Death of a Bore hm-21

by M C Beaton

  “If John Heppel upset everyone here so much, then he must have upset a lot of people in his past.”

  “Yes, but he wasn’t murdered in Glasgow, he was murdered here.”

  “He also did some work for Strathbane Television. Some sort of script. He told me he had done a script for Down in the Glen.”

  “Have you seen that programme? It’s a lowland Scots idea of the Highlands. All the women walk around in tartan shawls and the crofters in kilts. I mean, it’s hardly high literature.”

  “I think anything to do with television drew that man like a magnet. I’d like to take a trip over there, but no doubt Blair will be on the scene tomorrow to make sure I’m doing nothing other than chapping at doors and interviewing all the people who weren’t at the writing class. I’d really like to know exactly how he was killed. But the autopsy will take a couple of days, and then the report will go to the procurator fiscal. Let me know as soon as you hear.”

  “Keep the whisky coming and I’ll let you know anything.”

  ♦

  Two days later Superintendent Peter Daviot received a visit from Professor Jane Forsythe.

  “This is a most unusual murder,” she began. “Have you got the report from the procurator fiscal?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t read it yet.” And in answer to her raised eyebrows, he said defensively, “I’ve had a lot of work this morning.”

  “I would like to go over to Lochdubh to discuss the case with that policeman.”

  “Detective Chief Inspector Blair?”

  “No, not that oaf. The tall one with the red hair ”

  “That’ll be Hamish Macbeth. Why him?”

  “Because he has a shrewd intelligence. Besides, I don’t like Blair’s patronising attitude.”

  “He is a good detective.”

  “Nonetheless, I would like to speak to that policeman. What’s his name again?”

  “Hamish Macbeth.”

  ♦

  Hamish had crept into his police station over the back field for a cup of tea. Somewhere out on the waterfront, Blair was pompously addressing the press.

  The kettle had just boiled when there came a knock at the front door. Hamish assumed it was some reporter or other because all the locals knew to use the kitchen door. But his highland curiosity drove him to tiptoe to the front door and peer through the spyhole. He recognised Professor Forsyth. He shouted through the letter box. “Could you come to the side door? This one sticks with the damp.”

  He went through and opened the kitchen door.

  “I have your superior’s permission to call on you,” said the professor.

  “Mr. Blair?”

  “No, not him. Mr. Daviot.”

  “Please come in,” said Hamish. “I am just making some tea. Would you like a cup?”

  “Please.”

  “Sit down. Milk and sugar?”

  “Both.”

  Hamish searched desperately for a milk jug and then just put the bottle on the table. Then he fished in his trouser pocket and found some little packets of sugar he had taken from a restaurant table.

  When he had poured her a cup of tea, he asked eagerly, “How did he die?”

  “Mothballs.”

  “Mothballs!”

  “Yes, naphthalene poisoning.”

  “But he wouldn’t have sat there and crunched mothballs.”

  “Exactly. He had a weak heart.”

  “Wait a bit. Surely a poison like that would induce vomiting?”

  “It did. Someone cleaned him up and scrubbed the floor. It’s a stone-flagged floor, but we found some traces between the stones.”

  “There were rugs on the floor when I was there.”

  “Indeed. Our killer must have taken them away.”

  “And the ink?”

  “The only way I can think to explain it is this: Perhaps the mothballs were melted by heat into black liquid. The liquid was mixed with whisky. Say someone held a gun on him and forced him to drink the mixture. When he started to vomit, his attacker watched him until he died and then poured ink into the mouth. Rage over, the killer suddenly decided to fake a suicide and closed the mouth and wiped off the excess ink. Then he scrubbed away the vomit and took away the rugs after typing that suicide note on the computer.

  “I got John Heppel’s medical records. He suffered from high blood pressure and his heart was weak. I should think he died very quickly. There would not be much vomit. I decided to call on you because it is the most interesting case I have come across. So hate-filled and elaborate. I saw the villagers attacking him on television.”

  “It can’t be one of them,” protested Hamish.

  “Why not?”

  “I can just about imagine one of them lashing out, but this one was planned.”

  “Do you know anyone in Lochdubh who would have mothballs?”

  “About everyone, I should think. I’ve got them myself. I found my uniform has moth holes in it a while back, so I bought some mothballs from Patel’s grocery.”

  “But surely it must be someone in the village. This tea is very good, by the way.”

  “It’s the water. What about Strathbane? Heppel was doing something for television there. I’d like a word with them, but I fear Mr. Blair would not permit it.”

  “Give me a minute,” she said. Professor Forsyth took out her mobile phone and walked outside the police station.

  After a few minutes she came back. “I’ve just had a word with Mr. Daviot. He says he will get Jimmy Anderson to meet you there.” She grinned. “Mr. Blair is to continue to interview the villagers. Any more of that tea?”

  ♦

  The Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, were ushered into the mobile police unit parked on the waterfront. Blair was sitting behind a desk, having finished with his press interview.

  He eyed them with disfavour, thinking they would both look well in a production of Arsenic and Old Lace. They were identical twins with tightly permed white hair and thick glasses. Both wore long tweed coats smelling of mothballs.

  “Sit down, ladies,” barked Blair.

  They sat down primly on two hard chairs and faced him.

  A rising gale outside shrieked around the mobile police station.

  “I hope you’ve got this van well anchored down, anchored down,” said Jessie. “The wind’s awfy strong, awfy strong.”

  “Forget about the wind,” barked Blair. “Why did you murder John Heppel?”

  “We didn’t, you silly man,” said Nessie.

  “Where were you on the Monday night when John Heppel was murdered?”

  “At what time would that be?”

  “Between five in the evening and ten.”

  “That’s easy,” said Nessie smugly. A great buffet of wind rocked the mobile police station, and the sisters held on to the edge of the desk.

  “I said that’s easy,” shouted Nessie above the shriek and roar of the wind. “As representatives of the Lochdubh Mothers’ Union, we were visiting the Strathbane Mothers’ Union. We took the bus to Strathbane at four-thirty, and we didn’t get back until after ten.”

  “I’ll check your alibi,” said Blair.

  Both sisters rose to their feet.

  “Oh, you do that, you daft auld man, auld man,” said Jessie.

  “I’ll hae the pair of you for insulting a police officer.” Blair got up as well.

  At that moment there was a tremendous howling, shrieking sound approaching down the loch.

  The sisters, who knew the terrors of the sudden Sutherland storms which sometimes came roaring in from the Atlantic, scampered for the door and flung it open and escaped onto the waterfront.

  A few moments after they had left, a mini-tornado picked up the mobile police van and threw it like a child’s toy into the loch before roaring on up and dying on the mountains.

  Alistair Taggart, who had been sheltering in a doorway, ran across the road and down the steps to the pebbly beach. He stripped off down to his underpants, waded into the loch
, and began to swim.

  Blair was struggling and gasping. “I cannae swim,” he choked out.

  Alistair grabbed him as he was about to sink. “Lie still,” he shouted, “and I’ll pull you in.”

  Two constables who had been with Blair were already battling for the shore. The press had erupted out of the local bar and were busy filming as the wind howled and roared.

  Blair was carried by the villagers into the pub.

  Jessma Gardener, soaked and shivering, held out a microphone to Alistair, who was being wrapped in blankets. “You’re a hero. What is your name?”

  “Alistair Taggart.”

  “What do you do, Alistair?”

  Alistair looked straight into the camera lens. “I am an author,” he said. “I write in the Gaelic.”

  ♦

  Hamish found Jimmy in high good humour when he arrived at police headquarters in Strathbane. “Hamish, you’ve got to look at this video I made of the lunchtime news.”

  “I’m anxious to get started.”

  “You cannae miss seeing this.” Jimmy slotted in a video. “Sit yourself down, laddie, and be prepared for the show of the century.”

  The windswept waterfront with the police mobile unit appeared. “This is an amateur video from Mr. Patel,” said Jimmy. “The press were all in the pub at the beginning of the action.”

  Hamish saw the mobile police unit begin to rock dangerously. The door opened and the Currie sisters hurtled out. The wind propelled them at great speed along the waterfront. Then there was an almighty roar, and the camera swung to catch a black funnel racing down the loch. Hamish watched, fascinated, as the mobile unit was lifted up like a toy and thrown into the loch. Then he recognised Alistair Taggart running across the road.

  The camera work became more expert as the Strathbane cameraman took over. Jimmy and Hamish watched as Blair was rescued. Then the scene switched to the pub, and there was Alistair Taggart. “His obsession for his writing must have taken over from his obsession with the booze,” commented Hamish. Alistair’s normally drink-swollen face was lean and craggy. Alistair made his statement about being a writer and then shrugged off praise from Jessma on his bravery. Then the camera swung to show a shot of a wet and miserable Blair wrapped in blankets.

  Jimmy switched off the video. “It’s a pity the auld bastard didn’t drown. Let’s go.”

  ♦

  Down in Edinburgh, literary agent Blythe Summer was giving last–minute instructions to his secretary. “You hold the fort while I’m away. If I can sign up this Gaelic writer, I think we might make a killing.”

  His secretary, Maggie Gillespie, looked doubtful. “Who on earth can read Gaelic today?”

  “Oh, it’s become a sort of cult. There are classes all over the place now. There’s a hotel up there. Book me in.”

  ♦

  Hamish had been at Strathbane Television before during a murder investigation. As he and Jimmy walked through the doors, he felt as he had felt before: that they were entering some sort of closed world. He knew the executive staff had all been changed since the last takeover.

  At the desk they asked to speak to Harry Tarrant, the drama executive, and were told to take a seat and wait.

  “The higher up they are,” said Hamish gloomily, “the longer you have to wait. Have you seen Down in the Glen, Jimmy? Oh, I forgot. They usually only show sports in pubs.”

  “I don’t spend my life in pubs,” said Jimmy. “Man, I thought you’d be in a better humour after seeing that video.”

  Hamish shrugged. “I don’t know what it is about this place, but it gives me the creeps. Maybe it’s because there are so many egos bottled up in the same building.”

  “Come on, you crabbit copper. I thought that Jessma Gardener was pretty nice.”

  “Maybe.”

  A secretary approached them and said in accents of stultifying gentility, “Mr. Terrent will see you now.”

  “I thought his name was Tarrant,” said Hamish maliciously.

  She did not deign to reply but led them through double glass doors to a lift, ushered them in, and pressed the button for the fifth floor. On the fifth floor they followed her through a long corridor to a door at the end. She knocked. A voice said, “Come!”

  I hate people who say “Come,” thought Hamish.

  She opened the door. “The pelice er heah, Mr. Terrent.”

  A small man with a large black beard stood up from behind a massive desk. “That will be all, Miss Patty. Oh, wait a minute. I am sure the gentlemen would like some coffee.”

  “Please,” said Jimmy.

  “Good, good. Sit down. Two coffees, Miss Patty.”

  “What ever happened to women’s lib?” asked Hamish when Miss Patty had retreated. “I thought it was no longer politically correct to order secretaries to fetch coffee.”

  “Bugger political correctness,” said Harry. “That’s all old hat. Women have finally woken up to the fact that they are subservient. Now, how can I help you? Is it about poor John?”

  “It appears he was murdered,” said Jimmy. “We wondered if he had bad relations with anyone here.”

  “You surprise me,” said Harry. “We are one big happy family here. How can you even think such a thing? You saw the hate in those villagers’ faces.”

  “Aye,” said Hamish. “But you see, I know these villagers very well, and I cannot think one of them could commit such an elaborate murder.”

  “You keep calling it murder,” said Harry. “Last heard, poor John had left a suicide note.”

  “We believe he was murdered with naphthalene,” said Hamish.

  “What’s that?”

  “You get it from mothballs.”

  “Then it must have been someone in Lochdubh. The whole place is mothballed. I went there once and I thought, set your watch back one hundred years.”

  The door opened and Miss Patty came in carrying a tray with coffee jug, milk and sugar, and cups.

  “Anyway,” went on Harry, “I simply cannot believe that anyone would want to murder John Heppel.”

  Miss Patty dropped the tray with a crash. Milk and coffee spilled over the carpet.

  “You stupid girl,” roared Harry. “Clean that mess up and get out of here! No, on second thought, leave it until the police have left.”

  “I’m so sorry,” wailed Miss Patty.

  “Sod off,” said Harry brutally.

  He turned to Jimmy and Hamish. “Where was I? Ah, yes, John. He was working on a script for us for Down in the Glen. Magnificent stuff. He was working on a second draft because the director wanted a few changes.”

  “Who is the director?” asked Hamish.

  “An English chap called Paul Gibson.”

  “May we speak to him?”

  “Not today. He’s up round John O’Groat’s way. On location.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Hamish produced a card. “Would you please ask him to phone me? And I would like to see the script.”

  Harry buzzed his secretary. When she appeared, Hamish noticed she had been crying. “Get me John Heppel’s script for Down in the Glen,” ordered Harry.

  “Mr. Gibson has it with him.”

  “What’s he doing carrying it around?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure.”

  “Okay, get lost. I’ll call you.”

  Miss Patty went out.

  “Was it a good script?” asked Hamish while Jimmy threw him a bored look, wondering at all the questions.

  “As I said, it was magnificent. I tell you, he had the right idea. Just because it’s a soap doesn’t mean that we can’t have a literary script.”

  “And what was the plot?” asked Hamish.

  For the first time, Harry looked uncomfortable. “Well, it was about a murder.”

  “Describe it.”

  “There’s this brilliant writer, and all the other writers are jealous of him and he begins to receive death threats. He moves to the Highla
nds and falls in love with Annie, one of our main characters, who is being raped by the laird. It looks like suicide because the gun is found in his hand.”

  “How original,” said Hamish dryly. “I’ll bet someone noticed he was left-handed but the gun was in his right hand.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Just intuition,” said Hamish sarcastically.

  “Anyway, the writing was pure Dostoyevsky.”

  “You mean the man who wrote The Idiot?”

  “Amazing. A learned policeman.”

  Hamish had actually only read the title in the local mobile library when he was searching for a detective story.

  “And you can’t think of anyone here who might hate him?”

  “No one at all.”

  “Did you commission him to write a script, or did he approach you?”

  “I had known him before.” Harry looked uneasy. “We were friends in our youth in Glasgow.”

  “In the slums?”

  “Well, now, John was indulging in a little bit of exaggeration there. He was actually brought up in Bearsden.”

  “That’s pretty posh.”

  “You see, working class is all the thing these days. If a writer comes from a cosy background and starts writing a book set in the slums, people might think he didn’t know what he was writing about.”

  “Did he always write?”

  “He always tried.”

  “What was he doing when you knew him?”

  “He was an income tax inspector.”

  “That’s enough to get anyone murdered,” said Jimmy.

  “My friend is dead,” said Harry coldly. “I don’t like your tone.”

  “Who was he in contact with here apart from you?” asked Hamish.

  “He had consultations with the director and the script editor.”

  “And who is the script editor?”

  “Sally Quinn.”

  “May we speak to her?”

  “I’ll get Miss Patty to take you to her. Now I have work to do.” He buzzed for his secretary.

  As Miss Patty led them to a staircase leading to the floor below, Hamish studied her with new interest. She was a small faded woman, possibly in her late thirties, with dull sandy hair and a pinched white face. Hamish felt suddenly sorry for her. She should have been secretary to a bank manager or had some sort of job away from this brutal world where she might get a bit of respect. Yet some people would put up with a lot to think they were part of show business.