Death of a Bore

by Beaton, M. C.

‘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?

  Heather seemed unfazed by the insult. She held out her empty glass to Hamish.

  ‘I don’t have any money on me,’ lied Hamish.

  ‘Oh, well, I’ll get it.’ She leaned back in her chair and roared at the barman, ‘Another of these?’

  Hamish suddenly remembered Lugs. The dog would be dying to be let out by now.

  He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll just see if the television people have arrived.’

  ‘You can get a clear view from the window. Sit down.’

  ‘I’ve got my dog locked up in the Land Rover.’

  To his surprise, she said mildly, ‘Go and get it.’

  ‘I will not let that bloody woman intimidate me,’ said Hamish to his dog as he lifted Lugs down from the Land Rover and fished out the two biscuits he had kept for him from his pocket. ‘Here’s the television lot. I wonder whether I can get rid of her.’

  He took out his notebook and searched for Elspeth’s mobile phone number. He dialled and waited impatiently until she answered.

  ‘Elspeth, could you do something for me?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘There’s a woman who’s replaced Blair, and I want her out of the way for a bit. She’s in the bar at the Tommel Castle Hotel. Could you phone her and ask her if you could interview her? Woman’s angle. All that stuff.’

  ‘I need a trade. Matthew’s behaving like an idiot. He’s talked the features editor into letting him spend the night on Standing Stones Island. “I Spent Night on Haunted Island” and all that guff.’

  ‘Do this for me. I think I’ve got an angle.’

  ‘Okay What’s this woman detective like?’

  ‘Very charming. You’ll get on like a house on fire.’

  ‘Bad choice of words. I believe the police station was nearly in flames last night.’

  ‘Just a chimney fire. Please, Elspeth.’

  ‘Oh, all right. I’ll phone her now.’

  Hamish walked Lugs around the car park between the newly arrived television vans and then went into the hotel.

  He could see Heather talking on the phone in the office. He waited patiently until she came out.

  ‘I’m meeting some reporter down in the village,’ she said. ‘She wants to do a profile of me. Look, carry on here. I won’t be long.’

  Hamish took Lugs out for another walk and then put the dog back in the Land Rover.

  He asked one of the technicians if Patricia Wheeler had arrived. ‘I think I saw her going in for a coffee,’ he said.

  Hamish went to the mobile cafeteria. He saw Ann King and asked her which of the actors present was Patricia Wheeler. ‘That’s her over in the corner. Good luck!’

  Hamish judged Patricia Wheeler to be in her fifties. She was in the costume of a crofter’s wife – or rather what the television costume department fondly imagined the dress of a crofter’s wife to be. She was wearing a rough wool grey dress and had a tartan shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was heavily made up. Her grey hair was tied up in a scarf. She had a heavy jaw and small piggy eyes and yet managed to exude an air of strong sexuality.

  ‘Patricia Wheeler? I’m the local constable, Hamish Macbeth. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Sit down. Go ahead.’ Her voice was throaty.

  Hamish removed his cap and sat down. ‘Places everyone!’ shouted a girl from the doorway. The actors began to shuffle to their feet.

  ‘That’s not for me. Not yet,’ said Patricia.

  ‘Were you friendly with John Heppel?’

  ‘Yes, I was. Poor John.’

  ‘Did he mention any enemies he might have made?’

  ‘Only the villagers. He phoned me the afternoon before he was murdered and said they were out to lynch him.’

  I don’t want to hear this, thought Hamish, assailed again by a pang of doubt that in his efforts to find any culprit other than one of the villagers, he was looking in the wrong direction.

  ‘Anyone else? Anyone in this soap?’

  ‘Not really. He complained a bit about changes to the script, but Paul always managed to calm him down.’

  ‘Ah, the script. I’ve seen the one you’re working on, and I would swear that it wasn’t written by John Heppel.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a literary critic. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I would like to see the original script.’

  ‘Then you’ll need to ask Sally Quinn.’

  But Hamish found that Sally Quinn was in her office in Strathbane. He groaned to himself. Heather would return and would wonder where he was, and if he told her what he was doing, she would no doubt give him a blasting over going off on a wild-goose chase. And yet he was sure there was something wrong about it all. Maybe there had been something in the original script that gave a clue to the murderer.

  He left Lugs back at the police station and drove off to Strathbane.

  Matthew closed his notebook after what he considered another useless interview. He wanted to do the feature on Standing Stones Island, but Elspeth didn’t want to be part of it.

  He heard the school bell ringing for the lunch break – or dinner break as it was still called in Lochdubh – and decided to call on Freda. He found her attractive. He found Elspeth more attractive, but Elspeth seemed wrapped up in that odd local copper.

  He walked past shrieking children in the playground and went into the small school-house. Freda was in her office, marking exam papers.

  ‘I wonder if I could tempt you to a bit of lunch,’ he said.

  ‘I’d love to. But I’ve brought a sandwich with me and I’ve still got papers to mark. How are you getting on?’

  ‘Getting nowhere. Elspeth’s better at writing up the story of the suicide. I’ve got the features editor interested in a piece about spending a night on Standing Stones Island.’

  ‘How exciting. I’ve heard it’s haunted. Is Elsp
eth going with you?’

  ‘No, she says she’s not interested.’

  Freda thought rapidly. Maybe if she charmed this reporter, Hamish might become interested in her. ‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘It’s nice and dry today. Why don’t I go with you?’

  ‘That would be great. It’s a bit boring spending a whole night on a haunted island on one’s own.’

  ‘You don’t expect any ghosts?’

  ‘Not one. But I could write a good piece.’

  ‘How do we get there?’

  ‘I’ve made some inquiries. There’s a chap with a boat who would take us over and then pick us up in the morning.’

  ‘What time would we set out?’

  ‘This evening around eight o’clock. Where will I pick you up?’

  ‘Why don’t we have an early meal at the Italian restaurant so we won’t get too hungry or have to bother taking a picnic? We’ll need lots of warm clothes and sleeping bags.’

  ‘I don’t have a sleeping bag.’

  ‘I’ve got a spare.’

  ‘Good,’ said Matthew. ‘Dinner’s on me. Make it early. I’ll meet you in the restaurant at six o’clock.’

  An hour later an angry Sally Quinn was saying to Hamish, ‘The script you read is the original.’

  ‘But Harry Tarrant described John Heppel’s script as pure Dostoyevsky The script I saw was just plain uninspired English.’

  ‘Officer, I will have to put a complaint about you to your superiors. Your job is surely to find out which one of those terrifying villagers killed John. Now, go away before I call security.’

  Hamish found Heather waiting for him. ‘Look here,’ she snapped. ‘I have been more than tolerant of your odd behaviour. But your place is here, not running around like some starstruck idiot after television people. I have a list here of people in Lochdubh I want you to call on.’

  ‘Today?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Right now.’

  She swept out of the police station, leaving him looking at the names on the list: Freda Garrety, Alistair Taggart, Archie Maclean, Mrs Wellington, the Currie sisters and Angela Brodie.

  He took Lugs out for a walk up the fields at the back so that Heather would not see him. Then he fed the dog and headed out, deciding to call on Angela first.

  The doctor’s wife was at home. Her kitchen looked more chaotic than usual, with cats prowling all over the place and a computer among the jumble of dirty dishes and cups on the table.

  Angela pushed a wisp of hair away from her face. ‘It is a mess, Hamish, but I’ve been busy writing.’ Her thin sensitive face was flushed with excitement. ‘You see, I had an important visitor.’

  ‘Who would that be?’

  ‘Blythe Summer. Mrs Wellington, bless her tweed socks, told him that I was a talented writer. He asked to see what I’d written. I showed him that short story I wrote for the writing class, and he wants me to expand it into a novel. I’ll make coffee. No, we’ll have a drink.’ She got down on her knees and opened a cupboard under the sink. ‘I think I’ve got a bottle of sherry we brought back from Cyprus about twelve years ago. Ah, here it is, right behind the rat poison.’

  ‘I hope you’re sure you’ve got the right bottle,’ said Hamish. ‘I didn’t know you had rats.’

  ‘They turned out to be big mice, but I thought they were rats. There!’ Angela put a dusty bottle on the table. ‘There’s a bit of a leak under the kitchen sink and the label’s fallen off, but I’m sure it’s sherry.’

  ‘That’s grand news,’ said Hamish, looking uneasily at the bottle.

  Angela produced two fine lead-crystal glasses from another cupboard. She poured two generous measures of sherry. Hamish sniffed cautiously at his drink. ‘Smells all right. Here’s to your success, Angela.’

  ‘Slainte! What brings you? I haven’t really got the time to keep looking after that dog of yours.’

  ‘It’s my boss. She’s given me a list of people to interview, and you’re one of them.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Blessed if I know. Anyway, I thought it would be a good idea to call on you in case she’s watching. Have you got a minute? I want to run some things by you.’

  Angela threw a longing look at the computer but said, ‘Okay Go on.’

  Hamish told her as much as he knew. When he had finished, Angela said, ‘You said you think he had probably been having an affair with Alice Patty. He was close to this actress Patricia Wheeler. Maybe he had an affair with her or someone else at Strathbane Television. I mean the murderer might be a jealous woman. I think John Heppel enjoyed the power he felt from humiliating people. Just look how rotten he was to everyone at the writing class. Imagine what he would be like if he was breaking off a relationship with some woman.’

  ‘That’s a good point.’

  ‘And talking about women, I saw Matthew Campbell and Freda in the Italian restaurant. They were sitting at that table at the window when I went past around six o’clock. Are you going to miss out there?’

  ‘I’m not that interested,’ said Hamish huffily.

  ‘What about Elspeth?’

  ‘That iss over and done with!’

  ‘Hamish, don’t you ever think it would be nice to be married?’

  The malicious highland streak in Hamish rose up. He looked around the messy kitchen. ‘Angela, if anyone needs to get married, it iss yourself and Dr Brodie. You need a good woman to do the housework and take care of both of you.’

  ‘That’s it. Off you go, Hamish. And don’t dare insult my hospitality again. And furthermore, in future, look after your blasted dog yourself.’

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Hamish miserably. ‘But I don’t like folks nosing into my private life.’

  Angela glared at him and then relented. He looked so forlorn, standing there holding his cap and looking at the floor.

  ‘We’ll both forget about it,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got to write.’

  Hamish then called on the Currie sisters. For the first time ever, neither of them opened the door, but he heard Nessie call, ‘It’s open.’

  They were both seated in front of the computer, avidly reading a website on the Galápagos Islands. Hamish, who had expected to be besieged by calls from villagers wanting help with their computers, had been puzzled and then relieved when he was left alone.

  He walked over and stood behind them. ‘You seem to have got the hang of the Internet,’ he said.

  ‘It was Angus Petrie,’ said Nessie, her eyes still on the screen. ‘He shouldn’t be in forestry. He’s a grand computer teacher. Knows everything about computers.’

  Does he now? thought Hamish with quickening interest. ‘He boards with Mrs Dunne, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jessie. ‘What do you want? We’re busy, busy.’

  ‘I’ll call again,’ said Hamish.

  He went out and made his way to Sea View, Mrs Dunne’s boarding house.

  When she answered the door, he asked, ‘Is Angus home?’

  ‘No, he’s not back yet.’

  ‘Do you mind if I wait in his room?’

  ‘I suppose it’s all right, you being the police and all. He’s not in trouble, is he?’

  ‘No, no, just general inquiries.’

  ‘His room’s number 3 off the first landing. It’s not locked. I tell my guests to leave their doors unlocked so I can clean.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll find my way.’

  Hamish went up the stairs and opened the door of number 3. The room looked bleak when he switched on the light. There was a narrow bed against the wall covered in a pink shiny quilt. A wash-hand basin stood in one corner and beside it a chest of drawers. In the middle of the floor was a wooden table flanked by two upright chairs. A curtained recess in one wall acted as a wardrobe. There was a two-bar electric fire on the hearth with a coin meter beside it.

  Hamish sat down on one of the chairs and looked around the room. He would have liked to search the place, but he didn’t have a warrant and Angus might walk in on him.

>   The room was cold. He fished in his pocket and found a fifty-pence piece. He got up and walked over to the meter, popped the coin in, and clicked the dial. Hamish was about to straighten up when he saw two loose floorboards. They looked as if they had recently been prised up. Burning curiosity overcame him. He slipped on a pair of gloves and took out a Swiss knife. He lifted out the floorboards and then shone his torch down into the cavity.

  The torch lit up a portable computer, a Toshiba – and John Heppel had used a Toshiba.

  Hamish slowly retreated and sat down. He should phone Strathbane at once. But his search had been illegal. He heard a light footstep outside, and then the door opened.

  Angus looked at Hamish, and then his eye fell on the space in the floor where Hamish had dislodged the boards.

  ‘Unless you’ve got one damn good explanation,’ said Hamish quietly, ‘I think I might have to arrest you for theft and assault. And that’s for a start.’

  ‘You’ll never believe me.’ Angus sat down on the bed and began to cry.

  Hamish waited impassively until he had recovered and said, ‘Try me.’

  Angus gulped and then said, ‘It was after the murder. I had a day off and I thought I’d play detective and have a look around the cottage and see if I could find anything. You see, I knew you’d been good about keeping quiet about us going up there, but I thought it’d come out sooner or later and I wanted to see if there was anything I could find.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a policeman on duty?’

  ‘No. I looked in the window and saw the computer. I began to think of taking it. I ran into debt not so long ago and I sold my computer. I thought, the police don’t want it; it’s sitting there doing nothing. I looked around. There was no one about.’

  ‘How did you get in? I mean, surely the place was locked up?’

  ‘I thought he might have a spare key somewhere. I searched in the gutter, which is where most folks leave the spare key, and there it was. I let myself in. I wanted to check my e-mails.’

  ‘Man, there’s several cybercafés in Strathbane you could have used.’

  ‘But don’t you see? Nobody wanted that one. It was just sitting there.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I read some of my e-mails and then sent some off to friends. But after I left, I kept thinking what a waste of a computer it was.’