Death of a Bore

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

12

Good Lord, what is man! For as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks, With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all, he’s a problem must puzzle the devil.

—Robert Burns

Hamish phoned back to the police station and checked his messages. There was one from Kirsty. “I’ve got it,” she said.

He phoned the television station and asked to speak to her. “Where can we meet?” he asked.

“You promised me dinner.”

“So I did,” said Hamish. “I’ll meet you at eight o’clock in the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

But when he rang off, his mind was buzzing with the news that it had possibly been Paul Gibson who had been drinking with Jock Ferguson. Damn! He was slipping. He hadn’t asked when. He went back to the Thistle, but the barman couldn’t remember the precise evening, only that it had been about a week ago.

Hamish then phoned Elspeth. “I need your help.”

“Oh, really? I wondered when you were going to deign to talk to me.”

“Come on, Elspeth. I’ve been that busy. This might turn out to be a big story for you.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Strathbane, but I can be at the hotel in half an hour.”

“See you in the bar.”

♦

When Hamish entered the bar, Elspeth was sitting in a corner. She was wearing a tailored trouser suit and a white silk blouse. Her hair was smooth and shiny. Once again, he found himself missing the old Elspeth, who wore dreadful clothes and had frizzy hair. This new Elspeth seemed somehow unapproachable.

“Sit down, Hamish. What gives?”

“For the moment this is off the record,” he cautioned her. “Okay. Talk.”

He told her about Jock Ferguson and his suspicion that the forensic man had been drinking with Paul Gibson. Her odd silver eyes fixed on his face, Elspeth asked, “So where do I come in?”

“Gibson’s English. I want to get a bit of background on him. Do you think you could tell him you want to write a profile on him and find out what shows he’s worked on before? I don’t want to pull him in for questioning. If he’s our murderer, then he’s mad and dangerous.”

“Okay, Sherlock. He’s still in the lounge for the great-detective-reveals-all scene. When they break, I’ll catch him.”

There was a long silence. Hamish shifted uncomfortably. Then he said, “I don’t know how to handle us, Elspeth.”

“I know. But I’ve grown out of casual affairs, Hamish.”

“It wasn’t a casual affair.”

“But you didn’t want to make it permanent?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. If you looked like the old Elspeth, it would be easier to talk. But you look so sophisticated.”

“It’s still me underneath.”

“Let me have time to think, Elspeth.”

She looked at him sadly. “If you need time to think, Hamish Macbeth, then it means you don’t want to commit yourself to anything.”

“I’m not saying that. Please, Elspeth.”

“Okay. I’ll find out about Paul Gibson. Maybe we’ll talk when all this is over.”

“I’d like that.”

Two actors walked into the bar. Elspeth got to her feet. “They seem to be taking a break,” she said. “Where will you be?”

“Back at the police station.”

“I’ll phone you if I’ve got something.”

♦

Elspeth went through to the lounge and approached Paul Gibson. “I’m from the Daily Bugle,” she said. “I wonder if I might interview you.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Now?”

“Yes, now would be fine.”

They sat down in a corner of the lounge. “What’s this?” he said. “No tape recorder, no notebook?”

“I’ve a great memory, and I find either of those things puts people off.” Elspeth did actually tape interviews but saw no reason to waste tape on an interview that would never be published, and she did indeed have an excellent memory. “Just begin at the beginning and go on from there. What attracted you to show business?”

Paul seemed only too happy to talk. He had grown up in the East End of London. His family life had been unhappy. His father had run away when he was very small. He had spent a lot of his time at the cinema. After school he had managed to get a degree in media studies at Luton University and had got a job as a researcher at the BBC. He had progressed to script editor and then director. He had decided to freelance. He described the shows he had directed. There was a production of Vanity Fair and then a popular spy series. The spy series had been filmed in 1995. There was a gap until he began to direct a few soap operas starting in 1998, which had all been failures, Elspeth remembered.

“What were you doing between 1995 and 1998?” she asked.

“Oh, this and that,” he said airily. Elspeth did not press him. He said that when Harry Tarrant had phoned his agent and offered the job in the Highlands, he had been delighted to accept. “I’ve always been romantic about Scotland,” he enthused.

“Did you have any difficulties with John Heppel’s script? I mean, he was hardly a television writer.”

“Oh, I tweaked it a bit. John was happy. We got on just fine.”

Elspeth then let him talk on about himself and his brilliance as a director and finished by taking photographs of him.

Then she went up to her room and typed out everything he had said on her computer, printed it off, and took it down to the police station in Lochdubh.

“This last soap he directed, Spanish Nights, it didn’t run long, did it?” asked Hamish.

“It was a monumental failure. They even built a pseudo-village in Spain to use as the setting.”

“But this gap. What was the spy series?”

“It was called Betrayal. Filmed by Church Television. They do a lot of programmes for ITV. I’ll phone the office in London and see if they’ve got a contact.”

Hamish went into the kitchen, where he fed Lugs, lit the stove, and put on a kettle of water for coffee. Elspeth was on the phone for half an hour.

She finally joined him, her face flushed with excitement. “I got through to Church Television. I spoke to one of the producers. He remembers Paul. He was fired from the spy series after the third episode. He had been quarrelling the whole time with the producer, and then he punched him in the face, right on the set, calling him an amateur. He was fired and had a nervous breakdown. The company were very sympathetic. Said he’d been working very hard and it was due to stress.”

Hamish went through to the computer. “Let me get his statement. Here we are. He says he was back at his digs in Strathbane the whole evening of the murder. I’m going down there to question his neighbours.”

But when Hamish arrived at Paul’s address in Strathbane, it was to find that he rented the top half of a villa and that the people downstairs were away on holiday and none of the neighbours had noticed him coming or going.

He went back to Lochdubh, walked Lugs, and changed into his one good suit, then went to the hotel to meet Kirsty.

Her first words were, “Aren’t we going to get a drink at the bar first?”

“We’ll have one at the table,” said Hamish. He wanted to make the evening as short as possible so that he could study that script at his leisure.

She was wearing a skimpy top, which showed her bare midriff, and low-slung velvet trousers. She had a small diamond in her navel.

Hamish was always glad that there was a new maître d’ at the hotel to replace the Halburton-Smythes’ former butler, who had once filled that post. He had always sneered at Hamish.

There was a set menu, but Kirsty went straight to the à la carte. She ordered a lobster cocktail, to be followed by fillet steak. “I think we should have a bottle of white wine to start,” she said brightly, “and one of these nice reds to follow.”

“Aren’t you driving?”

“I took a minicab, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you drive me home.”

Hamish thought of his meagre bank balance. He ordered the set meal for himself. Kirsty ordered the wine. As Hamish would be driving, she drank most of it herself. She said, “You can look at the script later. This is my evening.”

And she chattered. She talked about her hair shampoo and about how she hoped to be a model. She talked about her diet – not much in evidence, thought Hamish sourly. She talked about her friends and their love life and somehow managed to drink and eat at the same time.

Hamish excused himself and said he had to go to the toilet. Instead, he signalled to the maltre d’, who followed him out of the dining room. “Peter,” said Hamish desperately, “I havenae enough money with me.”

“Tell you what,” said Peter. “I’ll say the bill’s on your account and you can make some arrangement with Mr. Johnson tomorrow when he comes on duty.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s going to be one very drunk young lady.”

“I know.”

Hamish returned to the table. Kirsty continued to drink and eat. Her voice became more slurred, and she began to press her foot against Hamish’s under the table. He jerked his chair back. She tried to take his hand. He pretended not to notice and put his hands on his lap. She finished her meal with a confection of strawberries, cream, and meringue, washed down with a half bottle of dessert wine.

“Now let’s see that script,” said Hamish over coffee. Kirsty waggled a finger at him and giggled. “Not yet.”

At the end of the meal Hamish had to help the staggering Kirsty out to the car park. She draped her arms around him and tried to kiss him, but he disengaged himself and helped her into the police Land Rover.

As he drove off, to his immense relief she fell asleep. He drove gently a little way and stopped. He reached across her to where she had put her briefcase on the floor; and gently extracted the script in its green folder and put it in the side pocket of the Land Rover. Then he sped off, driving as fast as possible to Strathbane. On the outskirts he woke her up and asked for directions.

Outside the block of flats where she lived, he helped her down. “Come in for a coffee,” she said.

“Sorry, I’ve got to get back.”

“No coffee, no script.”

Hamish helped her up to the front door of the flats. Then he turned and sprinted back to the Land Rover, jumped in, and drove off, leaving her staring wearily after him.

♦

Hamish told a protesting Lugs he would need to walk himself, let the dog out, and went into the police office, opened the script, and began to read. The opening said:

Wide shot. The village lies by the sea loch hiding its ancient Gaelic secrets behind closed doors. It is winter and during the long dark nights passions build up and old enmities fester. As Alphonse Karr so rightly put it, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.”

ANNE MACKENZIE and the laird walk along the street. Cut into tight close-up, then track and pan to the door of the pub.

Hamish frowned. He wished he knew more about scripts.

Lugs came in and sulkily slumped down at his master’s feet with a sigh. Hamish read on. How had Paul Gibson felt, he wondered, being asked to direct this flowery script where the author stated what camera angles he wanted as well?

He phoned the hotel and asked to speak to Elspeth. “Hamish, it’s after midnight,” she protested.

“I have the script. I could do with your help.”

“Oh, well, I’m awake now. Bring it up.”

“Can I bring Lugs?”

“Why not? The hotel allows dogs.”

Lugs pranced happily out to the Land Rover and waited, with his ridiculous plume of a tail wagging, to be lifted in.

♦

Elspeth opened her room door to them. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and her hair was tousled. Hamish felt a surge of the old desire, but her eyes were on the script under his arm.

“Come in,” she said. “Sit down and let’s have a look.”

She took the script from him and began to read. Hamish waited patiently. At last she put the script down on her lap and stared at him. “Harry Tarrant must be a right fool. This is rubbish.”

“You see,” said Hamish eagerly, “what I’m thinking is this. We’ve got a director who’s had a nervous breakdown, recovered, but been associated with failures. Down in the Glen has a big audience. He may have seen it as his chance. Then he gets this script. Do you know any television directors?”

“I know an up-and-coming one on Scottish Television. I think I’ve got his number in my book.”

“Phone him now!”

“Don’t be daft. At this time of night?”

Elspeth reluctantly got the number and phoned. Hamish heard her asking for a Willie Thompson. Then he heard her say, “In Inverness? Which hotel? Right Sorry to wake you.”

“He’s in Inverness filming a documentary on the new highland prosperity.”

“What’s that, I wonder?” said Hamish, thinking of the dinner bill.

“He’s at the Caledonian Hotel.”

“I’ll get down there first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll come with you. I’m not doing anything else, and Matthew is besotted with Freda and seems to have lost interest.”

“Can we go in your car? I took a risk driving the girl I got the script from back to Strathbane, and I don’t want Blair to see me on the road.”

“I don’t have my car. Matthew drove. I’ll take one of the hotel cars. What time? It’d better be early.”

“Seven in the morning?”

Elspeth groaned. “Right you are, copper. I’ll pick you up.”

♦

“Do you have to bring your dog?” demanded Elspeth the following morning as Hamish lifted Lugs into the backseat.

“He’s never any trouble, Elspeth.”

“That’s why you’ll never get married,” said Elspeth, driving off. “You’re married to your dog.”

“You can be a nasty bitch at times,” snapped Hamish, and they drove most of the way to Inverness in cold silence.

At the Caledonian Hotel they found Willie Thompson in the dining room, having breakfast.

Hamish told him that they wanted an expert to look at a television script and judge how a director would react. “You only need to read a few pages,” he pleaded.

Willie, a small man with a beard and moustache, sighed, adjusted his rimless spectacles, and began to read.

At last he said, “I’ve read enough. Who’s directing this?”

“Paul Gibson.”

“What! Paranoid Paul?”

“You know him?”

“I know his reputation. But this script would drive me mad. Who does this writer think he is telling the director which camera angles to use? And what’s all this crap about the village? How’s he supposed to film that? How on earth did Strathbane Television ever accept a script like this?”

“The boss, Harry Tarrant,” said Hamish, “was a friend of John Heppel.”

“Oh, the one that got murdered? After seeing this script, I’m not surprised.”

“Harry Tarrant compared it to Dostoyevsky.”

“The curse of directors of soaps is the Dostoyevsky script. Along comes some flowery, literary writer. The bosses are tired of people sneering at their soaps as dumbing down and trash, so they seize on some literary crap and think, that’ll show the critics.”

“You’ve been a great help,” said Hamish. “Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Willie, “but you’re wrong. Paul Gibson may be a flake, but murder?”

“I never said he was a murderer,” said Hamish.

♦

“So what do you do now?” asked Elspeth on the road back. “You’re never going to get a search warrant on the strength of this script.”

“I’ll think of something. Do you mind if we stop here for a bit? I’ve got to walk Lugs.”

“Oh, Hamish!”

♦

Hamish went back to the police station, made himself coffee, and sat down to think out a plan of action.

Then he began to wonder if Harry Tarrant, the executive drama producer, knew that the script had been changed.

Leaving Lugs this time after he had fed him, he drove off to Strathbane. The wind had shifted round to the north. He rolled down the window and sniffed. He could smell snow in the air.

At Strathbane Television he had to wait some time before he was able to see Harry Tarrant.

Hamish handed over the script. “Someone sent me the original script,” he said. “I wondered whether you knew that they were working on a different script.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’ve seen the script they’re working on. The storyline is vaguely the same, but that’s all.”

Harry picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Sally,” he said, “could you step along to my office?”

He turned to Hamish. “We’ll get this sorted out.”

Sally Quinn came in and stopped short at the sight of the script on Harry’s desk.

“This copper,” said Harry, “says you aren’t working from John’s script.”

“Well, we are, more or less,” said Sally, looking flustered. “John’s script as it stood was unworkable.”

“Why wasn’t I consulted?”

“We didn’t want to bother you. Paul said a few minor changes were necessary.”

“Bring me a copy of the script he’s using.”

Sally glared at Hamish as she went out.

♦

Paul Gibson was still in bed when the maid came in to clean his room. “Sorry, sir,” she said, backing out. “I’m that used to you being up early.”

“It’s all right. Come in. We’re having a late start.” He climbed out of bed and put on his dressing gown. The maid approached the bed with clean sheets. “It looks like snow,” she said.

“That’s all right. Some snow scenes might be nice.”

“It’s that exciting having the telly people here, sir.”

“Must be a very quiet life up here for you,” said Paul, lighting a cigarette.

“Not always. Our local policeman has solved some murders, and we had the telly and newspapers all over the village.”

Paul stiffened. “If he’s that good, why is he still a village bobby?”

“He says he likes it here, that’s why. Of course, we’re all saying in the village he should get married and settled down. We thought he might marry the schoolteacher, but she’s running around with that reporter from Glasgow. Mind you, Elspeth Grant is back. She’s a reporter, too, but she and Hamish were sweet on one another. Maybe something’ll come of that. Mind if I vacuum, sir?”

♦

Harry glared at the script Sally had just handed him. “What the hell’s the meaning of this?” he roared.

“Paul rewrote it to make it something he could work with.”

“Without telling me?” He buzzed his secretary. “Get me Paul Gibson on the phone. And get me that director, Johnny Fremont, who did some of the last shows and get him up here fast.”

He turned to Hamish. “Is there anything else?”

“Why did you choose Paul Gibson?”

“John recommended him.”

“So John Heppel knew him? When? Where?”

“I think he had written to John once wanting to dramatise his book. Paul wrote the occasional script as well.”

The phone rang and Harry picked it up. “Paul. You’re fired.”

Hamish would have liked to hear the rest of the conversation, but Harry waved him away.

♦

Hamish went out into a changed world. The grimy streets and buildings of Strathbane were covered in snow. Fine white snow blew horizontally across the parking lot.

He drove up onto the moors, driving slowly and carefully because the road ahead seemed to be gradually disappearing. Then he dimly saw the orange light of a snowplough in his rear-view mirror and pulled aside to let it pass. With a feeling of relief, he followed it as far as the Tommel Castle Hotel and swung off into the hotel car park.

Paul Gibson would be rattled at being fired. Hamish decided to interview him and see if he could get him to betray himself.

The television crew were trapped in the hotel because of the blizzard. Mr. Johnson came out to greet Hamish. “My guests are getting fed up with this lot,” he said. “At first they found it all very exciting, but now they’re complaining. Television people do swear a lot. It’s like living on a building site.”

“Is the director around?”

“You’ll find him in the games room. He was shouting and swearing. I told him I’d turn him out, snow or no snow, so he went in there, the last I saw of him.”

Hamish pushed open the door of the games room, originally the billiard room in the days when the castle had been a private home. The old billiard table was still there, but a table tennis table had been added, and shelves held board games such as Monopoly and Scrabble.

Paul Gibson was slumped in an armchair by the fireplace.

“What do you want?” he asked harshly as Hamish put his peaked hat on the billiard table and sat down opposite him.

“I want to ask you again where you were on the night John Heppel was murdered.”

“Minding my own business, and I suggest you do the same.”

“You hated his script,” said Hamish. “Harry Tarrant was not aware until today that you weren’t using John’s script.”

Paul’s eyes blazed hatred. “You! You told him. Why? What’s it got to do with a murder?”

“I think it’s got everything to do with the murder. You stole that van. I don’t think the police have yet looked thoroughly into your background, but if you had the know-how to hot-wire that van, I’ll swear that you were in trouble with the law sometime in your past. You knew that as long as John was alive, he’d make sure you stuck to his script. You went up there and somehow forced him to drink a concoction of naphthalene. You watched him die. When he finally did, your hatred wasn’t even abated. You poured ink into his mouth.

“Then you panicked. You cleaned up the vomit and scrubbed the floor. You wiped John’s face clean where the ink had run down his chin. Then you wiped out the computer files, and just to be sure, you put in some software that would overwrite everything on the hard disk. Maybe you’d never used that programme before, and you knew the forensic team would be back the morning after the murder to continue their search. I don’t know how you got hold of Jock Ferguson. But you persuaded him to forget about the computer so that maybe you could go back and get it. Did you promise him a part in the soap or something? But you were too frightened to go back.

“You must have had some uneasy moments when you heard the computer had gone missing and the police were searching for it.

“I think that before the murder you had threatened John Heppel, and I think Alice Patty knew about it and said she was going to the police. So you killed her and faked another suicide.”

Paul studied him in silence, his eyes quite blank. Then he said, “Have you put all this rubbish in a report to Strathbane?”

“Not yet. I haven’t any hard proof. But now I know it was you, I’ll dig and dig until I get it.”

“It’s snowing hard,” said Paul mildly. “You won’t get to Strathbane tonight.”

“I’ll get you,” said Hamish, rising to his feet. “And it won’t take me long.”

♦

Elspeth paced up and down in her hotel room. She was bored and restless. Matthew was somewhere with Freda. They should leave in the morning, but the blizzard was so bad that she doubted they would even get out of the car park.

Now that she was supposed to be returning to Glasgow, she wished she could stay in Lochdubh and pick up her old job.

In Glasgow she was just one of many reporters. When she had been working for the Highland Times, she had been pretty much her own boss. She realised with a shock that she missed the flower shows, the game fairs, and the Highland Games.

There was a knock at the door. Matthew at last, thought Elspeth. He should start to pack just in case the snow stops and the snowploughs can let us get on the road.

“Coming,” she shouted.

She went and unlocked the door. Paul Gibson stood there, his eyes blazing, holding a gun on her.

“Back into the room,” he said. He shut the door behind him. “Sit down by the phone.”

Elspeth sat down at the desk.

“Now listen to me carefully. Your boyfriend, Hamish Macbeth, is going to file a report saying he thinks I am the murderer. You will phone him now and tell him to drop it or I will shoot you. You will tell him if he tells the police and I see one policeman outside, I will shoot you. Do it now!”

Elspeth phoned the police station. When Hamish answered, she said, “Hamish, it’s me, Elspeth. Paul Gibson’s got a gun and he’s threatening to shoot me if you send anything about him to Strathbane. He says he’ll also shoot me if he sees one policeman outside the hotel.”

“Sit tight,” said Hamish urgently. “Don’t do anything to alarm him. Keep him talking.”

Elspeth rang off. “You can’t keep me here indefinitely,” she said, amazed her voice was steady. “To use a well-worn phrase, you won’t get away with this.”

“Oh, I will. You see, the Lone Ranger will come looking for you. I’ll shoot both of you and make it look like a lovers’ quarrel.”

Elspeth opened her mouth to tell him he was mad but shut it again. He had gone over the edge. Keep him talking.

“You knew Joha Heppel before, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I wrote to him once. I wanted to dramatise his book. I didn’t think much of it, but I thought there was enough there to make a dark drama. I wrote a lot of flattering guff I didn’t mean. That’s how he remembered me, and he asked Harry Tarrant if I could direct.”

“But why kill him? You could simply have gone to Tarrant and pointed out that the script was unworkable.”

“God, I tried. The silly bugger said, “You don’t know literature when you see it. If you can’t work with it, I’ll find a producer-director who can.” It was my big chance. Everyone in Scotland watches Down in the Glen. It was scheduled to be shown in England next year. No one was going to get in my way.”

Hamish, what on earth can you do? wondered Elspeth miserably.

♦

Hamish approached the back of the Tommel Castle Hotel on his snowshoes. He let himself in at the kitchen entrance, unstrapped the snowshoes, and propped them against the wall. Clarry, the chef, was enjoying a quiet glass of sherry and stared in surprise at Hamish.

“Clarry,” said Hamish urgently, “there’s a man with a gun in Elspeth’s room. Get the manager in here.”

Clarry hurried off and came back shortly with Mr. Johnson. “What’s this about a gunman?” asked the manager.

Hamish told him. “I need to get into Elspeth’s room. This castle is full of back passages and things. Any way I can get in there?”

The manager shook his head. “You’ll need to get a squad up from Strathbane.”

“Can’t do that. It’s Paul Gibson. If he sees so much as a uniform, he’ll shoot her. He’s got nothing to lose now. He’s been fired.”

♦

Upstairs, Elspeth fumbled in her handbag, which was on the desk.

“What are you doing?” demanded Paul.

“Looking for a cigarette.”

“Leave it.”

“Okay.”

But Elspeth had managed to switch on the small tape recorder she carried in her bag, and she left the bag wide open.

“Why mothballs?” she asked. “What put that idea in your head?”

“Because he was like a sodding great moth, batting against my light whenever I tried to do anything. I’d distilled a solution and held the gun on him till he drank it. Then when he was dying, I got into his computer and wiped out that rotten script. No one was going to complain about my script. They’d all had enough of John except Miss Mimsy, Alice Patty, burbling on about what a genius her dear John was.”

“So you had to kill her as well?”

“She phoned me up in tears and said that she was sure I had killed John, that John had told her I had threatened his life. I told her to sit tight and I would come round and explain everything. I told her I had proof that Patricia Wheeler had done it. She loved hearing that because she was still jealous of Patricia. I drugged a bottle of wine and took it round.”

I’m going to die, thought Elspeth miserably. I don’t think Hamish can get me out of this.

♦

“We could take a tray up and say, “Room service,” and put some drugged drink on the tray,” suggested Clarry.

“He’d just make her say to leave it outside the door,” said Hamish.

“I could say she had to sign for it, and when she opens the door, we could rush him.”

“He’d shoot her in the back. He’s deranged.”

“So how do we smoke him out?” asked Mr. Johnson.

Hamish stared at him and then said, “That’s it! You start the fire alarm, get whoever it is who has the keys to the television vans in the forecourt, and usher everyone into them so they don’t freeze to death. Clarry, we need something that makes really black smoke and those old–fashioned bellows from the lounge fire.”

♦

Paul had fallen silent, although the gun in his hand never wavered. At last he said, “Where’s that boyfriend of yours?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Elspeth wearily. “Didn’t it cross your mind he might not bother, that he might just be waiting for reinforcements from Strathbane?”

“Then you’re dead.”

Paul jumped as the fire alarm sounded through the hotel. Elspeth half rose. “Stay where you are,” he shouted.

They began to hear people running along the corridor. Faintly she could hear someone shouting, “Fire!”

There came a pounding at the door and then Matthew’s voice. “Elspeth, are you in there? The hotel’s on fire.”

Then Freda’s voice. “Come on, Matthew. She’s probably downstairs.” Then the sound of retreating footsteps.

“It’s not on fire,” said Paul. “It’s that copper thinking he can trick me into coming out.”

Keeping the gun trained on Elspeth, Paul went to the window and twitched aside the curtain. Down below, he could see figures hurrying through the blizzard and into the mobile units. Some were turning and pointing up at the building.

“It must be a trick,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” said Elspeth. “Look!”

She pointed at the door.

Acrid black smoke was beginning to seep under it. “We’ve got to get out of here,” shouted Elspeth. “The place really is on fire.”

“Stay where you are! No, open the window.”

Elspeth tried. “I can’t. It’s sealed shut.”

“Get to the door and unlock it.” Elspeth did as she was told. “Now stand back. I’m going to take a look. One move from you and I’ll kill you. You’ll see it’s a trick.”

Paul looked round into the corridor. It was filled with black smoke, and to his horror, he saw red flames leaping up at the end.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving. Get in front of me.” He dug the gun into her back. “Now move!”

Choking and gasping, they headed for the stairs. All the lights were out.

Suddenly a tall dark figure materialised and Paul’s wrist was seized in an iron grip.

“Run, Elspeth!” shouted Hamish.

Paul struggled and fought like the madman he had become. At the top of the stairs Hamish smashed Paul’s wrist down on the banister. He let out a cry of pain and dropped the gun, which fell down the stairwell.

Hamish grabbed him by the ankles and held the struggling, screaming director upside down over the stairwell.

Clarry’s calm voice sounded in Hamish’s ear. “Just pull him up and handcuff him and caution him, Hamish. There’s a good lad. No point in killing him.”

Hamish and Clarry pulled Paul back up. Hamish handcuffed him and cautioned him.

Somehow word had got around about what was really happening. The dishwasher had overheard the plan and had told the under-chef, who had told the maître d’, who had told the barman, and so when Paul was led handcuffed down the stairs, it was to find television cameras pointed at him, recording his arrest. He let out an unearthly yell and was still screaming when they locked him in the office and Hamish phoned Strathbane and asked for a police helicopter to lift them off.

He found Elspeth at his elbow. “Are you all right?” he asked. Her face was black with smoke.

“I feel a bit sick. I’ll be worse tomorrow when the shock sets in.”

“I should get you to a hospital. You’ll be suffering from smoke inhalation.”

“I’m fine. You’ve got your murderer and I’ve got a great story.”

“The trouble is,” said Hamish, “if he ever recovered his wits, he can deny the whole thing. It’s going to be one of those cases based on circumstantial evidence. Oh, we can get him for holding you at gunpoint, but if he gets a clever lawyer, the lawyer will try to persuade the jury that because of one crime, the police were fitting him up for another.”

Her silvery eyes gleamed. “Hamish, I’ve got him saying he did it on tape.”

“You darling! How? Where?”

“I told him I was looking in my handbag for a cigarette, and I switched on my tape recorder.”

“Could you go and get it? I’d better stay here outside the office just in case he tries to make a break for it.”

Elspeth darted off. Clarry, the chef, had reverted in manner to the days when he used to be on the police force. “Move along there,” he was saying to the onlookers. “There’s nothing to see. Guests, go back to your rooms, and you television lot go back to the lounge and Mr. Johnson will find you rooms for the night.”

Mr. Johnson came up to Hamish. “The snow’s stopped, but I’m getting all those mobile units moved out onto the road, or the helicopter won’t be able to land.”

“Where’s Matthew Campbell?” asked Hamish.

“He was snogging with the schoolteacher in the corner of the bar. Here he comes.”

“Where’s Elspeth?” asked Matthew.

“She’s probably up in her room filing the story of a lifetime. Didn’t you hear what was going on? She was held by the murderer at gunpoint.”

Freda came up and put her arm through Matthew’s. “What’s going on?”

“Come with me,” said Matthew. “I’ve been missing out on a great story.”

Hamish waited and fidgeted. What was taking Elspeth so long?

At last she appeared and handed him the tape. “It’s all there.”

“What kept you?”

“I was making a copy. He’s very quiet in there. Is he all right?”

Hamish unlocked the office door. Paul was sitting slumped in a chair, his handcuffed hands behind him. His eyes were vacant Hamish locked the door again.

“I think he’s lost it,” he said. “I think this is one that won’t stand trial. His lawyer will claim he’s unfit to stand because of insanity.”

“I’d better get back upstairs,” said Elspeth. “I’m going to have heavy expenses. My suitcase was open on the bed with my clothes in it, and they’re all soot-blackened. What did you use for the fire?”

“Clarry scorched a mixture of rubber and something on a stove, and we lit a fire in a steel bin at the end of the corridor. Are you sure you shouldn’t be going to hospital?”

“No, I’m fine. Got to go.”

Then Hamish heard the roar of a helicopter and went to the door of the hotel. The snow had stopped, but the blades of the helicopter were whipping up a blizzard of their own.

Jimmy Anderson and his colleague, Harry MacNab, were the first out, followed by policemen.

“He’s in the office, Jimmy,” said Hamish, “and here’s a tape of his confession. But he seems to have lost his wits, so I don’t think you’ll get much out of him.”

“Faking it?”

“I don’t think so. I think he was insane all along and now he’s gone over the edge.”

“You’ve solved this case. You’d better come back to Strathbane with us.”

“Would you mind handling it yourself, Jimmy? I’ve left my dog at the police station.”

“For heaven’s sake, Hamish.”

“I’ll send over a full report. Honest.”

“What exactly happened?”

In a few brief sentences Hamish outlined how he had begun to suspect Paul, about the kidnapping of Elspeth and the rescue.

“Right. I’ll take him in. Don’t you want to come back with us and rub Blair’s nose in it?”

“No, I’m fine. You go ahead.”

“He’ll try to take the credit.”

“Let him.”

“Hamish, you could get that friend of yours, Angela, to look after Lugs. You don’t want Daviot to hear how you solved the case in case he promotes you out of Lochdubh.”

“Maybe.”

“I think there’s more than one madman here. Anyway, get that statement over as soon as possible.”

“Where is Blair, by the way?”

“He’d checked out for the night. I’ll wake him up when we get back.”

♦

Hamish retrieved his snowshoes from the kitchen and strapped them on outside. But when he reached the road, he was able to take them off again. The road had been ploughed and gritted again. The cities of the south might wait in vain for a snowplough or gritter, but the little roads of Sutherland were well serviced. He trudged down to the police station.

When he switched on the kitchen light, nothing happened. He fished out an old hurricane lamp and lit it Lugs woke up and demanded food. Hamish gave him a dog biscuit instead. Lugs was getting too fat and had been fed already.

He felt bone-weary, but he knew that with a power cut, his computer wouldn’t work and he would have to go to Strathbane, after all.