Death of a Bore

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘How original,’ said Hamish dryly. ‘I’ll bet someone noticed he was left-handed but the gun was in his right hand.’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Just intuition,’ said Hamish sarcastically.

  ‘Anyway, the writing was pure Dostoyevsky.’

  ‘You mean the man who wrote The Idiot?’

  ‘Amazing. A learned policeman.’

  Hamish had actually only read the title in the local mobile library when he was searching for a detective story.

  ‘And you can’t think of anyone here who might hate him?’

  ‘No one at all.’

  ‘Did you commission him to write a script, or did he approach you?’

  ‘I had known him before.’ Harry looked uneasy. ‘We were friends in our youth in Glasgow.’

  ‘In the slums?’

  ‘Well, now, John was indulging in a little bit of exaggeration there. He was actually brought up in Bearsden.’

  ‘That’s pretty posh.’

  ‘You see, working class is all the thing these days. If a writer comes from a cosy background and starts writing a book set in the slums, people might think he didn’t know what he was writing about.’

  ‘Did he always write?’

  ‘He always tried.’

  ‘What was he doing when you knew him?’

  ‘He was an income tax inspector.’

  ‘That’s enough to get anyone murdered,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘My friend is dead,’ said Harry coldly. ‘I don’t like your tone.’

  ‘Who was he in contact with here apart from you?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘He had consultations with the director and the script editor.’

  ‘And who is the script editor?’

  ‘Sally Quinn.’

  ‘May we speak to her?’

  ‘I’ll get Miss Patty to take you to her. Now I have work to do.’ He buzzed for his secretary.

  As Miss Patty led them to a staircase leading to the floor below, Hamish studied her with new interest. She was a small faded woman, possibly in her late thirties, with dull sandy hair and a pinched white face. Hamish felt suddenly sorry for her. She should have been secretary to a bank manager or had some sort of job away from this brutal world where she might get a bit of respect. Yet some people would put up with a lot to think they were part of show business.

  ‘In here,’ said Miss Patty, pushing open a door. ‘Selly, pelice to see you.’

  Sally was a tall, angular woman with frizzy grey hair and pale eyes behind thick glasses. ‘I wish that silly cow would stop calling me Selly,’ she said. ‘It’s the old Kelvinside accent. You hardly hear it these days. You’ve come about John’s death?’

  ‘Did you think his script had merit?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Brilliant stuff. Never seen anything like it,’ said Sally to the window.

  ‘Did everyone here like him?’

  ‘Of course. Sweet man,’ Sally told the coffee pot on her desk.

  ‘Why isn’t there a copy of the script here?’

  ‘Paul Gibson took all the copies with him on location. It wasn’t quite finished, and so he thought he’d go over it while he was away. He’ll be back tomorrow.’

  Jimmy’s phone rang. He took it out and moved to a corner of the room. Hamish heard his exclamation of surprise and then ‘Right, sir.’

  Jimmy rang off and turned to Hamish. ‘Developments. We’ve got to go.’

  They thanked Sally and walked outside.

  ‘What?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Blair has arrested Alistair Taggart for the murder.’

  Chapter Five

  Here lies one who meant well, tried a little, failed much: – surely that may be his epitaph, of which he need not be ashamed.

  –Robert Louis Stevenson

  The message they received when they arrived back at police headquarters was that Jimmy was to go immediately upstairs to join Blair and that Hamish Macbeth was to get back to his beat.

  Hamish drove straight to Lochdubh, parked the Land Rover, collected Lugs, and walked up to Alistair Taggart’s cottage. He knocked on the door. Maisie Taggart answered. Her eyes were red with crying, and she hugged her thin figure.

  ‘He didnae do it,’ she said on a choked sob.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She nodded and turned away. He followed her into their living room. A battered typewriter stood on a desk in the corner with a pile of typescript beside it. I wonder where folks get ribbons for those things today, thought Hamish, what with most people using computers.

  He took off his cap and sat down. Lugs slumped in a corner and went to sleep.

  ‘Why do they think he did it?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Thon Perry Sutherland says he saw Alistair up at John’s cottage the night he was killed.’

  ‘And why didn’t Perry say this before?’

  ‘He said he didn’t want Alistair to get into trouble. Then that nasty fat detective kept shouting at him and accusing Perry of the murder, and that’s when Perry said he’d seen Alistair.’

  ‘Did they search your house? Did they find anything incriminating?’

  ‘They found a packet of mothballs.’

  ‘I’ve got a packet of mothballs. I think everyone in Lochdubh has a packet of mothballs. Why did Alistair say he was visiting John?’

  ‘He went to get the money back he’d paid for the writing class.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he drinking?’

  ‘No, he’s sworn off. He just writes and writes. Drives me mad. At least when he was on the drink, he would pass out sooner or later and give me a bit o’ peace. Anyway, I’ve had enough of him. I’m off to my sister in Oban.’

  ‘But if they haven’t any hard evidence, it’ll never get to court and he’ll be released.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be here waiting for him – him and his writing.’

  ‘Surely that’s better than the drink.’

  A mulish look settled on her weak face.

  Hamish repressed a sigh. He’d seen cases like this so many times before. The woman prays and prays that her man will give up the bottle, and when he does, she leaves him and usually moves in after a while with another drunk. These women had the awful craving to be needed, even if it meant lying for the drunk and cleaning up after him.

  ‘You’d better give me your address in Oban,’ he said.

  ‘Why? Alistair’s got nothing to do with me any more.’

  Hamish said patiently, ‘The police will want to interview you further. Don’t you have to make a statement?’

  ‘I’ve already talked to that fat bully. I told him Alistair went out at five and came back at six.’

  ‘Give me the address anyway.’

  She told him her sister’s address, and he wrote it carefully in his notebook.

  ‘And what about your son, Dermott? Won’t he be upset at being taken out of school?’

  ‘No, he says he’ll be glad to get away as well.’

  Outside, Hamish said to Lugs, ‘We’re off to Cnothan. If Perry saw him, maybe someone else saw him and heard something.’

  He drove off to Cnothan, and as he was driving through that dreary village, he saw one of those itinerate door-to-door salesmen who sell dusters and brushes and stuff for the kitchen. He stopped the Land Rover and got out.

  The salesman, a shabby young man, was just leaving one of the houses. Hamish hailed him.

  ‘I’ve got a licence,’ said the man defiantly. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘I just want to know if you went to any of the outlying cottages on the day that man was murdered.’

  ‘Aye, I even went to that fellow’s cottage afore he was murdered.’

  ‘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.