cousin Calum Livingstone, the merest of acquaintances to Billy, would fulfil that particular role. Any reasonable person, apprised of this treatment, would have concluded that I was the wounded party. It would have been easy, and probably justifiable, to with-hold my services entirely, but, despite everything, I was fully committed to my role as usher. Billy, unfortunately, refused to discuss the matter: a tendency to scurry from confrontation, evident since boyhood, was never so pronounced than in the week immediately preceding his wedding. Frustrated in my earnest attempts to negotiate a reconciliation, I was eventually compelled to attend in disguise.

Watching Billy as he danced self-consciously for Karen's sniggering relatives, I was briefly overwhelmed by an emotion I only later identified as anger. Anyone who know me will confirm that, regardless of provocations, my disposition remains essentially sunny. With hindsight, I can only attribute this momentary aberration to the realisation that everything I'd offered Billy, including a seat on the board of the Hamilton Coe Foundation, had been rejected in favour of a mother substitute. My wrath turned to concern when Cameron, Ms Balsillie's son by her first failed marriage, wriggled from the restraints of his grandmother, ran onto the dancefloor and kicked Billy's shin. In my rush to assist Billy, unfortunately, I was recognised and, at his wife's insistence, escorted from the building.

 

URQUHART, SHARON (1952 - ) Cheat - Ms Urquhurt successfully competed in three Glamorous Granny contests before being exposed as an imposter. The Daily Record, chief sponsors of one of the tournaments she won, was particularly outraged by the revelation that she was neither a grandmother nor, according to photographs submitted by an embittered former boyfriend, particularly glamorous. The newspaper retaliated against her deception by publishing the photographs in which Ms Urquhurt, drunk and apparently helpless, stared blankly into the camera as it mercilessly recorded her hideous near-nudity. In the accompanying article, her former boyfriend, Brian Oliver, claimed to have been as appalled by her imposture as a grandmother as he had been by her dalliance with his seventeen year old nephew. "It just wasn't right," he explained. "I couldn't sleep for thinking about all of the genuine Glamorous Grannies being deprived out of their rightful prize." This concern wasn't apparent in other photographs published by the Record in which Oliver loomed in the background, his pie-face glowing with reflected glory as Ms Urquhurt was crowned Saga-Mate 2001.

In my experience, rogues seeking relationships will invariably discover their equivalents. Mutual destruction is inevitable, but not before their association, however brief, wreaks havoc in the lives of those around them.

 

V

 

VANDALISM - For five successive years, from 1995 - 2000 Drumfeld's Station Rd public convenience received national recognition in the shape of Visit Scotland awards. To this day the wall immediately above the latrine is adorned by the gleaming plaques awarded in the time that Sandy Ackroyd voluntarily served as full time attendant. I often argue that petty acts of malice contribute more to human unhappiness than any Mafia. The opposite is also the case. Sandy's diligent care of the Station Road toilet may not be recorded in any history book, but few left the premises without feeling somehow invigorated by the time spent within. Under his care, it became a haven in which a visitor could lose himself in a book, listen to the accordion music (admittedly not to my taste) played on a 24 hour loop, or contemplate the images summoned by scented candles. As someone who's used public toilets all over Europe and North America, I can attest to their potential contribution to a town's international image. I have encountered filthy conditions in some of the most opulent settings in human history. Hollywood in particular resembles a cesspit: at no point in the vicinity can anyone entirely escape the stench of urine. A town can be judged by how it treats its visitors: anywhere that forces them to seek relief in alleys or dank cells smeared with excrement displays a disregard bordering on contempt.

When ill-health forced Sandy to move in with his daughter in Pitlochry, the unattended toilet was immediately besieged by grubby individuals, previously deterred by Sandy's vigilance, eager to cover the walls with details of their furtive yearnings. “I want this” and “I want that”, scrawled the husks of humanity. The most prolific of these illustrated his demands with intricate etchings carved deep into the previously pristine surfaces with black biro. Some of the figures in his sketches were recognisable as prominent local figures. As Drumfeld's most celebrated resident, needless to say, I featured in a variety of demeaning postures. Personal outrage, however, was only a small part of my motivation in setting a trap for the culprit.

Many investigators of international renown might consider a local case of vandalism beneath them. This sort of complacency allows mischief to thrive. Evil is evil, regardless of the form it takes. This isn't a philosophy, but a fact. A mind that defaces a wall might deface a human body; given the opportunity the man who casually slanders another will push him in front of a train. When the investigator accepts this first simple truth others will reveal themselves. See also ROTARY CLUB

 

VENGEANCE - It's essential that the effective investigatory eschew any notion that he represents the spirit of revenge. His primary interest must always be in truth. Once the facts have been established, his role is over.

 

VICTIMS OF HAMILTON COE, SO-CALLED - ASQUITH, COLETTE; BARR, JASON; BEITH, RONALD; COE, SPENCER; COE, MURIEL; DAVIDSON, MATTHEW; GARDNER, KAREN; HEGARTY, ALEXANDER; LEWIS, MARK; MCATEER, ROSS; PEARSON, GUY; QUINN, NIALL; SANDERSON, CRAIG; SNEDDON, GREGOR; SPINK, HEATHER; URE, WILLIAM

 

 

 

W

 

WALKER, HUGH (1950 - ) Critic. The sight of Walker's vivid mop of dyed blonde hair in an audience is sufficient to cause the most assured actor to stammer and fluff his lines. For over ten years local drama groups have been traumatised by his withering assessments in the Perthshire Examiner. As verbose as he is vituperative, his reviews often take up entire pages as he minutely details a production's flaws. Not content with dissecting deficiciencies of acting, writing or direction, Walker has been known to castigate those responsible for lighting, musical direction and set design. When satisfied that he's adequately established the absence of talent, Walker's not above pointing out actors' physical defects. Drumfeld Players' stalwart Sandy Hall consulted lawyers after being repeatedly referred to as 'the mongoloid' while Sheila Carruthers, from the same group, was identified as 'surely the most wizened and least desirable Principal Boy in the history of theatre. In assuming a role that traditionally prompts the first sexual yearnings, she's nudging a hallful of young boys toward homosexuality.'

Like many who are excessively critical of others, Walker, beneath his bluster, is a sensitive and fragile individual. When the Gazette printed a letter critical of the quality (as opposed to the tone) of his writing, he threatened to resign his position. Bumptious and vain, he's in his element when regaling listeners with details of his own acting career, truncated, ironically, in 1970 when his interpretation of the leading role in Eastwood Theatre's The Importance of Being Earnest caused a reviewer to refer to him as 'nervous and unengaging'.

A young Tom Walker

 

WALL OF SILENCE – A community in denial is unable to move toward reconciliation. If my brother strikes me a blow, as, in fact, he has done on several occasions, do I refuse to acknowledge the incident and allow its memory to fester in silence? Far better, I'd suggest, to confront him and attempt to negotiate an improved relationship. Of course, if someone is happy to be estranged from his brother then he can persist in non-communication, my own preference route is the one that leads to openness and mutual understanding.

Having been confronted by a 'wall of silence' on various occasions, my preferred solution is to organise a social occasion involving team games at which the members of divided communities can put aside their differences in the pursuit of a common goal. This might seem simplistic, but it is a highly effective method of eliciting information in the course of a case and healing wounds in its immediate aftermath. Games such as 'Jenga', 'Pictionary' and 'Twister', I would suggest, merit a place in the kitbag of any travelling investigator.

 

WATSON, EDWIN (1956 - ) Indigent - Christine and I both inherited our mother's compassionate nature, a trait which Spencer, incidentally, failed to absorb. While my own concern for others has, by necessity, been tempered by pragmatism, Christine has constantly allowed herself to be taken advantage of by unscrupulous individuals whose misfortune is entirely of their own making. The Edwin Watson episode is a case in point. Alarmed by Muriel's disgusted response to the unfortunates and outcasts she occasionally encountered in Drumfeld, Christine and her idiotic then husband embarked upon a hare-brained scheme to increase her empathy levels. This involved inviting various members of the local underclass into her home, enjoying a meal with them and listening to their tales of woe. I naturally warned Christine of the inevitable repercussions, but was pooh-poohed. After a lifetime of peering into the darkness, after all, what would I know?

The experiment, admittedly, went well until the Loaves and Fishes charity Christine had approached for potential house-guests sent Edwin Watson. In my experience, if a man looks and behaves like a lunatic, it's judicious to assume that he is and act accordingly. Christine, however, has always been bound by the demands of propriety and, rather than risk Watson's feelings by sending him away and asking Loaves and Fishes to send somebody else, she treated him to lunch, an act of kindness that was rewarded by a reign of terror.

When sober, Watson was meek and, frankly dull with a conversational range that rarely extended beyond the weather and what type of food he enjoyed. In his cups, however, he was a terrifying psychopath, displaying all of the traits that had caused society to exclude him in the first place. Turning up at my sister's house in the early hours, he would demand admittance. "Let me in, Christine, or I'll blow your house down!" he'd bellow, before attempting to do just that, puffing at the front door until he turned puce and collapsed.

The police, suspecting that Watson might not respect their authority, thought it judicious not to intervene while Watson was drunk, preferring to confront him about his behaviour when he'd sobered up. On one of these occasions, he confessed to having been offended by the gift of a jumper he considered hideous. This jumper, originally a Christmas gift I gave to Guy, was part of a bundle Watson set fire to on my sister's lawn at the outset of his campaign. His umbrage, I felt, was partially justified. Good manners dictate that in buying knitwear for others, we only select items we'd happily wear ourselves.

 

 

WEAKLINGS - See ADAMSON, PETER; COE, SPENCER; CULLEN, PETER; DAVIDSON, MATTHEW; FINDLAY, GEORGE; HAWTHORNE, RONALD; JACKSON, PAUL; URE, WILLIAM

 

WHITECHAPEL MURDERER, THE – Genuine criminologists rarely refer to ‘Jack the Ripper': the name is in poor taste. While the identity of the murderer is considered the Grail of the celebrity fixated psychic, the purpose of the pursuit is titillation rather than enlightenment. Patricia Cornwell, the crime writer, requested my assistance in apportioning responsibility for the slayings to artist WALTER SICKERT. Her evidence was almost entirely conjectural and dealt with inconvenient details that exculpated Sickert (such as the murders' explicit links to Rotarian ritual) by ignoring them. After failing to convince me as to the merits of her case, Ms Cornwell turned to RONALD HAWTHORNE, a man who could be convinced that black was white if he could argue his case on television. Three weeks into the investigation, however, he withdrew, claiming that Sickert's ghost, enraged by his imminent exposure, was disrupting his sleep by switching lights on and off and tweaking his nipples. The book was eventually written without any psychic insights.

 

WHO, DOCTOR – Time Traveller. By the 1970's, the era of my own childhood, the B.B.C. had been hi-jacked by self-proclaimed ‘freaks' and perverts who amused themselves by inserting subliminal messages into programmes. While the intention was mischievous rather than revolutionary, the overall effect was catastrophic. A generation of children's minds were warped by incitements to carnage and masturbation. The perpetrators, in my opinion, should be held responsible for planting seeds that would blossom in the form of mental illness, sexual transgression and murder. In one of the biggest cover ups in history, the B.B.C. has subsequently destroyed thousands of hours of programmes proven to contain hidden messages. The worst offender was possibly Dr Who, an unsavoury individual who travelled through time. “Hello, I'm the Doctor!” he'd beam on arriving in some strange galaxy, “Have a jelly baby!” Invariably, the Doctor's strained eccentricity would cause offence. Over a succession of episodes he would be menaced and horribly mistreated by actors whose papier-mache heads were ringed by auras the colour of suicide. A study of the future career of Dr Who bit players, incidentally, would yield horrifying results. The Doctor himself was portrayed by a succession of ham actors plucked from the bordellos of Soho all of whom, with the exception of JON PERTWEE and TOM BAKER returned to the obscure netherworld from to whence they came. Baker, who, admittedly, possesses a certain horrible charisma, is revered by inadequates who insist on the programme's cultural significance. This ridiculous claim indicates a brainwashing campaign that might rival anything perpetrated in Moscow over the period of the show's peak. Incredibly, seven of Christine's depressives regularly attend Dr Who conventions and three claim to have had sexual relations with Tom Baker. An updated version of the series has tragically been allowed to demoralise a new generation. See also BAIRD, JOHN LOGIE

 

WILSON (1999 - 2007) - Dog. Rightly or wrongly, I inherited from my Grandpa Sneddon a distrust of men whose behaviour might be described as 'winsome' or 'cutesy-wootsie' as he put it. He nursed a particular loathing for Winnie the Pooh author, A.A. Milne, referring to him as 'sordid' and 'degenerate'. On one occasion, holidaying in the south of England, he sought out the antique shop run by Milne's son, the original Christopher Robin, in order to express his sympathy on account of the intolerable burden placed upon him by his father. The pair subsequently exchanged Christmas cards for years and Milne sent my parents a letter of sympathy when my grandfather died.

My grandfather, I suspect, would have strongly disapproved of the website apparently maintained by ROSS MCATEER's black labrador, Wilson. In this, Wilson keeps his many enthralled readers updated on his activities and opinions. Visitors can view a gallery of pictures of Wilson wearing a variety of hats and listen to some of his favourite records, the titles of which all contain some canine reference. "Hi, there Wilson!" say his visitors, mainly other dogs with sites of their own. "Looking a bit ruff today! Why don't you come and have a look at my woof-tastic site! I've just uploaded some pictures of my human's birthday party!!"

Anyone interested in the human capacity for simpering witlessness would be amply rewarded by a visit to Wilson's site. While I certainly wouldn't try to tell Ross, who is, incidentally, thirty-one years old, how to spend his free time, I think that he might consider his priorities. My exasperation on account of his neglect of the first Hamilton Coe site (attributed to nervous exhaustion) was, exacerbated by the development of Wilson's within the same timescale.

Since writing this entry, I'm saddened to report that Wilson has beenkilled while chasing an ice cream van. While I've considered removing the entry, its account of a regrettable modern phenomenon, I think, makes it of interest to any student of human transgression. Any feelings of irritation I might have engendered toward Ross have long since passed. He has my sympathy.

See CORKY; DOGS; MCATEER, ROSS

Wilson, right, and a friend in happier days.

 

Y 

 

YOUNG, ELLIOT (1969 – 2005) Musician. Spencer's collaborator until ‘artistic differences' and a fist fight outside a Glasgow discotheque caused them to go their separate ways. It's been established that on the night of December 22 nd , Elliot guzzled a fatal combination of sleeping pills and vodka, wrote a semi-coherent letter (in which both Spencer and I mentioned in passing) and then perished in the narrow gap between his bed and the wall. His body was so effectively cocooned that it wasn't found until one of his housemates, rummaging for cigarettes, noticed a scent that was alien and pungent even by the squalid standards of the residents. In the wake of the tragedy (and I don't hesitate in referring to Elliot's death as such), I caused offence by suggesting that other young people of a dramatic streak might consider this a cautionary conclusion to a life of flagrant attention seeking. This was someone, after all, who weeks earlier, tried to saw off his own thumb with a penknife, an attempt at self-mutilation that was aborted when he was reminded that that it was the pinkie that was expendable. Since adolescence Elliot had a pronounced martyr complex to which no-one who knew him even slightly could have been oblivious.

In retrospect, it was probably inappropriate to use my eulogy to draw attention to some of Elliot's less commendable traits. Frankly, I was taken aback to be asked to say anything. Spencer, I believe, intended to recite some meaningless lyric. When it became apparent that he wasn't competent to the task, I was forced to step into the breach and improvise. In the course of a well-received and heartfelt eulogy, I did briefly allude to the questionable sincerity of Elliot's death wish, but was diverted by my sister's simulated coughing fit. I only raised the subject because I was thinking of my niece sitting in the congregation. Muriel was at the outset of her own morbidly rebellious phase at the time. Apart from the suggestion, uncontested at the time, that Elliot may not have wholeheartedly wanted to die, the speech was, I think a success. A year on, of course, I'm confronted by aspersions that I hijacked the service in order to denigrate Elliot's character even as he lay stiff and cold two feet away. My recollections of Elliot as a youth elicited what sounded like genuine laughter and, if I cast him as a hysteric, I also paid tribute to the talent that might have blossomed had he applied himself. Anyone who's heard any of Elliot's songs will appreciate my generosity in referring in such terms to an oeuvre that really has little or nothing to recommend it.

 

YUILL, PHYLLIS (1940 - ) Bogus Clairvoyant, Madwoman - To be pitied rather than reviled, Phyllis spends six months of every year in a mental institution. When she's at liberty to conduct an investigation, she sleeps rough on the proximity of the crime scene, harasses legitimate investigators and invariably attributes responsibility to the Pumpkin People.

Phyllis Yuill

Z

 

Zeklos, Iorgu (1960 - ) Psychic, Degenerate. See BALCESCU, COSMIN and PSYCHOMETRY