Death of a Poison Pen

by Beaton, M. C.

  Hamish was just frying some chops when there was a knock at the kitchen door. The locals never came to the front door. He opened it. In the days when Hamish was a police sergeant, his caller, Clarry Graham, had worked for him – or, rather, had not worked, Clarry finding that his talents lay in being a chef.

  To Hamish’s dismay, he was clutching That Book.

  ‘It’s quiet up at the Tommel Castle Hotel at the moment,’ said Clarry plaintively. ‘I was out fishing in the loch when this book fell out o’ the sky and right into my boat. It’s inscribed to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Must’ve been kids,’ said Clarry.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘You don’t want to be reading something like that anyway,’ said Clarry. ‘Full o’ nasty words. I’m telling you, there’s an eff in every line.’

  ‘That’s the fellow who’s going to be giving those writing classes.’

  ‘Oh, I’d signed up for those.’

  ‘You, Clarry? A book? I mean, what about?’

  ‘I’m going to call it From Police Station to Kitchen.’

  ‘Look, Clarry, it iss awfy hard to get a book published these days. Particularly a life story. You really have to be some kind o’ celebrity. Besides, this John Heppel seems to write the sort of stuff you wouldn’t want to read.’

  ‘He’s going to tell us about publishers and agents,’ said Clarry stubbornly. ‘I’d like to make a bit o’ money. Just look at what J. K. Rowling earns.’

  ‘Didn’t it dawn on you that J. K. Rowling can write? Clarry, only four and a half per cent of the authors in this world can afford to support themselves. I ’member reading that.’

  Clarry’s round face took on a mulish look, and Hamish suppressed a sigh. Clarry obviously thought he was destined to be one of the four and a half per cent.

  When Clarry had left, Hamish began to think uneasily about John’s writing classes. John, he was beginning to feel, was some sort of dangerous foreign body introduced into the highland system.

  He decided to attend the first class. It would upset John to see him there, and Hamish looked forward to upsetting John. He flicked open John’s book and began to read. It was one of those pseudo-literary stream-of-consciousness books set in the slums of Glasgow. The ‘grittiness’ was supplied by four-letter words. The anti-hero was a druggie whose favourite occupation seemed to be slashing with a broken bottle anyone in a pub who looked at him the wrong way. The heroine put up with all this with loving kindness. Hamish flicked to the end of the book, where a reformed anti-hero was preaching to the youth of Glasgow. No one could accuse the book of being plot-driven. Hackneyed similes and metaphors clunked their way through the thick volume.

  Maybe it was all right, he thought ruefully. Like all Highlanders, he was quick to take offence and loathed being patronized. The inscription still rankled, however.

  There was another knock at the door, very faint. Hamish opened it and looked down at Dermott Taggart, the small boy who had thought his father might be responsible for the graffiti.

  ‘Come ben,’ said Hamish. Then he cursed. Black smoke was rising from the frying pan. He’d forgotten about the chops.

  ‘Sit down, laddie,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ll just put this mess in the bin. I havenae any soft drinks, but I could make you some tea.’

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ said the boy in a whisper.

  Hamish got rid of the chops. ‘Sit,’ he ordered. ‘You didn’t really think your da was responsible for the graffiti?’

  Dermott hung his head.

  ‘I think,’ said Hamish gently, ‘that something at home is bothering you. I think you want a policeman to call. What’s going on at home?’

  The child began to cry. Hamish fished a box of tissues out of a cupboard and handed it to him, then waited patiently.

  At last the crying ended on a hiccupping sob. ‘Dad’s hitting Ma,’ he choked out.

  ‘Does he drink?’

  ‘A lot.’

  ‘It’s hard for me to do anything unless your mother puts in a complaint.’

  ‘You won’t tell the Social?’ gasped the boy in sudden alarm.

  ‘No, I won’t do that,’ said Hamish, knowing that no matter how bad the parents, abused children still lived in terror of being snatched from their homes by the Social Security. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll think of something.’

  When the boy had gone, Hamish turned over in his mind what he knew about the boy’s father. Alistair Taggart took occasional building jobs down in Strathbane. Hamish couldn’t remember seeing him drinking in the village pub. Perhaps he did his drinking in Strathbane and drove home.

  He was almost relieved to have an ordinary, if unpleasant, village problem to cope with instead of fretting that John Heppel would somehow bring trouble to the area.