Death of a Bore hm-21

by M C Beaton

  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.

  ∨ 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.”

  Blai
r 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!”