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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.
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 Caroline 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'.
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.
McASKILL, ROBIN (1975 - ) Broadcaster. My ten year association with the channel, first as a regular caller and then a featured guest on the Rob McAskill show has survived various hiccoughs, not least the race hate scandal of 2004 and, until recently, the baleful influence of Miriam Tobin. Crime Time has now become a staple of the station's schedule and proof, despite my co-host's occasionally frivolous tendencies, that there is a still a place on the airwaves for serious broadcasting.
Initially resentful of my presence, foisted upon him, I suspect, by station managers recognisant of his inability to carry a show unassisted, Rob now seems to regard us as some kind of double act. Frequently referring to me as 'H', he encourages me to refer to him by his own self devised nickname 'Rascal' 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 'Rascal' 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. Rob, however, wears his customised outfits with every appearance of self-satisfaction.
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.
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.
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 –
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.
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.
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