Death of a Bore (5 page)

He was worried. He knew Lochdubh would never forgive John. In fact, he was so worried he forgot he had promised to have dinner with Angela and her husband.

The next day he was about to go out on his beat, late as usual, when he saw the Strathbane Television van parked on the waterfront and Jessma Gardener interviewing Mrs
Wellington, who was surrounded by members of the writing class.

Hamish walked forward to listen.

‘John Heppel is a fraud and a charlatan,’ boomed Mrs Wellington while the soundman struggled frantically to mute her voice. ‘He deliberately set out to shame all of us, one by
one. A lot of us showed promise, but I don’t think any of us will have the courage to write again.’

Jessie and Nessie Currie pushed forward. ‘We’d written an awfy nice story, “From Our Kitchen Window”, and he just sneered at us,’ said Nessie, ‘after
I’d read only a few words. Then there’s the money we spent on a computer.’

‘On a computer,’ echoed the Greek chorus that was her sister.

‘And I think we should be getting our money back.’

There was a cry of approval.

‘Here comes the wee man,’ shouted a voice from the back of the crowd.

John Heppel drove up. I wonder how he knew the television people were here, thought Hamish. Or does he smell out publicity the way a wasp can smell jam?

‘Mr Heppel,’ said Jessma. ‘It seems your writing class wants their money back.’

John did not have make-up on, but he had browned his face with fake tan.

He took up a position in front of the camera. He cleared his throat. ‘One must be cruel to be kind,’ he said pompously. ‘The shelves of bookshops are already overcrowded with
books which should never have been published.’

‘Like yours, you dirty wee man,’ shouted Alistair Taggart. ‘I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do.’

John spread his chubby hands in a placatory gesture. ‘You are all suffering from wounded ego. You . . .’

From the back of the crowd, a well-aimed tomato sailed over heads and landed right on John’s face. The villagers cheered. The tomato was followed by an egg. Other missiles sailed through
the air. ‘Stop filming!’ howled John, dodging right and left, but the camera rolled on. He saw Hamish and shouted, ‘You’re condoning this!’

‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Hamish reluctantly.

John rounded on Jessma. ‘Harry Tarrant, your boss, is a friend of mine. I’ll get him to sack you.’

‘He’s the drama executive,’ said Jessma. ‘I work for news.’

John strode off to his car, staggering slightly as Archie Maclean landed a kick on his bottom.

Jessma turned to Hamish. ‘We’ve got good stuff here. Watch the news at six.’

‘How did you hear about the class?’ asked Hamish.

‘Six of your villagers phoned in last night with complaints.’

‘Won’t you get in trouble with this drama executive he was talking about?’

‘No. He might shout and complain, but we can say we can’t consult the drama department over news.’

‘Let’s hope that’s the end of John,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll be right glad to see the back of that man.’

The wind had shifted round to the north and was blowing with increasing ferocity. The crowd began to scatter, people huddling coats around themselves.

Hamish set off on his beat. He decided to call in at the Tommel Castle Hotel. The hotel had once been the home of the love of his life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, until her father had fallen on
hard times and had turned the place into a successful hotel.

Hamish wanted to hear if there was any news about Priscilla. He knew she had planned to get married and that the wedding kept getting postponed, and although he told himself he was no longer
interested in her, his heart rose at each postponement.

Mr Johnson, the manager, came out to greet him. ‘Mooching coffee as usual, Hamish?’

‘No, but if you’ve got any, I’d like a cup.’

‘Come into the office.’

Hamish followed him in with Lugs at his heels. ‘That dog of yours is too fat,’ said Mr Johnson.

‘He’s chust fine,’ said Hamish, irritated, while mentally promising to put Lugs on yet another diet.

Mr Johnson poured him a cup of coffee. ‘What brings you?’

‘You forget. The hotel’s on my beat. I’m supposed to check up that you aren’t harbouring terrorists or running drugs.’

‘You need to check on Dimity Dan’s for drugs.’

‘You’ve heard something?’

‘Just a buzz here and there. Priscilla’s not married, if that’s why you really came.’

Hamish’s face flamed as red as his hair. ‘This was supposed to be a friendly call,’ he said stiffly.

‘Well, sit down and stop glaring at me. What’s all this about John Heppel creating mayhem in Lochdubh? One of the maids said there was quite a scene on the waterfront.’

Hamish told him about the writing class. ‘That’s a shame,’ said Mr Johnson. ‘We’ve got a writer staying here, Mary Timper. You know, she writes family sagas. Very
popular.’

‘Any chance of meeting her?’

‘Why?’

‘I just had this idea that maybe I could get her to talk to the folks who’d written stuff, and get a proper opinion from her.’

‘I suppose it’ll do no harm if you ask her.’ He picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Miss Timper. There’s someone down here would like a word with you.
It’s our local bobby. No, no, nothing serious. He wants to ask your help. Right. He’ll be in the lounge.’ He replaced the phone. ‘She’ll be right down. Take yourself
off to the lounge and leave that dog of yours here.’

Left alone, Lugs sadly eyed the closed door through which his master had just left. Then he sniffed the air. Biscuits! Mr Johnson had left a plate of biscuits on his desk beside the coffee
cups.

He stood up on his hind legs and felt with his forepaws. Then he climbed up on Mr Johnson’s chair. He chomped his way through the whole plate of biscuits and then tried to slurp the coffee
out of the manager’s cup, but it tipped over and the contents spilled across the desk.

Somewhere in Lugs’s doggy brain, he sensed he was now in trouble. He climbed down from the chair and sat near the door. A maid opened the door. Lugs darted past her and ran out to the Land
Rover and lay down on the far side of it.

In the meantime Hamish was shaking hands with Mary Timper. She was a pleasant, grey-haired motherly-looking woman with pale blue eyes magnified by large glasses.

‘What brings you to Sutherland?’ asked Hamish.

‘I came because of the hotel’s reputation. I like hotels. I like someone else to do the cooking and housecleaning once in a while. But you didn’t call to ask me why I’m
here, did you?’

‘No. We’ve got a writing class in Lochdubh.’

‘Ah, yes, someone called John Heppel. I haven’t read him.’

‘You wouldn’t want to. It’s like this.’ Hamish told her about the humiliation of the villagers and ended with, ‘So I just wondered if maybe you could look at their
work and give them all a bit of a boost.’

She sighed. ‘I’m not an editor.’

‘You see,’ pleaded Hamish, ‘some of the folks bought computers, and they were all so excited about the writing. The winters up here are long and dreary. I hate the idea of them
thinking it’s all been a waste of time.’

‘Oh, very well. I’ll have a go. When?’

‘I thought maybe this evening about seven-thirty at the village hall? I’ll call for you.’

‘You are persistent, aren’t you? All right. I’ll do my best.’

Before Hamish went out that evening to collect Mary, he turned on the six o’clock news. They had given quite a large coverage to the humiliation of John by the
villagers. He felt suddenly uncomfortable. Surely John deserved it all, but the anger and violence of the villagers, highlighted by the camera, made him uneasy.

When Hamish drove Mary to the village hall, she kept nervously protesting that she did not have the talents of an editor. But once she got started, Hamish thought she did marvellously. She even
got one of the locals to read out a translation of Alistair’s work. She made tactful suggestions to each, but always throwing in a bit of praise, which made each villager glow with pride.

The evening was just winding up with the villagers crowding around Mary to thank her when the door of the village hall burst open. A crofter from Cnothan, Perry Sutherland, stood there, his face
as white as paper.

‘Hamish Macbeth!’ he shouted.

‘I’m here. What’s the matter, Perry?’

‘It iss thon writer. He hass killed himself.’

Hamish asked Angela to run Mary back to the hotel, then he sprinted to the police station, got in the Land Rover, and turned on the siren. He raced out of Lochdubh and on to
the Cnothan Road.

The stars were bright and the night had turned bitterly cold. The track to John’s croft house was already hard under his wheels and frost shone like marcasite on the heather on either side
of the track. Behind him in his car came Perry Sutherland.

The door of John’s cottage was standing open with light streaming out. Perry joined Hamish. ‘Was the door like that before?’ asked Hamish.

‘Aye, that’s why I went in. I chapped first, and when I didnae hear nothing, I went in and found him on the floor.’

Hamish hurried into the cottage. In the living room John Heppel was lying on the floor. Hamish knelt down beside him and felt for a pulse. There was no sign of life. He sighed and sat back on
his heels and looked around the room. The remains of an evening meal lay on the table. The room was icy cold. The computer was still switched on, and he could see something on the screen. He got up
and went over to the computer. There was a message which read, ‘I can’t go on living any more. The people of Lochdubh have killed me.’

Hamish took out his mobile and phoned Strathbane police headquarters and reported the death.

Then he went back and stared down at the body. Surely no one as vain as John would take his own life. But if he had, how had he killed himself?

He pulled on gloves. He longed to search the house but knew he would get a rocket from the forensic boys for leaving his footprints all over the place. He decided to have a look inside the dead
man’s mouth to see if that would give him a clue. He went back out to where Perry was shivering under the stars.

‘They’re on their way, Perry,’ said Hamish. ‘There’s nothing you can do. Get into your car and switch on the heater.’

‘This is a bad business,’ said Perry. ‘I saw him on the news. Do you think that’s what did it?’

‘I hope not,’ said Hamish, thinking that if John had really committed suicide, he might become some sort of literary martyr crucified by wicked villagers.

Hamish searched for the kit he always carried with him in the Land Rover and drew out a tongue depressor. He went back in and knelt down again and felt the body. Rigor had not yet set in. He
might have died recently. But Hamish knew that rapid cooling of a body could delay rigor.

He gently slid the tongue depressor between John’s dead lips and opened the mouth a little. He could see that the tongue was black. He withdrew the depressor and looked around again. There
was something nagging at the back of his mind. He got up and went to the fire. He noticed the peat was gleaming damply. He leaned into the fireplace and touched it. Then he stood up and frowned. He
could swear water had been thrown on that fire to put it out.

Hamish could hear sirens in the distance. He removed his gloves, slid the tongue depressor into his pocket, and walked outside. The great oak tree growing over the cottage groaned in a rising
north wind, and as one old branch rubbed against another, making a creaking sound, Hamish shivered and thought that a gibbet with a body on it would have sounded like that in the old days.

He hoped Detective Chief Inspector Blair was drunk or on leave or anywhere that would stop him from coming. His thickheaded, bullying ways had impeded many of Hamish’s investigations. But
his heart sank as the first police car arrived and Blair’s heavy body heaved itself out of the back seat.

‘Whit do we have?’ he demanded in his heavy, truculent Glasgow accent.

‘John Heppel is dead. He’s left an apparent suicide note, but I think –’

‘What you think, laddie, doesnae matter. We’ll wait for the pathologist. She’s on her way.’

‘She?’

‘Aye, they would go and appoint some damn woman. That’s the trouble these days. They want to look all modern, so they shove some lassie into a job that should ha’ gone to a
man.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Professor Jane Forsyth. Here she comes.’

A little Ford drew up, and a stocky middle-aged woman got out. ‘Where’s the body?’ she asked.

‘It’s in the living room,’ said Hamish.

Hamish made to follow her, but Blair growled, ‘Stay where you are.’

So Hamish stayed and looked up at the stars and shivered in the wind and wondered what it was that was nagging somewhere at the back of his brain. And suddenly he had it. John had signed the
book for him with an old-fashioned fountain pen, the kind you refilled from a bottle of ink. There had been a bottle of ink on his desk.

He was sure that someone had either poured ink into John’s mouth or made him drink it. That smacked of revenge. That smacked of murder. But he had somehow to get to the pathologist without
Blair listening.

Detective Jimmy Anderson arrived. Hamish went to meet him. ‘Jimmy, don’t ask at the moment. Just get Blair out of there so I can have a sneaky word with the pathologist.’

‘Cost you a bottle o’ whisky. I’ll need to lie. I’ll need to say that Superintendent Daviot is particularly interested and wants him to phone right away.’

‘What happens to you when Daviot says he doesn’t know what Blair’s talking about?’

‘Daviot’s attending the Freemasons tonight. Let’s hope by the time he hears about this, he’s really interested.’

Jimmy went into the house. I hope Blair doesn’t take out his mobile or use John’s phone, thought Hamish, but a minute later Blair shot out and went to the police car.

Hamish slid into the house and approached the pathologist. ‘There are two things you ought to know,’ he said, bending over her as she worked on the body. ‘His tongue is black
and I think it’s ink.’