Death of a Bore

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

13

In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach.

—Oliver Goldsmith

Hamish peered up at the blazing stars as he drove along. The winds of Sutherland were like stage curtains, whipping back the clouds to reveal another scene. A small pale blue moon cast an eerie light over the white landscape.

When he crested a rise and saw Strathbane below him, it had been sanitised by snow, lights twinkling through the whiteness like a Christmas card. His parents had told him that Strathbane had once been a prosperous fishing port but that a combination of highland laziness and brutal European Union fishing quota had sent it into decline. Then a new motorway from the south had been built, allowing drugs and villains to travel north in comfort and set up new markets.

He parked outside police headquarters and went up to the detectives’ room. Jimmy hailed him. “They’re keeping him under suicide watch for the night until the police psychiatrist interviews him in the morning. Why did you decide to come?”

Hamish told him about the power cut. “Well, grab a computer and start typing,” said Jimmy.

As he typed his report, Hamish could only marvel that his obsession with that script had paid off. He had once been on a case where a scriptwriter had been murdered by an author. What made some writers and would-be writers so dangerously vain and unstable? Maybe they were like actors, always craving attention, not quite grown up.

Hamish just wanted to get the report finished and get home. It was a relief to think that Superintendent Daviot would be safely home in bed, and by the time he turned up for work in the morning, Blair would be ready and waiting to take the credit.

He did not know that at that very moment Blair was closeted upstairs in the super’s office, talking to Daviot.

“This is good work,” Daviot was saying, “and it was right of you to wake me up.”

Blair thought quickly. It would be a tortuous business trying to hide the fact that it was Macbeth who had solved the two murders. But on the other hand, if Macbeth got the kudos, Daviot would once more want him transferred to Strathbane. Before Macbeth could be promoted, there would be assessments and exams. Macbeth would hate that. And with any luck, while it was all going on, the police station at Lochdubh would be closed down.

“As a matter of fact,” said Blair with the oily smile he always had on his face when talking to his superior, “it was Macbeth that solved the whole thing.”

He outlined how Hamish had found the original script and had leapt to the conclusion that the murderer was Paul Gibson, about Elspeth being held hostage, and about her rescue.

“So I was thinking, sir, that Macbeth is wasted up in that village. We could do with him here.”

Daviot studied Blair’s face. He knew that Blair loathed Hamish and that his suggestion was prompted by spite. But Blair was the type of officer that Daviot felt comfortable with. He was always polite and a good member of the Freemasons. One always knew where one was with men like Blair, whereas the maverick Macbeth was another thing entirely.

“Where is Macbeth?” he asked.

Daviot’s secretary, Helen, came in at that moment with a tray of coffee. Women’s liberation had passed Daviot by, and he had summoned Helen to headquarters and when she arrived ordered her to make coffee.

“I believe Hamish Macbeth is in the detectives’ room, sir.”

“Good, good. Send him up. I’ll have a word in private with him.”

♦

Hamish had just finished his report when he got the summons to go upstairs. His heart was in his boots. Blair had just come in and shouted, “Grand work, Macbeth. I told the super how well you’d done.”

Daviot surveyed Hamish when he entered. Hamish needed a shave, red bristles were showing on his chin, his shirt was dirty at the collar, and he smelled of burning rubber.

“Sit down, Hamish,” said Daviot. “Helen, a cup of coffee for the officer.”

Helen, who disliked Hamish, slammed a cup of coffee down in front of him so that some of the liquid spilled into the saucer.

When Helen had left, Daviot said, “You have done very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Mr. Blair agrees with me that talents such as yours are wasted in a highland village.”

“With all respect, sir, I was able to solve these murders because I was able to use my own initiative. If I were in Strathbane, I would just be another policeman and would have to take orders. I might have to spend a lot of my time on traffic duty.” And Blair would see to that, thought Hamish gloomily.

Daviot leaned forward. “But if you were to become a detective, that would be another matter.”

“If I left Lochdubh and you closed down me police station, that would leave Cnothan and Lochdubh without a police officer. Who would then check on the frail and elderly in the outlying crofts?”

“I am sure that could all be done from here.”

“I don’t think the press would like it either,” pursued Hamish. “The first time an old lady up on the moors has a fall in her croft house and is left lying there for twenty-four hours, the papers would take you to the cleaners…sir.”

Daviot frowned. He knew Hamish had friends in the press, not to mention that girlfriend of his who worked for the Bugle.

“And,” went on Hamish eagerly, “do you know of anyone in Strathbane who ever wants to go north of here even on their off days? They go down to Inverness or Perth.”

“Detective Chief Inspector Heather Meikle is anxious to get you transferred to Inverness.”

“Sir, if that were to happen, I would end up suing the chief inspector for sexual harassment.”

“Well, let’s leave that alone for the moment,” said Daviot quickly. He knew of Heather’s man-eating reputation. “There is going to be a great deal of press coverage over this.”

“I’m not good at that at all,” said Hamish. “The press always likes a senior officer to brief them.”

Daviot visibly brightened. He loved being on television.

Helen put her head round the door. “Sir, the press are in the front hall and demanding a statement. Mr. Blair suggested that PC Macbeth might like to address them.”

“No, no, I’ll deal with them myself.”

“With your permission, sir,” said Hamish, “I’d really like to get home. It’s been a long, hard day.”

“Very well, Hamish. Off you go.”

♦

Hamish made his way quietly out of police headquarters by the back door and walked round to the car park. He could see that the front hall of the building was already bright with television lights.

He got in and drove off. He felt relief flooding him as he headed up onto the moors. At one point he braked hard as a deer skittered across the road in front of him and leapt off into the snow.

Then outside Lochdubh, he pulled into a lay-by on the one-track road to let a procession of television vans pass him.

“Go on,” he muttered. “Get the hell out of my village.”

As he descended into the village, he saw that the street lights were still out. He searched for his keys outside the police station and found he had forgotten them. He tried the handle of the kitchen door and found he had forgotten to lock it. And to think I give lectures on home security, he thought.

He lit the hurricane lamp again and then the wood stove. He realised he was ravenously hungry and could not remember when he had last eaten. Probably that dinner with Kirsty for which he still had to pay. He got two lamb chops out of the fridge, put a frying pan on the stove, and waited for the chops to cook. Lugs sat up and begged, but Hamish gave him another dog biscuit and told him for the hundredth time that he was on a diet.

The stove had a back boiler, so he knew there would be enough hot water for a shower by the time he finished his meal.

He ate, the kitchen grew warm, the hurricane lamp threw a soft light, and he was beginning to feel drowsy when he heard a wail from outside. Lugs barked and his coat stood on end.

“Good boy. Wait there,” said Hamish.

He opened the kitchen door and looked out. A large cat lay on its side in the snow. It let out a wail again.

Hamish went back in and got the hurricane lamp, tying the bristling, barking Lugs to the table leg.

He bent down over the cat. He discovered it had a broken leg. He was sure it was a wild cat with its big head and wide face and yellow eyes now full of pain.

“Will this damn night never end?” he groaned.

He went in and got a blanket and lifted the cat onto it. Its body was lighter than it should be. He thought the animal, unable to hunt, was probably starved. He wondered just how long the leg had been broken.

Shutting the police station, he made his way along to Dr. Brodie’s and banged on the door.

He waited shivering because he had forgotten to put on his coat. The door finally opened and Angela stood there holding a candle. “What on earth…”

“It is this damn cat,” said Hamish. “It is injured.” And then to Angela’s horror, he burst into tears.

“Hamish, come in. What’s up?”

Hamish wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “It has been the stressful day, Angela. I caught the murderer and I’m so tired, but I found this cat outside my door and wondered if the doctor could do anything for it.”

Dr. Brodie appeared at the foot of the stairs wrapped in his dressing gown and listened impatiently while Angela outlined Hamish’s predicament.

“I’m not a vet, Hamish, and that looks like a wild cat. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look at me like that. I’ll see what I can do. Bring the beast through to the surgery. I’ll need to give it a shot of tranquilliser. Angela, start the generator so we get some light. We didn’t bother with it because we were going to bed.”

Hamish carried the cat through to the surgery. “That’s right. Lay it on the table there. Angela, Hamish looks a wreck. Take him through and give him a stiff drink.”

Angela led Hamish through to the cluttered living room and went off and started the generator. Then she came back to the living room and raked the dead ashes out of the fire, put on paper and kindling and logs, and struck a match. She went into the kitchen and came back with a cup of kerosene and threw the contents on the fire. It exploded into flames with a roar. “I never could be bothered waiting for the things to light,” she said. She poured Hamish a stiff brandy. “Get that down you. I know it’s not the thing to give people in shock, but I think you’re exhausted and need a bracer.”

“I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never cried before.”

“Tell me what happened.”

So Hamish told her the story, ending up by saying, “I thought I’d lost Elspeth.”

“Maybe you should marry her, Hamish.”

“She’s changed. She’s all citified. She’d never fit in here now.”

“You won’t know until you ask her.”

“Maybe.”

Dr. Brodie came in. “I put a splint on the beast. I’ll take it to the vet in the morning, and he’ll put it in plaster. Why didn’t you wake him?”

“Because both you and Angela love cats,” said Hamish.

“And what are you going to do with this one when it’s recovered? A wild cat will never make a house pet. And it would probably kill Lugs.”

“If the vet can mend it, I’ll take it up on the moors and get rid of it. Now I’m going home.”

♦

Wearily Hamish showered and put on his pyjamas. He climbed into bed, and Lugs climbed in after him and stretched out at his feet.

He plunged down into vivid dreams of fire and smoke and murder.

♦

In the morning Hamish called headquarters and said he was taking the whole weekend off unless there was any major crime he had to cover. The snow was sparkling under a pale sun as he walked Lugs along the waterfront. He called on Angela and was told that Dr. Brodie was at the vet’s with the cat. Hamish made his way there.

The vet, Hugh Liddesdale, was not pleased to see him. “Brodie’s just left. A wild cat, Hamish! A Felis silvestris grampus!”

“Can I see it?”

“Come along.” Hugh, a small fussy man who thought all cats were an indulgence and only favoured working animals like sheepdogs, led him through to a line of cages. The wild cat was sleeping.

“I got it to take some food. It’s a splendid beast, I’ll grant you that.”

“Are there any pure wild cats left in the Highlands?”

“I think they’ve all been mongrelised over the centuries. But this one’s still a big creature.”

The cat was larger than a household one, with a big proud head, tabby markings, and a bushy tail with two black rings at the tip.

“Do you think it’ll make it?”

“The break was clean and recent.”

“How did it get starved, then?”

“Well, it’s a mystery for you to solve. The only thing I can think of is that someone caught this and kept it and ill-treated it. I wouldn’t advise you to keep it.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that to Lugs. When it’s healed, I’ll let it loose on the moors.”

“This is going to cost you, Hamish.”

Hamish sighed, thinking of the dinner bill at the Tommel Castle Hotel.

Hugh threw him a sympathetic look. “I tell you what. When you get my bill, just pay it off weekly.”

“Thanks, Hugh.”

“Of course, a nice wild salmon would defray the cost.” Everyone in Lochdubh knew that Hamish occasionally poached salmon.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Lugs sat silently at Hamish’s feet, staring curiously at the cat. Hamish was amazed that the dog neither bristled nor barked.

“Aye, well, I’ll leave you to it,” said the vet.

Hamish went back to the police station but found he could not enjoy the peace and quiet. The thought of that computer up in the loft was haunting him. The telephone rang. He reluctantly answered it.

It was Elspeth. “Hamish, I’m leaving this afternoon. We should talk.”

“Come here in an hour’s time,” said Hamish.

He climbed up to the loft and collected the computer. “It’s a cold day, Lugs, but we’re going for a row in a boat.” Lugs wagged his tail almost as if he knew what Hamish was saying. Lugs loved going out on the loch.

Hamish put the computer in a plastic shopping bag and walked along to the pub with Lugs. He found Archie Maclean propping up the bar. The little fisherman was dressed in his usual tight clothes. His wife was a fanatical housekeeper and boiled all the clothes in a copper so that everything that Archie wore had shrunk.

“Can I take your rowboat out, Archie?”

“It’s a right cold day, Hamish. Won’t be much good for the fishing.”

“I feel like getting a bit of exercise and there’s nothing like a good row.”

“Help yourself. You know where it is.”

Hamish went down to the beach to where the boat was tied up at the foot of stone steps leading down from the harbour. He lifted Lugs in, settled himself, and picked up the oars.

He rowed and rowed to the middle of the loch, feeling all the tension leaving his body. He would talk to Elspeth and see what they could work out.

When he judged he was far enough out, he slipped the bag with the computer over the side and watched it spiral down into the icy waters of the sea loch.

Then he glanced at his watch. He had better row back fast or he would miss Elspeth.

He was just nearing the shore when he saw, to his horror, Heather Meikle standing outside the police station clutching a bottle. He rowed quickly round the far side of the harbour until he was out of sight.

♦

“What are you doing here?” Elspeth asked Heather.

“I’m waiting for Hamish. We have a lot to talk about. Where is he?”

“He may have been called to Strathbane.”

“His Land Rover’s still here. I’ll wait.”

“I have an appointment with him,” said Elspeth.

Heather glared. “Well, as his superior officer, I think my visit comes first.”

Matthew drove up and honked the horn. “Are you coming, Elspeth? We’d better get on the road.”

Elspeth gave a little shrug and joined Matthew in the car.

“No sign of lover boy?” asked Matthew.

“Shut up and drive. You’ve got my case in the back, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

They drove a little way in silence. Elspeth twisted her head and watched Lochdubh disappearing behind her.

“You know, Matthew,” she said, “I’ve been thinking of asking Sam for my old job back.”

“God, you should have told me!”

“Why?”

“Freda and I are going to be married, and I asked Sam for a job and he’s given me one.”

“Matthew. He can’t take on both of us.”

“Look at it this way: I’m getting married and you aren’t.”

“No, I’m not,” said Elspeth in a small sad voice.

♦

Hamish finally tied the rowboat up at other steps on the far side of the harbour. He carried Lugs up and made his way to the pub. Archie was sitting at a table in the corner, playing dominoes.

“Archie, another favour,” said Hamish. “Detective Chief Inspector Heather Meikle is outside the police station. She might be waiting in her car. Could you tell her I’ve gone off to Inverness clubbing with Freda? And your boat’s at the foot of the steps on the far side of the harbour. I didn’t want her to see me.”

“All right, Hamish. Back in a tick.”

Archie made his way to the police station. He went to a car that was parked in front of it and peered into the driver’s side. Heather Meikle had a bottle of whisky and a glass and was just helping herself to another drink. “What is it?” she snapped. “What do you want?”

“Hamish Macbeth has gone off to Inverness to go clubbing with our schoolteacher.”

“Rats!”

Heather drained her glass in one long gulp. She screwed the top onto the bottle and put glass and bottle on the floor. Archie drew back as she drove off.

Then he returned to report to Hamish.

“I hope that’s the last I’ll see of her,” said Hamish. He went to the police station, and although it was only late afternoon, he fell on the bed with his clothes on and plunged back down into sleep.

Just before he had gone to sleep, he vowed to ring Elspeth on her mobile and explain what had happened.

But he did not awake until six o’clock the following morning.

♦

Jimmy Anderson phoned him later in the morning. “Was our Heather over at Lochdubh to see you yesterday?”

“Aye. But I kept out o’ sight.”

“She had a crash.”

“Oh, God. Where?”

“On the Lochdubh-Strathbane road. She found the only tree by the road and crashed right into it. She was as drunk as a skunk.”

“Is she seriously hurt?”

“Not a scratch. But her alcohol intake was so great they pumped her out, and they’re keeping her in Strathbane Hospital for observation.”

“I should maybe have seen her, but, man, I was frightened that that one would eat me alive. Is Paul Gibson fit to be interviewed?”

“No. The psychiatrist says his mind’s gone. We’ve been ferreting into his background. Seems he once worked on a police series, and they had a man there showing the actors how to break in to a car. That must have been how he learned to hot-wire that van. What are you doing now?”

“I’m still off duty, and I plan to eat and sleep.”

Hamish phoned Elspeth on her mobile. It was switched off. He tried her flat in Glasgow and got an answering service. He did not want to leave a message. He would try her later.

He took himself and Lugs along to the Italian restaurant, and he ate a large meal while the waiter, Willie Lamont, led Lugs off to the kitchen to spoil the dog with a large helping of osso bucco.

When he returned to the police station, he checked his messages. There was one from Elspeth. “It was typical of you not to turn up,” she said. “Face up to it. You don’t want to marry me. In fact, I don’t think you want to marry anyone.”

Hamish felt guilty and ashamed because deep down he felt a little surge of relief.