‘It’s me – Hamish. Elspeth, I’m working on this John Heppel case and wondered if you had any background on the man.’
There was a silence, and then Elspeth said in a cold voice, ‘What ever happened to “How are you, darling? How’s the job? Are you well?”’
‘I wrote,’ said Hamish defiantly.
‘I suppose you did. I wasn’t working on the John Heppel thing. Another reporter was. The background was in the paper. Didn’t you read it?’
‘I haven’t had time,’ said Hamish defensively.
‘Wait a minute.’
Hamish held on, staring down at Strathbane, which lay sprawled under low-flying clouds, one great cancer on the beauty of the surrounding Highlands.
Elspeth came back on the line. ‘I’ll give you the main details. John Heppel was not brought up in a slum but in a tidy bungalow in Bearsden. He was an income tax inspector but was out of work for a while. He went into politics.’
‘What politics?.’
‘Some bunch of Trotskyites. Hurled a brick at a policeman during a demonstration and was jailed for three months due to the fact that his ailing parents got him a good lawyer and he had a clean record up till then. Parents now dead. No romantic involvement we could find.’
‘What about friends? Was there by any chance a Harry Tarrant mentioned anywhere?’
‘Now, that rings a bell. Wait a minute. The reporter who covered the story has just walked in.’
Hamish waited patiently.
After what seemed a very long time, Elspeth came back on the line. ‘In the old report on that demonstration there was a Harry Tarrant arrested as well.’
‘Great!’
‘Why? Who’s Harry Tarrant?’
‘He’s the drama executive of Strathbane Television, and John was writing a script for them. Are you enjoying yourself down there, Elspeth?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just another reporter here. I miss the independence I had up there.’
‘You could always come back.’
‘I’ll think about it. I have to go.’
The news editor loomed over Elspeth after she had put the phone down. ‘Not taking personal calls, I hope?’
‘No, it was business. An old friend of mine, Hamish Macbeth, the local copper in Lochdubh, is working on that writer murder.’
‘Might be an idea to send you up there. Now that most of the press will have gone, you might get a good story since you know this policeman and know the area.’
‘Here!’ complained Matthew Campbell, the reporter who had already been working on the story. ‘Are you taking it away from me?’
‘No, the pair of you can go. But go easy on expenses.’
Hamish drove on to Strathbane Television. He wondered whether to interview Harry Tarrant but decided to leave it for the moment. He asked for Paul Gibson.
A man not a lot older than Hamish finally appeared. He had thick curly grey hair and a mobile comedian’s face.
‘Am I under arrest?’ he joked.
‘No, just a few questions.’
‘Let’s go round the corner to the pub. I’ve had enough of this place for one morning.’
They walked round to one of those awful Scottish pubs which had just been redecorated with tartan carpet, bad murals of Highlanders brandishing claymores in front of a Bonny Prince Charlie with an epicene face. Syrupy piped Muzak sounded through the smoke-laden air.
Paul ordered a Malibu and milk. Hamish was always amazed at the new exotic tastes of drinkers. He ordered a mineral water for himself and carried both glasses back to a round table and sat down in a plastic chair with arms made out of simulated stag’s horns.
‘I want you to tell me all about John Heppel,’ said Hamish.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Paul. ‘I wanted several changes in the script and told the script editor, and she got on to him.’
‘But you must have met him?’
‘Yes, he came with us on location to get a feel for the series.’
‘And how did that go?’
‘We had quite a pleasant time.’
Hamish leaned back in his chair and studied Paul’s face. ‘You must be the only person who ever had a pleasant time with John Heppel. You mean he just observed without interfering?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I will be talking to members of the cast of Down in the Glen. I hope they will all back up your story.’
Paul gave a rueful shrug. ‘You know how it is in show business.’
‘No, I don’t. Explain.’
‘We get into the habit of never criticizing anyone. Oh, well, you’ll probably find out. John was a major pain in the arse. He kept interrupting and criticizing the acting and criticizing the actors. I complained I couldn’t work with him around, but Tarrant said I had to give him the best treatment. I need the work so I put up with it. I’ve directed soaps before and believe me, there’s always someone who’s a pill.’
‘Did you ever go to John’s cottage?’
‘No. I don’t even know where he lived.’
‘Was he in any sort of romantic relationship with anyone?’
‘Apart from spending his time halfway up Tarrant’s bum, no, not that I know of.’
‘Thanks for your time, Mr Gibson. I may get back to you.’
Paul opted to stay in the pub, and Hamish returned to Strathbane Television. He was about to ask for Harry Tarrant when his phone rang. It was Angela. ‘Hamish, there’s a whisper round the village that Callum McSween, the dustman, drove off after John – you know, after everyone had been shouting at him on the waterfront – and cut in front of his car, got out, and threatened him with a tyre lever.’
‘Do the police know this?’
‘No. You know what we’re like here. We always try to protect each other, particularly from someone like Blair.’
‘I’d better get back.’
Chapter Six
Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
– William Shakespeare
When Hamish returned to Lochdubh, villagers were still clearing up after the storm. Garden fencing was down, and tiles had been ripped off roofs. He had driven straight past Dimity Dan’s but vowed to return on the following evening. He went up to Callum McSween’s cottage.
The dustman was sawing branches off a fallen tree in his garden. ‘Want a cup of tea, Hamish?’ he called cheerfully. ‘Thon was a right bad storm.’
‘No, I need to talk to you, Callum. It’s important. Do you mind if we go inside?’
The cheerfulness had left Callum’s face. He walked into his small one-storeyed croft house. Hamish followed him into the kitchen. ‘You’ve heard,’ said Callum bleakly.
‘Seems to be round the village. You followed John and threatened him with a tyre lever.’
‘I wouldnae have hurt him,’ pleaded Callum. ‘You know me, Hamish. I wouldnae hurt a soul.’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘I was that mad at him because of the way he sneered at all of us, and him an incomer, too. I followed him in my truck, and at that one wide bit outside the Tommel Castle, I cut him off and made him stop. I told him he had to give us all our money back. I waved the tyre lever at him to frighten him. He got a big fright and he said he would. That’s it. I moved my truck and he drove off.’
‘Callum, if Blair gets to hear of this . . . well, you know what he’s like. With that man, it’s arrest first and ask questions afterwards. I’ll not be saying anything about this for the moment. But I warn you, if Blair does get to hear of it, then you’ll be in for a rough time. If that happens, just sit there and refuse to speak until they get you a lawyer.’
‘Thanks, Hamish. I owe you.’
‘In that case, keep your ear to the ground when you’re on your rounds. You know what we’re like up here. We can know something about someone, but if we think it’ll get them into trouble, we don’t say anything. Wait a bit. Do you pick up the rubbish
from Dimity Dan’s?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’m just wondering if you ever saw anything like a syringe or anything suspicious.’
‘No. It may be a dirty pub, but he’s right neat with the rubbish. Has it sealed up in wine boxes and things like that.’
‘Does he now? Well, next collection day, do something for me. Keep aside some of those sealed boxes and take them round to the police station. I’ll get you to sign a statement saying where they came from. When’s the next collection?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘At what time?’
‘Six in the morning. Then I go to a good few of the outlying houses. I could be at the police station around ten.’
‘I’ll be waiting for you, unless Blair turns up and orders me somewhere else. If I’m not at the police station, take them home and phone me later.’
‘Anything I can do for you, I will,’ said Callum fervently.
When Hamish returned to the police station, he found the schoolteacher, Freda, waiting for him.
‘Anything the matter?’ asked Hamish.
‘No, it’s just that you said you might like to go clubbing. I’m off to Inverness this Saturday. Would you like to come?’
‘Let’s see what happens,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m in the middle of this murder inquiry. You don’t happen to have heard anything that might help?’
‘No, not a thing,’ said Freda to the table. She’s lying, thought Hamish. I wonder why.
But instead he asked, ‘When would you be leaving for Inverness?’
‘Round about eight o’clock. Do you mind driving if you decide to go? I like a drink or two.’
‘No, I don’t mind. But I’ll drive your car. If Blair sees me with a civilian in the police car, he’ll blow his top. Leave your phone number with me. Would it be all right if I decided to go with you at the last minute?’
‘That would be fine.’ Freda took out a notebook and wrote down her mobile phone number.
At the newspaper office in Glasgow, Elspeth Grant was complaining to Matthew Campbell about their delayed departure for the north. Another story involving the talents of both of them had cropped up, and they estimated it would be Saturday morning before they could get off.
‘Was this copper a boyfriend of yours?’ asked Matthew.
‘No,’ lied Elspeth. ‘Just a friend.’
Hamish was curious about Miss Patty, Harry Tarrant’s secretary. Maybe she was just oversensitive. But her reaction to the news of John’s murder seemed extreme. He longed to get back to Strathbane, but Blair wanted all the villagers who had been at the writing class interviewed again and had given Hamish a list of those he most suspected. At the top were the Currie sisters.
Hamish knew that this probably simply meant they had got Blair’s back up, but duty was duty. And the only thing that kept the maverick Hamish in line was the fear of losing his precious police station in Lochdubh.
He hoped that the sisters might have taken themselves off somewhere, but Nessie answered the door to him with a sharp ‘What now?’
‘Mr Blair wishes me to ask you some more questions.’
‘Come ben. I suppose you’ll want tea.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Nonsense, you always want tea. Aren’t we always saying in the village that Hamish Macbeth wouldn’t pay for a cup of tea if he could get one free? Sit down!’
‘I don’t want tea,’ snarled Hamish, but Nessie was already in the kitchen, and he could hear her talking to her sister.
‘Put the kettle on, Jessie. Thon Hamish Macbeth is here, looking for free cups of tea as usual. His superior has told him to ask us some more questions, and does Macbeth stand up to him? No. Spineless.’
‘Spineless,’ echoed her sister.
Hamish sat with his face flaming red with irritation.
The sisters eventually bustled in with a loaded tray. ‘Here’s your tea,’ said Jessie, ‘your tea.’
Hamish placed his cup on one of those pieces of furniture called an occasional table, and took out his notebook.
‘Our alibi checked out,’ said Nessie before he could open his mouth, ‘so there is no use you wasting your time going over that again.’
‘I was going to ask you if either of you or both of you called on John Heppel before you went to Strathbane.’
Hamish had simply asked that question out of irritation. He did not think for a minute they had, but Jessie’s teacup rattled in its saucer and she shot a quick glance at her sister, who said, ‘We were in Strathbane and you are wasting time.’
‘Wasting time,’ murmured Jessie.
Hamish studied the two faces. Their eyes behind their thick glasses were blank.
‘Wind’s back again,’ said Nessie as the window panes rattled.
‘You were at John’s cottage,’ said Hamish. ‘You see, I know you were.’
‘She said she wouldnae say anything,’ cried Nessie.
Another thought leapt into Hamish’s mind. He remembered he had thought Freda was holding back something, and he had assumed that something was Callum’s visit.
‘Freda, the schoolteacher,’ said Hamish. ‘You’d better tell me about your visit.’
‘It was nothing,’ said Nessie. ‘We wanted our money back, so we drove up to his cottage.’
‘Why didn’t you drive to Strathbane?’ asked Hamish, momentarily diverted.
‘It’s too far. It’s better to take the bus. So we saw that John Heppel, and he was very rude. He said he had given us his valuable time and he wasn’t giving any money back. Then young Angus said . . .’
She put her hand over her mouth.
‘Out with it!’ ordered Hamish. ‘Just how many of you went up there? I’ll find out, you know.’
‘It was at four in the afternoon. Oh, you may as well know. There was us and Angus Petrie, Mrs Wellington and Archie Maclean.’
‘Dear God, ladies. Do you know the trouble you’ll all be in when Blair gets to hear of this?’
‘Have a scone, a scone,’ said Jessie eagerly.
Irritated, Hamish was about to shout that he did not want a scone, but the one held out to him on a plate looked feathery light and was laden with butter and what appeared to be home-made strawberry jam.
He took the plate.
‘You see,’ said Nessie eagerly, ‘that bullying fat man need never know. None of us would tell him.’
‘I can’t be keeping information like that out of my report!’
They watched him as he bit into the scone.
‘You wouldn’t have known if thon Freda had kept her mouth shut,’ said Nessie.
Hamish finished the scone. ‘She didn’t say anything,’ he confessed. ‘It was just a lucky guess.’
‘So there you are!’ exclaimed Nessie triumphantly. ‘We were all up there long afore he was killed. Have another scone.’
Hamish left a quarter of an hour later, full of scones and guilt. He had made a rash promise to keep quiet about their visit unless Blair or any policeman found out. Then he would need to put in a report, and fast.
He made his way up to the manse. Mrs Wellington answered the door and said quickly, ‘I’m too busy.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen John Heppel the day he was murdered?’
Mrs Wellington flushed red. ‘You’d better come in.’
Hamish followed her into the large manse kitchen, a relic of the days when ministers had large families. A huge scarred wooden dresser took up one wall, and along another wall was the old coal-fired range, never used now for cooking but only for heating the room. A gas cooker was against the third wall beside two enormous porcelain sinks.
Hamish wondered suddenly if the Wellingtons minded being childless. But then, he reflected, he could never imagine the Wellingtons doing what was necessary to make a child. He could not imagine Mrs Wellington out of her tweeds. He sometimes wondered madly if she wore a tweed nightgown.
‘Sit down,’ she barked militantly as if trying to regain her dignity.
Hamish took off his cap and sat down at the kitchen table.
‘I didn’t report it,’ she said, ‘or Mr Blair would have arrested me. I mean, look what happened to Alistair Taggart.’
‘I sympathize with you,’ said Hamish. ‘I don’t think I can keep it quiet very long. You should know that these things come out sooner or later. He wouldn’t have arrested all of you. You were all there before Heppel was murdered, so what was the harm in telling the police? Oh, well, the damage is done. Now, I want you to think hard. I know you were all very angry. But imagine you’re back there. He wouldn’t let you in his house. Do you think there was anyone else in there?’
Mrs Wellington sat very still. ‘There might have been. He stood with the door just open a little so we couldn’t see past him.’
‘And how was he? Could he have been frightened?’
‘Hard to tell. He was flustered and angry. He shouted a lot of nonsense that he was a celebrity who had given us his valuable time. Angus Petrie made a dash for the door and he slammed it shut. Archie Maclean kicked the door and shouted. Then we went away.’
‘What did Archie shout?’
Her head went down and she avoided his eyes. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘I’ll be asking Archie myself. Now, as you walked away, were you aware of any other vehicle there?’
She shook her head.
‘Did you pass anyone on the road?’
‘Not on the road to his house, not on the track. No one for a bit and then a grey van.’
‘What make?’
‘I think it was one of those little old Ford vans.’
‘Light grey? Dark grey?’
‘Sort of light grey and dirty.’
‘Any markings? Anything written on the side?’
‘No. But I wasn’t paying any particular attention.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have remembered any number plate? Even a letter?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘And where exactly did you pass this van?’
‘Just before we got to Cnothan.’
‘They were all in your car?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d better go and see Angus Petrie and see what he has to say. If you remember anything else, phone me.’
Death of a Bore Page 7