Death of a Bore hm-21

by M C Beaton

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

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

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

  “It definitely was suicide?”

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

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

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what it said?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who did she mean by ‘you’?”

  “The world in general, I suppose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And how long will that take, ma’am?”

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

  Hamish seized the poker and prodded the smouldering peat.

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

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

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

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

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

  ♦

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

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

  “I don’t see – ”

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

  ♦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do you like the show?”

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

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

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

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

  “Did he have any friends on the cast?”

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

  “Is she here?”

  “No, she’s not in this part.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I could do with a drink,” said Paul.

  “There’s a pub along by the harbour.”

  “Good. We’ll go there.”

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

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

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

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

  “Might I see a copy of the script?”

  “Why?”

  “Might give me a clue.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Beats me. Is he in the hotel?”

  “Yes, I’ll phone him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You knew him?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  ∨ Death of a Bore ∧

  9

  When I am dead, I hope it may be said:

  “His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”

  —Hilaire Belloc

  Hamish felt quickening excitement. Blythe rustled the papers. “They probably found they couldn’t work with his flowery prose and got someone to tighten it up and cut out all the waffle. This seems a very competent script. What’s it all got to do with his murder?”

  “I wanted to read the original to get a better feel of the man’s character. But why are Paul Gibson and that script editor trying to cover up the fact that they aren’t using John’s script?”

  “Why not ask them?”

  “Oh, I will. Here’s trouble.”

  Heather Meikle walked into the bar. �
��What are you doing here, Macbeth?” she demanded. “I told you to interview the villagers.”

  “Police and detectives seemed to be already doing that, ma’am,” said Hamish meekly. “But there’s something interesting here.”

  “Really?” She sat down. “Get me a whisky. A large one.”

  “Allow me,” said Blythe, giving Hamish a sympathetic look.

  “Who’s he?” asked Heather, jerking a thumb at Blythe’s broad back as the literary agent walked over to the bar.

  “He’s a literary agent who hopes to promote a novel written in Gaelic.”

  “Then he’s daft. So what have you got?”

  Hamish told her about Blythe’s assessment of the script. “I don’t see the point,” she complained. “Oh, thanks,” as Blythe handed her a double whisky.

  “The point is this,” said Hamish eagerly. “As they seem to be so anxious to cover up what was in the original script, I’d like to know what it was. The whole atmosphere of this murder is wounded ego. Maybe some actor or actress didn’t like the part. No, wait a bit. They wouldn’t have the power to change the script. Could we get a search warrant?”

  “For Strathbane Television? Their lawyers would take us to the cleaners. Besides, Alice Patty’s family are already suing the police.”

  “Unless Alice Patty turns out to have been murdered.”

  “Dream on.”

  “Got the autopsy report yet?”

  “Got the autopsy report yet what?”

  “Sorry. Have you got the autopsy report yet, ma’am?”

  “Not yet. Have you anything else?”

  “There’s an actress due up here soon, Patricia Wheeler. She’s said to have been close to John. I wanted a word with her in case John said anything to her that might give us a clue to his murderer.”

  “I’ll get Anderson to speak to her.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” protested Blythe. “Why should someone else interview her when it was this officer here who thought of it?”

  “Get me another whisky and I’ll think about it.”

  Blythe rose to his feet. “Get it yourself, you old bag. I don’t work for you.”

  Hamish was sorry to see him go. There was something very intimidating about Heather. Hamish had always thought of himself as a truly modern man, treating women like equals. But what about women treating men like equals?