Death of a Bore

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

8

When constabulary duty’s to be done,

The policeman’s lot is not a happy one.

—W. S. Gilbert

After Matthew and Elspeth had arrived back at the Tommel Castle Hotel and had changed into dry clothes, they met in the bar.

“We’ll need to find something to write,” said Elspeth.

“Couldn’t we just stay in this nice hotel for the evening and start tomorrow?”

“No, I think…Oh, good evening, Mr. Johnson.”

“Shame about Hamish Macbeth,” said the manager.

Elspeth’s eyes widened in shock. “What’s happened to Hamish?”

“He was up at John Heppel’s cottage when someone struck him a sore blow on the head. Perry Sutherland saw the cottage door lying open and went in and found him.”

“Where is he?”

“Over at Braikie Hospital.”

“Come on, Matthew,” said Elspeth.

♦

The waiting room of Braikie Hospital was full of villagers from Lochdubh. Mrs. Wellington strode forward to meet them. “They’re only allowing us in two at a time,” she said. “You’ll need to wait.”

“How is he?” asked Elspeth.

“He had a bad blow to the head, but they say he is only slightly concussed. It’s not serious.”

“Who’s with him now?”

“Miss Garrety, the schoolteacher.”

“And who’s with her?”

Mrs. Wellington gave a sly smile. “We all agreed to let her go in on her own. It’s time Macbeth was married.”

“Is there a canteen in this place?” asked Matthew.

“Yes, on the first floor.”

“Come along, Elspeth. We’ll get a cup of tea while we’re waiting.”

When they were out of earshot, Matthew said, “I’ve got a plan.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s go down to the basement instead. Maybe there’s a laundry room there where we could disguise ourselves and jump the queue.”

“We’d be spotted. We can’t cover our faces.”

“We can if we find some surgeons’ stuff.”

Fortunately the basement area appeared to be deserted. They tried door after door. Most were locked.

“Someone’s coming,” hissed Elspeth.

“In here!” urged Matthew, reopening one of the doors he knew was unlocked.

They waited. There was a sound of squeaking wheels. Matthew opened the door a crack.

A hospital porter was trundling a laundry basket on wheels. He went into a door at the end of a long corridor. Matthew waited. The man reappeared and walked down past where they were hidden.

When he had gone, Matthew said, “I know where the laundry is. Come on.”

They hurried along to the laundry room. “The stuff’ll be dirty,” complained Elspeth.

“Then we’ll pick out the least dirty ones.”

♦

Freda sat by Hamish’s bed and held his hand. “Are you sure you feel all right?”

“I’d feel better if someone from police headquarters would arrive and tell me why that computer was never checked.”

The door opened and two masked figures entered. One said to Freda, “You’ll need to leave, miss. We have to take Mr. Macbeth to the operating theatre.”

“What’s this?” cried Hamish in alarm. “No one said anything to me about needing an operation.”

The smaller of the ‘surgeons’ held open the door and said pointedly to Freda, “If you don’t mind, miss.”

When Freda had gone, Elspeth jerked down her mask and said, “Surprise!”

“What the hell are you two doing?” exclaimed Hamish. “Trying to give me a heart attack?”

“We checked Harry Tarrant’s alibi,” said Elspeth. “It checks out. Tell us what happened to you.”

“I was looking at John Heppel’s computer. It had been wiped clean, but I wondered why it had been left behind. Surely some computer expert could have recovered stuff from the hard drive. Then someone hit me on the head.”

“And the computer was gone?”

“That was the reason for hitting me on the head,” said Hamish impatiently.

The door opened and Jimmy Anderson walked in. Matthew and Elspeth jerked up their masks and walked out.

“Press?” asked Jimmy, staring after them.

“Yes.”

“Oldest trick in the book. You don’t need surgery, and yet here are two masked surgeons in dirty robes in your room. I hope they catch something awful. Who were they?”

“Couple of reporters from the Bugle. One was Elspeth Grant.”

“Ah, your ex-squeeze.”

“Never mind her. Tell me, Jimmy, why that computer was left there.”

“Well, the cops are blaming the forensic team, and the forensic team are blaming the cops. I think it was because it was a black laptop on a black desk. They didn’t notice it. Daviot is blaming Blair, and Blair is blaming everyone he can think of. They’re getting on to the server to see if they can retrieve anything that might have been in the e–mails.”

Hamish leaned his bandaged head back on the pillows. “You know the trouble? We’re dealing here with a rank amateur who killed in a fit of spite and rage and then tried to cover it up. I wish the villagers had never attacked John Heppel and been filmed for television doing it. It’s taken the whole focus away from Strathbane Television. At least the press have their uses. Harry Tarrant was nowhere near Cnothan on the night of the murder. Oh, the magic of television. No one asked him where he was on the night of the murder.”

“Don’t be so high and mighty. We didn’t ask him either.”

“I would like to see a copy of that script for Down in the Glen,” fretted Hamish.

“Why?”

“There might be something in there. I don’t know.”

“When are they letting you out?”

“Tomorrow, I hope.”

“For the sake o’ decency, you should stay in longer. There’s half the village waiting to visit you and they’re all carrying gifts.”

“No, the sooner I get out of here, the better. My dog! Who’s looking after my dog?”

“Your dog’s waiting like everyone else. Angela Brodie’s looking after him.”

♦

By the time the last of the villagers had gone, Hamish felt quite weak and weepy. Their kindness was overwhelming. The room was crowded with presents of cake, jam, flowers, chocolates, and even two trout.

He decided that the best thing he could do was to find out where they were filming the next episode of Down in the Glen and go along and study everyone there. I hope you’re looking in the right direction, said his conscience. You’re so anxious to prove that it wasn’t one of the villagers that maybe you haven’t investigated your home turf enough.

The phone beside Hamish’s bed rang, jerking him out of his worried thoughts.

Jimmy Anderson’s voice came on the line. “Worse and worse, Hamish. Blair’s been suspended, pending an enquiry.”

“But that’s good news.”

“He’s been suspended because Miss Alice Patty has committed suicide by slashing her wrists. She left a note blaming police brutality. Patty’s lawyer said that by the time she got in to see her at police headquarters, Blair’s bullying had reduced the girl to a nervous wreck.”

“So are you in charge?”

“No. They’ve brought in a detective chief inspector from Inverness, Heather Meikle.”

“What’s she like?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. She arrives tomorrow.”

♦

The next day Freda drove to the hospital as soon as school classes were over. Hamish had phoned her and asked for a lift to the police station. He had said he was checking himself out of the hospital.

She wondered whether she should have done something like make him beef tea. Freda decided to urge him to go to bed and then she would minister to him. As she drove off, she noticed several Strathbane Television vans parked on the waterfront. She hoped nothing else horrible had happened.

When she arrived in Hamish’s room at the hospital, it was to find him dressed and sitting waiting for her. His bandages had been removed, but part of his fiery-red hair had been shaved off and a sticking plaster put over the wound.

As she drove off with him in the direction of Lochdubh, Freda said, “I think when we arrive, I should make you something to eat and then you should go straight to bed.”

“No, I’ll be all right. I’m sick of bed. I’ve been in bed for most of the day.”

“I still think you should rest. There are a lot of television vans on the waterfront at Lochdubh.”

“Anything happened?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any press there?”

“No.”

Hamish’s interest quickened. “Maybe they’re using Lochdubh as a location for that soap. Where’s Elspeth?”

“I don’t know. Running around with that boyfriend of hers.”

“He’s not her boyfriend. He’s just a colleague.”

“That’s not what I heard,” lied Freda.

“You shouldn’t listen to village gossip. They always get it wrong.”

“Are you keen on Elspeth?”

“The only thing I am keen on is getting to the police station and finding out if police headquarters have any idea of who hit me,” said Hamish stiffly.

Freda began to wish she’d arranged some sort of welcome at the police station for him. All the villagers knew where the spare key was kept – in the gutter above the door. She could have placed a bowl of flowers on the kitchen table. She could have lit the stove.

When she drove up to the police station, she noticed the lights were on. “Someone’s there,” she said. “Should I call the police?”

“I am the police. It’s probably one of the villagers.”

He opened the kitchen door and walked in. Elspeth was sitting at the kitchen table. There was a bowl of flowers on the table and the stove was blazing away.

“I phoned the hospital and heard you were on your way,” said Elspeth. “There’s a casserole in the oven.”

Hamish turned to Freda, who was glaring at Elspeth. “Thanks very much for the lift, Freda.”

Although he was obviously waiting for her to go, Freda plumped herself down at the table opposite Elspeth and asked, “Any chance of a dram?”

“You sit down, Hamish,” said Elspeth. “I’ll get it.”

Freda began to wish she had left. There was an atmosphere between Hamish and Elspeth – an atmosphere which seemed to exclude her.

There was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” said Freda. Matthew came in.

“Elspeth,” he said, “they’re going to be filming Down in the Glen here tomorrow. The director, Paul Gibson, is at the bar at the hotel. I thought we could see him together.”

“What about the producer?”

“There isn’t one. Gibson’s title is producer-director. It’s a way of cutting costs, I suppose.”

“Right. I’ll get my coat. I left it in the bedroom.”

“Thanks for everything, Elspeth,” said Hamish.

Freda brightened. With Elspeth gone, surely Hamish would invite her to have supper with him. But no sooner had Matthew and Elspeth left than there was another knock at the door.

“What now?” asked Hamish.

A severe-looking woman stood on the doorstep.

“Good evening, Constable,” she said. “I am Detective Chief Inspector Meikle.”

“Come in,” said Hamish. “Freda, do you mind? This is police business.”

Freda left in a bad temper. Perhaps if Hamish had shown any interest in her, she would not have bothered about him. But she regarded Elspeth as competition, and besides that, her friends had found Hamish attractive. Men are credited with having hunter instincts, but women have them as well, and all at once Freda was firmly determined to marry Hamish Macbeth.

♦

Heather Meikle took off her coat and handed it to Hamish. He hung it on a peg by the door.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“Seems all right. What brings you?”

She sat down at the table in the seat vacated by Freda and clasped her hands in front of her.

Heather Meikle was a tall woman with a sallow face and short brown hair. She had a long thin nose and a thin mouth. She was dressed in a tailored suit and sensible shoes.

Her eyes were of an indeterminate colour and were now fixed on Hamish Macbeth with a piercing stare. “I discovered that a major murder enquiry had been turned over to a village policeman,” she said.

“I noticed there weren’t any other police around,” said Hamish cautiously.

“I may say, I have never heard of anything more ridiculous in my life. Proper investigations will resume tomorrow. I saw the news film of the villagers shouting and throwing things at Heppel. Any one of them could have committed murder from the looks of them.”

Hamish again spoke cautiously. “It is my opinion, ma’am, that not enough attention is being paid to the television people. John Heppel was an infuriating man. Very vain. He liked humiliating people. He was addicted to getting his face on television. They are filming Down in the Glen here tomorrow. It’s a good opportunity to talk to the director and the cast.”

“I think you might be letting your loyalty to the villagers mislead you. I want you to concentrate on them.” Her stomach gave a rumble.

Hamish wanted rid of her but was trapped by the rules of highland hospitality.

“I have a casserole in the oven,” he said. “Would you like some?”

She hesitated and then smiled. “That’s very kind of you. I didn’t have time to eat.”

Hamish laid out knives and forks and plates and lifted the casserole out of the oven, where it had been kept warm on a low heat. “This is a present,” he said, “but it looks like venison.” He spooned out two generous helpings. He was glad Lugs was still with Angela. The dog would have created merry hell until he got some.

He uncorked a bottle of red wine and put two glasses on the table. “What kind of wine is it?” Heather asked.

Hamish read the label. “I got it from Patel’s the other week. It just says red wine.”

“Oh, well, I’ll try it. I’m staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel for the one night. My driver is up at the hotel. I sent him back and told him to wait for my phone call, so I can have a drink without breaking any laws.”

She ate with a hearty appetite and drank most of the wine. “You have a reputation for resisting promotion,” she said. “Why?”

“Local police stations are closing down all over,” said Hamish. He did not want to tell her that he had no ambition whatsoever. People never understood that. “I feel I have a duty to the highland communities. Someone’s got to keep an eye on the old people living up on the moors.”

“If you say so. I wish Blair hadn’t literally bullied that secretary to death.”

“It definitely was suicide?”

“Oh, yes, she left a very clear suicide note, typed on her computer, blaming Blair.”

“It was a suicide note? I mean, it wasn’t the draft of a letter she meant to send to the newspapers or police headquarters?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you tell me exactly what it said?”

“I’ve got a copy somewhere. Have you any coffee? And a brandy would go nicely with it.”

Hamish went through to the living room and rummaged in a cupboard by the fire. There was a bottle of brandy that someone had given him two Christmases ago. He was just straightening up from the cupboard when Heather appeared in the living room. “It’s more comfortable in here,” she said. “Why don’t you light the fire?”

“I haven’t lit a fire in here in ages,” said Hamish. “I think the chimney needs to be swept.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be all right. Light the fire and make the coffee, and then I’ll show you the letter.”

I wonder if marriage would be like this, thought Hamish sulkily. But he retreated to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. Then he returned to the living room and put kindling and paper on the fire and, when it was burning, added slabs of peat.

When she was seated with a tumbler of brandy – she had poured it herself – she rummaged in her capacious handbag and produced a black notebook. “Here we are. She said, ‘The bullying of that man Blair is more than I can stand. The police brutality has shocked me. I’m getting out of this. You should be sorry but you won’t be sorry.’”

“And that’s it!” exclaimed Hamish. “Did she sign it?”

“No, but she cut her wrists in the bath, and the note was left on the floor beside the bath.”

“Who did she mean by ‘you’?”

“The world in general, I suppose.”

“She had been having an affair with her boss, Harry Tarrant, and I think she might have been having an affair with John Heppel as well. What was the toxicology report?”

“I haven’t had the autopsy report yet. Too soon. What are you getting at?”

“Our murderer tried to make John Heppel’s death look like suicide in a clumsy and amateurish way. Maybe he’s got a bit more expert. I mean, that could have been a draft of a letter. How was the paper? Had it been cut top or bottom?”

“Why?” Heather reached forward and picked up the brandy bottle and filled her tumbler.

“Well, just suppose she’s writing a letter on her computer and prints it off. Say someone drugs her and alters the letter so that all that appears is what you’ve got. No ‘Dear’ anybody or address.”

“You’re wandering in the realms of fantasy, Officer.”

“But was her computer checked? They forgot about John Heppel’s computer.”

She went through to the kitchen. Hamish heard her talking rapidly on her mobile phone.

Heather came back. “They say there’s no sign of the note she typed, but why would she save it? Anyway, to humour you, I told them to get an expert to recover what he can from the hard drive.”

“And how long will that take, ma’am?”

“Forever and a day. It’s being sent down to Glasgow. That fire looks as if it’s going out.”

Hamish seized the poker and prodded the smouldering peat.

She stood up and edged him aside. “That’s not the way to do it. Here!” She picked up a newspaper from an old pile of them beside the fire and spread it tightly over the hearth. “See?” she said. “It’s catching already. Oh, hell!” The newspaper in her hands suddenly caught fire and she tossed it at the hearth, where the blazing page went right up the chimney.

“You’ve done it now,” groaned Hamish. “I’ll phone the fire brigade.”

“Don’t be silly, man.” She knelt down by the hearth. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

There was a roaring in the chimney, and then a great pile of soot fell onto the fire and sent a cloud of soot over her kneeling figure.

Hamish went into the office and phoned the fire brigade, which was staffed by local volunteers.

♦

“You’ve neffer seen the like,” said volunteer fireman and crofter Perry Sutherland. “There was Hamish’s boss, black all over. They’d been drinking, too.”

And the gossip flew from house to house. “He can’t leave the women alone, not even his own superior officer,” complained Mrs. Wellington on the phone to Angela Brodie. “They were getting drunk together and that’s how the fire started.”

“I don’t see – ”

“Mark my words, it’s the duty of this village to see that our policeman gets respectably married as soon as possible!”

♦

Hamish Macbeth was lucky in that the village women liked nothing better than to enter a bachelor’s home and give it a good scrub. The next morning, despite his protests, a squad headed by the Currie sisters descended on him with mops and pails, dusters and brushes, and proceeded to clean every bit of soot out of his living room.

He thanked them profusely even though they kept giving him lectures on the benefits of marriage. He wanted to point out to the Currie sisters that they themselves had managed very well without getting married, but he feared the remark would hurt.

He left them to it and went out to the waterfront, where filming was in progress.

They had a grand day for it, thought Hamish. It was cold but clear and the sea loch lay like glass under a pale blue sky with only little wisps of cloud.

He leaned on the sea wall. The action had moved to the shingly beach. The leading actress, Ann King, was being ‘raped’ by a bearded actor in jeans and a camel coat.

Hamish saw the director, Paul Gibson, running here and there, shouting instructions. The actor who was playing the rapist stopped and shouted, “Her clothes won’t rip.”

“They should rip,” said Paul. “The costume department were told to make them rippable. Here!”

He strode up to Ann and jerked at the front of her blouse, which tore, revealing two large breasts.

There was a hiss of shock from the village onlookers. Then the minister, Mr. Wellington, appeared on the beach.

“Stop,” he cried. “You will take your filthy, indecent antics elsewhere.”

Someone put a coat over Ann’s shoulders as Paul shouted, “Take a break.” Then he walked off with Mr. Wellington.

The actors, cameramen, and soundmen made their way up onto the waterfront and disappeared inside a large trailer which served as a cafeteria.

Hamish followed them. He hadn’t had breakfast and he felt the lure of free food. Angela Brodie came up to him with Lugs on a leash. “Take your dog, Hamish. I’ve got to go to Strathbane.”

Lugs grinned up at Hamish. “Come on, then,” said Hamish. “Maybe I’ll get you some breakfast as well.”

He entered and queued up at the counter. When it came his turn, he asked for sausage, bacon and eggs, coffee, and an extra plate of sausages.

Because Hamish was in uniform, the man behind the counter thought he was an actor and dished out his request without a murmur.

Hamish sat down at a table opposite Ann. She was a pretty woman with thick hair dyed as red as Hamish’s own. Her eyes looked green because of tinted contact lenses. Bits of her bosom showed through her open coat and torn blouse, but she seemed unaware of the exposure. She watched him with amusement as he blew on the plate of sausages to cool them and then put the plate on the floor for Lugs.

“I didn’t know we had a policeman in this scene,” she said.

“I am a policeman,” said Hamish. He held out his hand. “Hamish Macbeth. And you are Ann King.”

“Do you like the show?”

“Don’t really watch it,” said Hamish. “It’s not very representative of life in the Highlands. We don’t get that much rape. Are you working on John Heppel’s script?”

“Yes. Harry Tarrant says we should do it in his memory. Your food’s getting cold.”

Hamish shovelled in two large mouthfuls and then asked, “You knew John, of course. How did you get on with the great writer?”

“I hardly spoke to him. He was a pain in the neck. He was always walking into the scene and shouting that it wasn’t faithful to his script. Paul always had to take him away and soothe him down.”

“Did he have any friends on the cast?”

“Maybe you should speak to Patricia Wheeler. She plays the honest crofter’s wife. They went around together.”

“Is she here?”

“No, she’s not in this part.”

“Listen up, everybody!” Paul Gibson stood at the entrance. “We can do the rape scene somewhere else before the locals lynch us. We’ll do the walking bits. Ann, I want you back on the beach. The first shots weren’t any good. You’ve to walk along singing to yourself and looking carefree. Cameron, you’ll be lurking behind the rocks.”

“There aren’t any rocks,” complained the actor who played the rapist.

“Then find something. We’d better get something out of this. The place is crawling with police.”

Hamish feared for the villagers. Heather must have given orders that they were all to be interviewed again.

He finished his breakfast and took Lugs back to the police station, which smelled strongly of carbolic soap and furniture polish. The women had left. He poured Lugs a bowl of water, locked up the station, and went back to the waterfront.

How many times did Paul expect Ann to walk along the beach? It seemed as if he was never going to be satisfied. At last he called, “It’s a wrap. Take a break.”

Hamish moved to the top of the steps leading up from the beach and accosted Paul Gibson.

“I would like a word with you,” he said.

“I could do with a drink,” said Paul.

“There’s a pub along by the harbour.”

“Good. We’ll go there.”

When they were seated, Hamish said, “You’re spending a long time over John’s script.”

“Well, we had to put it on one side and do another one last week.”

“But doesn’t the storyline follow one episode after another?”

“Yes, but the Heppel script was to be a one-off.”

“Might I see a copy of the script?”

“Why?”

“Might give me a clue.”

“Sally!” called Paul. Sally Quinn, the script editor, who had been standing at the bar, came over to them. “This copper wants to see a copy of John’s script.”

A look passed between them. “The one we’re working on?”

“Sure. John’s script. Give him a copy.”

She went back to where she had been standing and picked up a heavy briefcase from the floor and extracted a folder. She took out a script and brought it to Hamish, who thanked her.

He turned back to Paul. “You said you didn’t get on with John.”

“He was very excited about his script. He loved television.”

“I thought the only part of television he loved was getting his face on it,” said Hamish dryly.

“You’re unkind. He was difficult, but we all miss him.”

Hamish looked at the director with raised eyebrows. But perhaps John was so enamoured of television that he had behaved himself better than usual.

“Where can I find Patricia Wheeler?” asked Hamish.

“Why?”

“I gather she was friendly with John. You see, he might have said something to her about being frightened of someone who was threatening him.”

“We’re moving up to the forecourt at the Tommel Castle Hotel this afternoon. She’ll be there. Now, I’d better get back.”

Hamish began to read the script. It seemed very workmanlike. There were none of the pseudo-literary flourishes he would have expected from John.

He left the pub and got into the Land Rover outside the police station. From inside, Lugs gave a peremptory bark. Hamish unlocked the door. “Okay, you can come.”

He lifted Lugs up into the passenger seat, climbed in, and drove off up the road to the Tommel Castle Hotel. He wondered what the film people were using it for. He had only read the first part of the script. No doubt in these politically correct days, the villain would turn out to be some rich laird.

He left Lugs in the Land Rover and went into the manager’s office. “Is that literary agent still here?” he asked.

“He’s just arrived back. He keeps coming and going. He’s that excited about Alistair Taggart,” said Mr. Johnson. “Hamish, who on earth is going to buy a book in the Gaelic?”

“Beats me. Is he in the hotel?”

“Yes, I’ll phone him.”

Hamish walked over to the coffee machine and helped himself to a mug and then slid two biscuits for Lugs into his pocket.

“He’s coming down,” said the manager, replacing the receiver. “He says he’ll see you in the bar.”

Clutching the script, Hamish went through to the bar. Blythe Summer walked in. “What’s up?” he asked. “Nothing wrong with Alistair, is there?”

“No, not that I’ve heard. Why are you bothering so much about a book in the Gaelic?”

“It’ll catch the imagination. You’ve no idea how many classes in Gaelic there are in Edinburgh and Glasgow. I’m getting it translated. I think I’ll get a Booker Prize out of this one.”

“Good luck. I wanted you to look at this script. It’s supposed to have been written by John Heppel.”

“Must I? Never could stand either the man or his writing.”

“You knew him?”

“He wanted me to act as his agent. He sent me Tenement Days. I thought it was a load of rubbish. But he went ahead and got it published and got an award and then kept sending me nasty letters about how I had turned down Scotland’s greatest literary talent. Wait till I get a drink. I’ll need a stiff one if I’m going to read anything written by Heppel. What are you having?”

“I’ve still got some coffee. That’ll do me fine.”

Blythe bustled back with a large brandy and soda. He took a sip and then said, “Here goes.” He took out a pair of glasses and perched them on his nose.

Hamish waited patiently. He looked around. He could remember the days when the hotel was the family home of his ex-fiancee, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Her father, the colonel, had fallen on hard times, and Hamish had suggested to him that he turn his home into a hotel. The result was a success for which the colonel gave Hamish no credit at all. His favourite story was how the idea had come to him in a blinding flash.

Blythe cleared his throat and shook his head. “John Heppel never wrote this.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”