Death of a Bore

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

10

He thought he saw an Albatross

That fluttered round the lamp:

He looked again and found it was

A penny postage stamp.

“You’d best be getting home,” he said,

“The nights are very damp.”

♦

—Lewis Carroll

Matthew felt happy as a small boat they had chartered chugged out through the oily waters of Strathbane docks towards Standing Stones Island. Not for the first time, he wondered why anyone would want to become a policeman. All those dreary interviews, over and over again.

He could see Freda was enjoying herself as well, her pointed face lit up with excitement.

“Thank goodness it’s calm,” she shouted to him over the noise of the engine. “I’m sure it can get very rough out here.”

Huge stars blazed above them. One never notices stars in the city, thought Matthew.

The island loomed up bathed in bright moonlight. It was really just a small rocky hill but with a circle of standing stones on its crest.

“I’ll be back for ye in the morning,” said the boatman.

“Don’t be late,” urged Freda. “I’ve got to be at work at nine.”

Matthew had an uneasy feeling that he shouldn’t have paid the whole fare in advance. The boatman was a surly, criminal-looking fellow. What if he didn’t come back for them?

Too late now, he thought as he and Freda hoisted rucksacks onto their shoulders and climbed up to the ring of stones, which looked like great black fingers pointing up to the beauty of the night sky.

After they had found a slab of masonry to sit on and were drinking Freda’s contribution of coffee and Matthew’s of whisky, they chatted about this and that until they fell silent.

Matthew began to wonder what on earth he could write. And then he began to feel uneasy. He had never considered himself oversensitive or imaginative, but he began to feel the island didn’t want them there. It was as if dislike were emanating from the very ground.

“I read up on this place,” he said, breaking the silence. “It used to be joined to the land.”

Freda shivered and edged closer to him. “It’s getting colder.”

“Why don’t we get into our sleeping bags and have another drink?” suggested Matthew.

“Good idea.”

They snuggled into their sleeping bags. Matthew could feel that odd dislike strengthening into hatred as he sat beside Freda, wrapped in his sleeping bag. “Do you feel anything odd?” he asked Freda.

“Like what?”

Matthew gave an uneasy laugh. “As if this place hates us?”

“There’s something creepy,” said Freda. “What was that?” She clutched Matthew.

“What? What is it?”

“I saw something white out of the corner of my eye.”

“Probably a gull. They never seem to go to sleep.”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, hell.” Matthew took another slug of whisky. “The wind’s getting up.”

Freda looked up at the sky. Long fingers of clouds were beginning to stream across the night sky, obliterating the stars.

I can’t write about any of this, thought Matthew. I can’t write about feelings. If I write that the island hated us, the news editor will suggest a visit to the nearest rehab.

“Do you think,” said Freda in a trembling voice, “that it might be a good idea if we just cuddled up together and went to sleep?”

“This stone we’re sitting on,” said Matthew, shifting uneasily. “Do you think it might have been some sort of altar?”

“I tell you what,” said Freda. “Let’s get out of this circle and camp on the beach.”

They struggled out of their sleeping bags and then hauled their belongings down to the beach. Matthew shone his torch and found a flat area of springy turf.

“This’ll do. Let’s open up the sleeping bags and make a double blanket.”

Soon they lay clasped in each other’s arms as close as lovers. That odd feeling of hate had gone.

The area of grass they were lying on was shielded by an outcrop of rock. Lulled by whisky and the sound of the sea, they fell asleep.

Matthew was awakened by Freda shaking his shoulder. “Wake up!” she hissed. “Listen!”

They could hear faint cries above the steady throb of an engine. “If that’s a boat, maybe they can take us into Strathbane,” said Freda.

“I’d better have a look first.”

Matthew made his way up to the standing stones. He could see the rights of a large boat of some kind out to sea. He nipped back to Freda. “I’ve got some night-vision binoculars in my rucksack.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing supernatural. A ship out to sea.”

Matthew found his binoculars and went back to the standing stones. He focussed the binoculars on the large boat. He now saw a smaller fishing boat riding alongside it, rising and falling on the waves. Packages were being unloaded onto the fishing boat.

Maybe it’s drugs, he thought. Maybe I’ve got a story, after all.

A tap on the shoulder made him yelp with terror. He turned round. “Freda! You nearly frightened me to death.”

“We’re safe!” said Freda excitedly. “There’s a boat on the other side coming out to the island.”

“I think they’re drug runners,” said Matthew. “We’ve got to get back to our stuff and hide it and ourselves.”

Freda clutched him and whimpered. “I’m terrified. I want to go home.”

“Shhh! I’ll look after you. Come on. We’ve got to hide our stuff before that other boat gets here.”

They crept down to their sleeping bags and stuffed them back in the rucksacks. “If we hide behind the standing stones, they won’t see us,” said Matthew. “The wind’s gone down a bit, so we’ll get off all right in the morning.”

They made their way back to the stone circle. Matthew covered their rucksacks with grass and seaweed. He took out his mobile phone and dialled Elspeth’s number.

“I’m on Standing Stones Island,” he said. He told her about the boats. “I think they’re drug running. Tell the police at Strathbane and cover the story from your end.”

Elspeth phoned Hamish Macbeth.

“I may not get to Strathbane in time if that’s where they’re headed, but I’ll call headquarters and they can get the coastguard out,” said Hamish.

Matthew and Freda stood behind one of the pillars and listened. They heard the boat Freda had seen and then the sound of the other boat circling the island to join it.

“Damn,” muttered Matthew. “I must see what they’re doing.”

“Don’t leave me,” pleaded Freda.

He gave her a quick kiss. “Just stay here and you’ll be fine.”

He moved from the cover of one stone to another until he was looking down at the half-ruined jetty where they had landed. He raised his binoculars to his eyes. They seemed to be sharing out the packages. He concentrated on them.

Cigarettes!

Well, it wasn’t drugs, but it was something.

Freda leaned against a standing stone and wished with all her heart that Matthew would come back. And then she heard weird singing: an eerie chant that rose and fell. Her nerve broke, and she ran to where Matthew was hiding, shouting, “Help! Help!”

Matthew whirled round. “Freda, for God’s sake, keep your voice down.”

“I heard singing,” she said. “Awful ghostly singing.”

“One of the men’s playing Gaelic tunes on the radio.”

A powerful torch shone on them and a brutal voice ordered, “Get your hands up!”

Rough hands dragged them down to the jetty. The men all had their faces covered with black ski masks.

“I am a reporter with the Daily Bugle,” said Matthew desperately.

The leader, or the man who appeared to be the leader, stepped forward. “Get them aboard. We’ll tip them over the side when we’re far enough out.”

Guns were shoved in their backs and they were propelled aboard one of the boats.

They were tied up and placed side by side on the deck. Freda was sobbing with fear.

“Do we weigh them down with something?” a voice asked.

“No, they’ll be dead of cold, and they can’t swim with their arms and legs tied.”

“Freda,” whispered Matthew, “if we ever get out of this alive, I’ll make it up to you. I can’t tell them about the police knowing, or they might just shoot us.”

“They’re going to drown us anyway,” wailed Freda.

“Right,” they heard the leader say. “This is far enough. Throw them over the side.”

Hands dragged them to their feet.

And then one of them shouted, “Coastguard!”

The boat was suddenly bathed in blinding white light from a helicopter overhead, and across the waves towards them surged two police boats and two coastguard vessels.

“Do we shoot it out, guv?” asked one.

“No, chuck all the guns over the side. Untie that pair. They’ll try to do us for attempted murder, but we can all swear we were just trying to frighten them.”

“They got James’s boat as well.”

“They can’t give us much for running cigarettes. Relax.”

♦

Elspeth and Hamish arrived just as Freda and Matthew were being helped ashore.

Detective Chief Inspector Heather Meikle came driving along the dock. “Well done, you two. Now, if you will come to police headquarters and make a statement…”

“Can Hamish Macbeth take our statements in Lochdubh?” begged Matthew. “Freda is in shock.”

“Do you want to go to the hospital, Miss Garrety?”

“No,” sobbed Freda. “I w-want to g-go home.”

“Very well. Macbeth, take them back and send over their statements.”

“Before we go,” said Matthew, “those bastards are going to say they only threatened to drown us to frighten us, but they did mean to kill us. We heard them.”

“Put it in your statement.”

♦

Freda, Matthew, and Elspeth got into the police Land Rover. Hamish had ordered Matthew to leave his car keys with the police, who would drive his car over to the Tommel Castle Hotel in the morning. As they were moving off, Elspeth said, “Stop at the Highlands Hotel on the road out, Hamish.”

“Why?”

“Freda needs to use the Ladies.” She handed Freda a plastic bag. “There you go. Clean knickers and jeans.”

“How did you know?” asked Freda.

Elspeth grinned. “Been there, done that.”

♦

While they waited outside the hotel for Freda, Matthew said, “I’m glad I’ve got something to write.”

“You mean Standing Stones Island was a washout?” asked Elspeth.

“It wasn’t that. It was an eerie place. I felt…This is daft. I felt the island hated us – well, not the island, but the bit in the middle of the standing stones. If I wrote that, they would be asking what I’d been drinking.”

To his surprise, Elspeth said, “I know what you mean. There are parts of Sutherland where people get weird feelings and even see things. The rock up here is the oldest in the world, and any soil is a very thin covering. I sometimes wonder if in a way it records things. But what did you hope to write? I mean, you weren’t actually hoping to see a ghost, were you?”

Matthew gave a reluctant laugh. “I suppose I never really thought beyond the headline. ‘Reporter Matthew Campbell’s Night on the Haunted Island.’”

Freda came out and joined them, and Hamish drove off. “I know you’re both tired,” he said, “but I’d better get your statements as soon as we get back to Lochdubh, and that way you can both have a good night’s sleep.”

“All right,” said Matthew, “but make it quick.”

♦

Before he fell asleep in the safety and comfort of his hotel room, Matthew thought about Freda. He had liked the way she had clung to him. Elspeth would never have done that. He looked forward to seeing her with a feeling of pleasant anticipation.

They had made their statements. He had filed his story, and he knew Elspeth was filing her part in it about her race with Hamish to Strathbane and the activity on the docks.

And to think he had considered the Highlands boring!

♦

Angus arrived at nine in the morning. Hamish, bleary-eyed, let him in. “Are you getting a locksmith round?” asked Angus.

“No, I’ll change them myself. I meant to do it ages ago, and I’ve got locks out in the shed. Make some coffee for both of us, and then I’ll clear the desk in the office for you. Just in case my boss arrives and wants to go in there, I’ll tell her loudly that I’ve got something wrong with the police computer and you’re fixing it for me, and you hide the Heppel one.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll clear the desk now and then shave and get my uniform on. I’ve a feeling the Lady of the Cast-iron Liver will be here shortly.”

“Drink a lot, does she?”

“Like a fish. Make coffee.”

Hamish moved the police computer to one side of the desk and unlocked the drawer where he had hidden John’s laptop, and put it on the desk. Then he showered and shaved and got into his uniform.

He had drunk his coffee, walked and fed Lugs, and changed the locks before Heather arrived. He had hoped the excitement of catching the cigarette smugglers might have kept her away a bit longer, but there she was, rattling at the handle of the locked kitchen door.

He unlocked it and let her in.

“That was good work,” she said, shrugging off her coat and handing it to him. “Some members of that gang have been in prison already for running drugs. But cigarettes are so expensive in this country that a lot of the drug dealers have gone over to smuggling cigarettes. But that’s not why I’m here. The toxicology report revealed that Patty’s body contained traces of a heavy narcotic. Also, there’s now some forensic gobbledygook, which comes down to the fact that she could not have slit her wrists herself. There is no report from the computer expert in Glasgow yet. So I’m off back to Inverness. Got any whisky?”

Hamish glanced at the clock. It was eleven in the morning. He lifted down a bottle from the cupboard and a glass and put both on the table.

“Why are you leaving for Inverness, ma’am?”

“I’m not needed any more. Blair’s suspension has been cancelled. Now it has been established that Alice Patty was murdered and not driven to suicide, he’s been exonerated. It’s a pity. We could have made a good team, Hamish.”

More like master and servant, thought Hamish.

“Would you consider a move to Inverness?”

“It’s kind of you to suggest it, ma’am, but I’m more use here.”

She drained her glass and poured herself another hefty measure. Hamish watched the diminishing whisky sourly. I’ve a good mind to put another bottle on my expenses and say it was for entertaining her, he thought.

She drained that glass and stood up. “Coat!”

Hamish fetched her coat and helped her into it. “Well, I’m off,” said Heather. She kissed him on the cheek. “Be seeing you.”

“I don’t know which one is worse,” said Hamish to Lugs after she had gone, “her or Blair.”

Then he realised with a feeling of intense relief that the murder of Alice Patty would shift the focus away from the village.

The phone in the office rang. Hamish unlocked the door, shouting, “Don’t answer that.”

“I wasn’t going to,” muttered Angus.

Hamish picked up the phone. Blair’s guttural Glasgow accent sounded down the line. “Get out there and interview that lot in the village.”

“But surely the murder of Alice Patty means that one of the television people is probably the culprit?”

“I mean the television lot, you stupid teuchter. Haven’t you poked your nose outside that police station of yours? They’re filming there today. Jimmy Anderson and some police are there already. I’m too busy winding up a smuggling racket I exposed.”

“If you look at your records, sir,” said Hamish gleefully, “I was the one who reported it.”

“Just get to work, you lazy bastard!”

♦

Some of the villagers were baffled that day by the new lock on the police station door. It had become a handy place from which to borrow things, like a can opener or a carving knife.

Hamish did not know this and was occasionally puzzled by missing items which would suddenly reappear a few days later.

Hamish went out and found the television vans and equipment along the waterfront.

He leaned on the wall and looked down on the beach. He was joined by Jimmy Anderson. “Heard the news?” asked Jimmy.

“Aye.”

“It means we’ve got Blair back, and old Iron Knickers has gone back to Inverness.”

“I know. She was here this morning.”

“You’d best watch out, Hamish. She was singing your praises.”

“Oh, well, she’s gone. That’s that.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Why?”

“There was a buzz about two years ago that some good-looking copper was trying to accuse her of sexual harassment. Of course, it was all hushed up and the young copper was promptly transferred to a station in the Outer Hebrides.”

“You know, maybe I should get a spyhole for that kitchen door. Then I’d know who was out there. People just drop in and out as if it’s some sort of hotel. Now, I think we should start with Patricia Wheeler. She was close to John Heppel. I tried her yesterday. Angela Brodie’s come up with the idea that maybe we should be looking for a murderess. I’m pretty sure Heppel was having an affair with Alice Patty. Who knows what other women he was messing around with. Then there’s another thing: the script they’re using and saying was John Heppel’s bears no relation to his writing.”

“Doesn’t that usually happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“I had a lady friend once who wrote scripts for some hospital series. She wrote draft after draft and still they asked for another. By the time they were demanding a fourteenth draft, she cracked and took the first draft out of the bottom of the pile and sent them that. They said great, we’ll use it. But she said what appears on the screen usually bears no relation to the original script.”

Hamish gave a disappointed “Oh.” He thought of Angus working away at the computer and the great risk he had taken in not reporting the young man.

“Is it just you and me?” asked Hamish. “Blair said he was sending a lot of police over with you to cover the television people.”

“Aye, but he’s decided we should go it alone because he thinks one of the locals nicked that computer of Heppel’s. They’re all over in Cnothan going from house to house with search warrants. If they can’t find anything there, they’ll start on Lochdubh.”

“I hope they don’t come around the police station.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want them messing up the police computer.”

“They’d hardly do that. Thon computer’s a big beast and they’re looking for a laptop. Is that a rape going on?”

“Supposed to be,” said Hamish, “except it’s a fully clothed one. Mr. Wellington, the minister, objected to her having her clothes ripped off.”

Jimmy shook his head in wonderment. “The things actresses go through. He’s got her head in a puddle.”

“Let’s go to their café,” said Hamish, “and start with the people there. I hope Patricia’s one of them.”

Patricia Wheeler was found sitting at a table on her own. She scowled when Hamish and Jimmy sat down opposite her. “I’ve already spoken to you,” she said, looking at Hamish.

“We’ve just discovered that Alice Patty was murdered,” said Jimmy.

Her face blanched under her make-up. “That can’t be true. She slit her wrists.”

“Aye, well, someone drugged her first and cut them for her. Now, was John Heppel having an affair with her?”

“I don’t know,” said Patricia. “I mean, she did haunt him. She was always turning up on location and bringing him sandwiches and coffee and hovering around him. He was charming to her, I’ll say that, which is more than…”

She bit her lip.

“What you’re trying to say,” said Hamish, “is that Heppel was usually rude and nasty to everyone.”

“No, I’m not saying that at all. John was a dear and I’ll miss him.”

“Did you have an affair with him?” asked Hamish.

“Of course not.”

“It’s best to tell the truth. We can find out, you know, sooner or later.”

“Well, we did have a bit of a fling. Things like that happen in show business. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

“Who else was he screwing?” asked Jimmy bluntly. “Apart from you and Alice Patty.”

“I don’t like your tone. No one, as far as I know.”

“Who ended your affair?” asked Hamish.

“It just burned out. We remained friends.”

“Did he dump you for Alice Patty, or was it the other way round?”

She got to her feet. “I find your questions offensive. Next time you want to speak to me, call my lawyer!”

Patricia stormed out.

Jimmy shook his head. “I’ll never understand women. By all accounts, Heppel was a bully and a bore and yet he managed to get his leg over.”

“Would you have even considered an affair with a woman like Alice Patty?” asked Hamish.

“God, no. That awful refeened accent. Mind you, I wouldn’t mind having a go at our Patricia. Still, let’s split up and talk to the luvvies. Give it two hours and I’ll meet you in the pub unless you’ve got anything at the station.”

“Not a drop. Herself finished it off this morning.”

♦

When they met up in the pub two hours later, both Hamish and Jimmy were feeling depressed. “Did you get the same guff?” asked Jimmy. “Everybody loved everyone else and they’re all one big happy family and they all just adored John Heppel.”

“Pretty much.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Jimmy. “There’s one connection between the village and Strathbane Television.”

“What’s that?”

“Alistair Taggart.”

“No. He’s been cleared, surely, and Heppel was murdered before Alistair had anything to do with television.”

“Think about it. Heppel had insulted him. He’s got a violent temper. He drinks.”

“Like you,” said Hamish as Jimmy downed his second whisky.

“Not like me. I’m as calm as a lamb. He went on television after Blair released him. He could have met Patty then.”

“He was at the writing class.”

“Can’t pinpoint the exact time of death. You know that, Hamish. He could have gone back there again, just before the class, and killed him.”

“He was sober at the class. Anyway, he’s more likely to have beaten John to death than to mess around with naphthalene. He uses a typewriter. I don’t think he’d know one end of a computer from another.”

“I’m going to have a talk to him. Want to come?”

“No, I’m going back to talk to the television people. I mean, Jimmy, if the script had been changed through several drafts, why didn’t they say so?”

“I gather this episode of Down in the Glen is to be featured as an in memoriam to Heppel. They’re not going to turn around and say most of it wasn’t his writing.”

“You’ve got a damn answer for everything,” said Hamish crossly. “See you later.”

When Hamish emerged, it was to find the vans had gone. The day had that white light it always gets in the Highlands just before darkness falls. He guessed they’d probably moved back to the Tommel Castle Hotel.

He collected his dog and drove off.