Death of a Bore (8 page)

‘What time of day would that be?’

‘Early evening. Not sure of the time.’

‘And you saw him?’

‘Only for a wee bit. He was having a blazing row wi’ a big fellow. The big fellow was shouting, “I want my money back.” And then the man what’s now dead said,
“Oh, take it and get lost.”’

‘Now, listen carefully. Did you see the big man drive off?’

‘Aye, he jumped into a battered wee car and roared away. I went up to the door, but afore I could open my mouth it was slammed in my face.’

‘You’ve got to come with me to the police station and make a statement. It is very important. Have you transport?’

‘I’ve got my bike.’

‘You heard all about the murder. Didn’t you think to talk to the police?’

‘Why? I didnae do it and the man was alive when I saw him.’

‘Right. Follow me.’

‘Can you be giving me a bed for the night?’

‘I’ve got one cell with a bed in it. You can use that and then return to Cnothan in the morning.’

‘I’ve had enough of this place. I’ve never met such a bunch o’ sour-faced bastards in my life.’

‘Let’s go.’

In the police station at Lochdubh, Hamish typed while the salesman – who gave his name as Hugh Ryan – talked.

‘What did the man arguing with John Heppel look like?’

‘He was thickset with grey curly hair and a sort of beat-up face.’’

‘And what was he wearing?’

‘A donkey jacket and jeans.’

‘And the car?’

‘A dirty white one with rust on the driver’s side. I could see that from the lights shining out of the house.’

Hamish typed busily and then sent his report over to Strathbane. He grinned as he pressed the key to send it on its way, feeling as if he were launching an Exocet in the direction of Detective
Chief Inspector Blair.

Blair was furious because Alistair Taggart had asked for a lawyer as soon as he arrived at police headquarters and there was the usual long wait until one could be found.

Jimmy Anderson was handed Hamish’s report by one of the policewomen. He read it and began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny, Anderson?’ demanded a voice behind him.

Jimmy twisted round and saw Superintendent Daviot standing behind him.

Jimmy stood up. ‘I have just received this report from Hamish Macbeth, sir. It exonerates Alistair Taggart.’

‘And you think that’s funny? Give me the report.’

Daviot read it quickly and then snapped, ‘Get Mr Blair out of that interview room and give him this.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Blair was just getting into his bullying stride, ignoring the frequent interruptions of the lawyer, when Jimmy opened the door.

‘A word with you, sir.’

Blair suspended the tape recorder and marched out. ‘This had better be important.’

Jimmy handed him Hamish’s report.

Blair read it once and then read it again, his face growing darker with fury.

‘Mr Daviot has read it,’ said Jimmy.

‘Get over there and check out this salesman,’ shouted Blair. ‘I don’t trust Macbeth.’

‘I’d better take Mr Taggart with me,’ said Jimmy. ‘You’ll have to release him now.’

How Blair longed to say he was keeping Taggart locked up. But Daviot had seen the report, and Taggart had a lawyer who might sue him for wrongful arrest if he kept him any longer.

‘What’s the time?’ asked Alistair outside police headquarters.

‘It’s eight o’clock,’ said Jimmy.

‘Aye, well, just you drop me off at Strathbane Television.’

‘Why?’

‘Mind yer own business.’

In the living room of the Lochdubh police station, salesman Hugh Ryan was slumped on the sofa, fast asleep.

Hamish switched on the television to watch the nine o’clock news. The newscaster read out the international news and then said in a portentous voice, ‘Tonight we have a special
interview with Mr Alistair Taggart, who has just been released from police custody after being falsely accused of the murder of John Heppel. Jessma Gardener has this exclusive report.’

First there was a rehash of the murder, including film of the violent villagers of Lochdubh shouting at John. Then the camera moved to the studio, where Jessma was facing Alistair.

‘They’ve cleaned him up!’ exclaimed Hamish.

Alistair’s shaggy locks had been trimmed, and the costume department had kitted him out in a tweed jacket, corduroy trousers, and a roll-necked sweater.

‘Now, Mr Taggart,’ began Jessma, ‘you have had quite a gruelling ordeal. Tell us what happened.’

Alistair had a pleasant voice with a highland lilt. Hamish waited for him to rant and rave, but Alistair said in a calm voice, ‘I was working on my manuscript when Detective Chief
Inspector Blair arrived at my cottage. He accused me of murder. Police searched the house and said they had found incriminating evidence.’

‘And what was that evidence?’

‘A bag of mothballs.’

‘And that was all? I mean, a lot of houses have bags of mothballs.’

‘Blair said it was because I had been having a row with John Heppel on the night he died.’

‘And had you?’

‘Yes, I went to get my money back for that writing class. I told him he was a fraud. I had a terrible time at the hands of the police. I am a writer, and we writers are
sensitive.’

‘Dear God,’ muttered Hamish.

Someone handed Jessma a slip of paper. She read it and smiled. ‘We have just learned that the reason for your release is because your local constable, Hamish Macbeth, diligently discovered
evidence to clear you, which his superior officers had overlooked.’

‘Hamish Macbeth is a very clever man,’ said Alistair. ‘It was because of him that I started writing. He inspired me.’

Jimmy Anderson had stopped in a pub on the outskirts of Strathbane before going on to Lochdubh. He tucked his mobile phone away and raised his glass to the television set at
the end of the bar that was broadcasting the news.

‘Credit where credit’s due,’ he said. ‘And won’t Blair just hate it!’

‘Where did Strathbane Television get that bit about me?’ demanded Hamish when Jimmy strolled into the police station.

‘A little bird must have told them.’

Hamish eyed him cynically. ‘I suppose the little bird wants a dram.’

‘Aye, that would be grand. I’ve been sent to interrogate your witness all over again. But why bother?’

Literary agent Blythe Summer was up in his room at the Tommel Castle Hotel packing his suitcase. He had heard of Alistair’s arrest and considered his journey wasted. A
muted television set was flickering in the corner of the room, and as he folded shirts, he thought he heard the name Taggart. He turned up the sound and listened with rapt attention. Then he picked
up the phone and dialled reception. ‘I’ll be staying for a bit, after all,’ he said.

The next morning Alistair read over and over again the note his wife had left him. It simply said, ‘I’ve taken Dermott to my sister’s. Don’t try to
reach me. I don’t want to see you again. Maisie.’

All his dreams of becoming a great writer fled. While he had been on television, he had imagined Maisie and his son watching him proudly. The fact that his drunken behaviour might have driven
her away did not cross his mind. All he felt was black self-pity. He decided to go to Patel’s and buy a bottle of whisky.

He put on the tweed jacket which he had ‘forgotten’ to return to the television costume department, opened his front door and found himself facing a round, dapper man carrying a
briefcase.

‘What?’ demanded Alistair.

‘I am Blythe Summer, literary agent, and I am interested in taking you on as a client. May I come in?’

Missing Maisie and thoughts of whisky fled from Alistair’s head. ‘Come ben,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’ Blythe followed him in and looked around for
some uncluttered place to sit down.

‘Did you see me on the telly last night?’ asked Alistair eagerly.

‘I did that. Writers who can get publicity for themselves are invaluable.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Alistair proudly. ‘When I left those bastards at police headquarters, I thought, I’m going to get something out of this.’

‘May I sit down?’

‘Just move those newspapers from the sofa. I haven’t anything to offer you to drink.’

‘It’s too early,’ said Blythe. He thought quickly. He had lost a few promising Scottish authors to the bottle. ‘You know, the writers who succeed don’t drink at
all.’

‘Is that a fact!’

‘Absolutely.’ Blythe opened his briefcase. ‘Now to discuss terms.’

After saying goodbye to Hugh Ryan, Hamish felt he should go back to Cnothan to see if anyone else had seen someone visiting John on the fateful evening. But when he thought of
Strathbane Television, he remembered there was something in the atmosphere there that nagged at him. He would travel to Strathbane, he decided, and see if he could speak to the director, Paul
Gibson.

On the way to Strathbane he paid a visit to Dimity Dan’s. The pub had the sour, hungover air of a place which had not been properly cleaned from the night before. A few tables still had
dirty glasses on them.

He looked around but could see no one among the few customers who looked under-age.

Hamish decided to call again in the evening. Maybe Dan would let his guard slip, thinking that Hamish would not make another call that day.

Angela Brodie was looking after Lugs. Hamish found he missed his dog’s company. I’ll end up a weird old bachelor if I go on missing my dog, he thought. Elspeth hadn’t written
or phoned. Perhaps he might get permission to go to Glasgow and check on John Heppel’s background and maybe see her. Then he struck his forehead. Of course! As a journalist, Elspeth would
already have ferreted into the Glasgow end.

He pulled into a lay-by on a crest of the road overlooking Strathbane.

Hamish phoned the newspaper offices in Glasgow, asked for the reporters desk, and then asked for Elspeth. She came on the phone, sounding slightly breathless.

‘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.’