Death of a Bore (13 page)

‘What the hell are you two doing?’ exclaimed Hamish. ‘Trying to give me a heart attack?’

‘We checked Harry Tarrant’s alibi,’ said Elspeth. ‘It checks out. Tell us what happened to you.’

‘I was looking at John Heppel’s computer. It had been wiped clean, but I wondered why it had been left behind. Surely some computer expert could have recovered stuff from the hard
drive. Then someone hit me on the head.’

‘And the computer was gone?’

‘That was the reason for hitting me on the head,’ said Hamish impatiently.

The door opened and Jimmy Anderson walked in. Matthew and Elspeth jerked up their masks and walked out.

‘Press?’ asked Jimmy, staring after them.

‘Yes.’

‘Oldest trick in the book. You don’t need surgery, and yet here are two masked surgeons in dirty robes in your room. I hope they catch something awful. Who were they?’

‘Couple of reporters from the
Bugle.
One was Elspeth Grant.’

‘Ah, your ex-squeeze.’

‘Never mind her. Tell me, Jimmy, why that computer was left there.’

‘Well, the cops are blaming the forensic team, and the forensic team are blaming the cops. I think it was because it was a black laptop on a black desk. They didn’t notice it. Daviot
is blaming Blair, and Blair is blaming everyone he can think of. They’re getting on to the server to see if they can retrieve anything that might have been in the e-mails.’

Hamish leaned his bandaged head back on the pillows. ‘You know the trouble? We’re dealing here with a rank amateur who killed in a fit of spite and rage and then tried to cover it
up. I wish the villagers had never attacked John Heppel and been filmed for television doing it. It’s taken the whole focus away from Strathbane Television. At least the press have their
uses. Harry Tarrant was nowhere near Cnothan on the night of the murder. Oh, the magic of television. No one asked him where he was on the night of the murder.’

‘Don’t be so high and mighty. We didn’t ask him either.’

‘I would like to see a copy of that script for
Down in the Glen
,’ fretted Hamish.

‘Why?’

‘There might be something in there. I don’t know.’

‘When are they letting you out?’

‘Tomorrow, I hope.’

‘For the sake o’ decency, you should stay in longer. There’s half the village waiting to visit you and they’re all carrying gifts.’

‘No, the sooner I get out of here, the better. My dog! Who’s looking after my dog?’

‘Your dog’s waiting like everyone else. Angela Brodie’s looking after him.’

By the time the last of the villagers had gone, Hamish felt quite weak and weepy. Their kindness was overwhelming. The room was crowded with presents of cake, jam, flowers,
chocolates, and even two trout.

He decided that the best thing he could do was to find out where they were filming the next episode of
Down in the Glen
and go along and study everyone there. I hope you’re looking
in the right direction, said his conscience. You’re so anxious to prove that it wasn’t one of the villagers that maybe you haven’t investigated your home turf enough.

The phone beside Hamish’s bed rang, jerking him out of his worried thoughts.

Jimmy Anderson’s voice came on the line. ‘Worse and worse, Hamish. Blair’s been suspended, pending an inquiry.’

‘But that’s good news.’

‘He’s been suspended because Miss Alice Patty has committed suicide by slashing her wrists. She left a note blaming police brutality. Patty’s lawyer said that by the time she
got in to see her at police headquarters, Blair’s bullying had reduced the girl to a nervous wreck.’

‘So are you in charge?’

‘No. They’ve brought in a detective chief inspector from Inverness, Heather Meikle.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. She arrives tomorrow.’

The next day Freda drove to the hospital as soon as school classes were over. Hamish had phoned her and asked for a lift to the police station. He had said he was checking
himself out of the hospital.

She wondered whether she should have done something like make him beef tea. Freda decided to urge him to go to bed and then she would minister to him. As she drove off, she noticed several
Strathbane Television vans parked on the waterfront. She hoped nothing else horrible had happened.

When she arrived in Hamish’s room at the hospital, it was to find him dressed and sitting waiting for her. His bandages had been removed, but part of his fiery-red hair had been shaved off
and a sticking plaster put over the wound.

As she drove off with him in the direction of Lochdubh, Freda said, ‘I think when we arrive, I should make you something to eat and then you should go straight to bed.’

‘No, I’ll be all right. I’m sick of bed. I’ve been in bed for most of the day.’

‘I still think you should rest. There are a lot of television vans on the waterfront at Lochdubh.’

‘Anything happened?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Any press there?’

‘No.’

Hamish’s interest quickened. ‘Maybe they’re using Lochdubh as a location for that soap. Where’s Elspeth?’

‘I don’t know. Running around with that boyfriend of hers.’

‘He’s not her boyfriend. He’s just a colleague.’

‘That’s not what I heard,’ lied Freda.

‘You shouldn’t listen to village gossip. They always get it wrong.’

‘Are you keen on Elspeth?’

‘The only thing I am keen on is getting to the police station and finding out if police headquarters have any idea of who hit me,’ said Hamish stiffly.

Freda began to wish she’d arranged some sort of welcome at the police station for him. All the villagers knew where the spare key was kept – in the gutter above the door. She could
have placed a bowl of flowers on the kitchen table. She could have lit the stove.

When she drove up to the police station, she noticed the lights were on. ‘Someone’s there,’ she said. ‘Should I call the police?’

‘I am the police. It’s probably one of the villagers.’

He opened the kitchen door and walked in. Elspeth was sitting at the kitchen table. There was a bowl of flowers on the table and the stove was blazing away.

‘I phoned the hospital and heard you were on your way,’ said Elspeth. ‘There’s a casserole in the oven.’

Hamish turned to Freda, who was glaring at Elspeth. ‘Thanks very much for the lift, Freda.’

Although he was obviously waiting for her to go, Freda plumped herself down at the table opposite Elspeth and asked, ‘Any chance of a dram?’

‘You sit down, Hamish,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’ll get it.’

Freda began to wish she had left. There was an atmosphere between Hamish and Elspeth – an atmosphere which seemed to exclude her.

There was a knock at the door. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Freda. Matthew came in.

‘Elspeth,’ he said, ‘they’re going to be filming
Down in the Glen
here tomorrow. The director, Paul Gibson, is at the bar at the hotel. I thought we could see him
together.’

‘What about the producer?’

‘There isn’t one. Gibson’s title is producer-director. It’s a way of cutting costs, I suppose.’

‘Right. I’ll get my coat. I left it in the bedroom.’

‘Thanks for everything, Elspeth,’ said Hamish.

Freda brightened. With Elspeth gone, surely Hamish would invite her to have supper with him. But no sooner had Matthew and Elspeth left than there was another knock at the door.

‘What now?’ asked Hamish.

A severe-looking woman stood on the doorstep. ‘Good evening, Constable.’ she said. ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Meikle.’

‘Come in,’ said Hamish. ‘Freda, do you mind? This is police business.’

Freda left in a bad temper. Perhaps if Hamish had shown any interest in her, she would not have bothered about him. But she regarded Elspeth as competition, and besides that, her friends had
found Hamish attractive. Men are credited with having hunter instincts, but women have them as well, and all at once Freda was firmly determined to marry Hamish Macbeth.

Heather Meikle took off her coat and handed it to Hamish. He hung it on a peg by the door.

‘How’s your head?’ she asked.

‘Seems all right. What brings you?’

She sat down at the table in the seat vacated by Freda and clasped her hands in front of her.

Heather Meikle was a tall woman with a sallow face and short brown hair. She had a long thin nose and a thin mouth. She was dressed in a tailored suit and sensible shoes.

Her eyes were of an indeterminate colour and were now fixed on Hamish Macbeth with a piercing stare. ‘I discovered that a major murder inquiry had been turned over to a village
policeman,’ she said.

‘I noticed there weren’t any other police around,’ said Hamish cautiously.

‘I may say, I have never heard of anything more ridiculous in my life. Proper investigations will resume tomorrow. I saw the news film of the villagers shouting and throwing things at
Heppel. Any one of them could have committed murder from the looks of them.’

Hamish again spoke cautiously. ‘It is my opinion, ma’am, that not enough attention is being paid to the television people. John Heppel was an infuriating man. Very vain. He liked
humiliating people. He was addicted to getting his face on television. They are filming
Down in the Glen
here tomorrow. It’s a good opportunity to talk to the director and the
cast.’

‘I think you might be letting your loyalty to the villagers mislead you. I want you to concentrate on them.’ Her stomach gave a rumble.

Hamish wanted rid of her but was trapped by the rules of highland hospitality.

‘I have a casserole in the oven,’ he said. ‘Would you like some?’

She hesitated and then smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you. I didn’t have time to eat.’

Hamish laid out knives and forks and plates and lifted the casserole out of the oven, where it had been kept warm on a low heat. ‘This is a present,’ he said, ‘but it looks
like venison.’ He spooned out two generous helpings. He was glad Lugs was still with Angela. The dog would have created merry hell until he got some.

He uncorked a bottle of red wine and put two glasses on the table. ‘What kind of wine is it?’ Heather asked.

Hamish read the label. ‘I got it from Patel’s the other week. It just says red wine.’

‘Oh, well, I’ll try it. I’m staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel for the one night. My driver is up at the hotel. I sent him back and told him to wait for my phone call, so I can
have a drink without breaking any laws.’

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 refilled 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.’