‘You don’t know much about your own country,’ said Elspeth. ‘In high summer it’s nearly light all night.’
Hamish was at that moment sitting in John Heppel’s cottage. He knew the place had been fingerprinted and thoroughly searched. But contrary to what people saw on television about forensic detection, he knew the forensic team from Strathbane were sometimes sloppy, particularly if there was a football match on television.
It was then that he noticed the computer was still on John’s desk. Why on earth had it not been taken away and a thorough search made of the contents?
He moved over to John’s desk and switched on the computer and went to Word and clicked into the files. He stared in amazement. There was nothing there. No record of the suicide note.
He opened the desk drawers. The police had taken all the papers out of the desk, but why not check the computer? He tapped the e-mail icon. To his surprise John’s password was logged in. He went to the Inbox. No messages at all. He was sure someone, probably the murderer, had wiped everything clean. But surely some computer expert down at Strathbane could check the hard drive.
He phoned Jimmy Anderson and was told he was out. He then dialled the pub next door to police headquarters. Jimmy came on the line. ‘What’s this, Hamish? Can’t I have a quiet drink?’
Hamish told him about the empty computer. ‘Someone’s slipped up there,’ said Jimmy. ‘You’d better bring it over here.’
‘How’s Miss Patty getting on?’
‘Blair’s interviewing her, and I gather the lassie’s getting hysterical.’
‘Does that scunner never realize he could get more out o’ people by being nice for a change?’
‘Never has, never will. See you when you bring that computer over.’
Hamish switched off the computer. There was a split second during which his highland sixth sense was suddenly and violently aware of danger. Then a heavy blow struck him on the back of the head.
‘I can see it might be pretty in the summer,’ said Matthew as he drove down into Ullapool, ‘but it looks wet and miserable today.’
The weather had performed one of its usual mercurial changes. Sheets of fine rain were driving in off a heaving sea in a rising gale.
They parked in the municipal car park and began to walk down to the waterfront. Elspeth clutched Matthew’s arm. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she said.
‘What? Time of the month?’
Elspeth shook her head as if to clear it. ‘I felt something bad,’ she said uneasily.
‘It’s that rich lunch we had,’ said Matthew. ‘When my stomach’s upset, it does funny things to my brain. Where’s this Fisherman’s Arms?’
‘Not far.’
‘I’m soaked. I can hardly see anything for the rain.’
‘It’s what we call a grand soft day,’ said Elspeth. The wind whipped her umbrella out of her hand and sent it sailing into the harbour. ‘Oh, let’s run!’
They charged into the Fisherman’s Arms and shrugged off their soaking coats.
‘I want a double whisky before I ask anyone anything,’ said Matthew.
‘You’re driving.’
‘So what?’
‘So go ahead and I’ll drive back. I’ll have a glass of white wine.’
Matthew returned with the drinks. ‘Wait till I get this down me and then we’ll both go to the bar and start asking questions.’
Elspeth tasted her glass of wine cautiously. She reflected she should have known better than to order white wine in a bar. It tasted like vinegar.
‘Right,’ said Matthew when he had gulped down his whisky. ‘That’s better.’
They walked up to the bar, where a diminutive highland barmaid was staring vaguely into space. Apart from Elspeth and Matthew, there were only two other customers.
Matthew handed over the photograph of Harry Tarrant.
‘We’re reporters from the Daily Bugle,’ he said. ‘We’re reporting on that murder in Cnothan. Did this man come here on the day of the murder?’
‘When was that again?’
‘The seventeenth.’
‘Aye, so it was. I wisnae here. Big Jake was on duty. You’d best ask him.’
‘Where do we find him?’
‘Sullivan Road. The housing estate up the back o’ the town. Number 5.’
‘Is it far? Should I go back to the car park and get the car?’ asked Matthew.
‘No. It’s just a toddle. Go to the end and turn left. You’ll see the council houses up on the hill.’
The walk in the driving rain turned out to be a long one, and by the time they reached Big Jake’s address, they were soaked to the skin.
A man in dirty pyjamas answered the door. He was tall with a long thin face. His grey hair was thinning on top, but he had a long ponytail at the back.
‘Big Jake?’ asked Matthew.
‘Aye.’
‘We’re reporters from the Daily Bugle. Can we come in?’
‘No. I’m busy.’
Matthew fished out the photograph of Harry. ‘Can you tell us if this man was in the Fisherman’s Arms the evening John Heppel was murdered over in Cnothan?’
‘Aye, that’s him. I mind him well. I said if he drank ony mair, I’d need to take his car keys off him.’
‘He was there all evening?’
‘About three hours.’
‘Was he with anyone?’
‘No, sat by hisself drinking whisky.’
‘Jake!’ called a woman’s voice from inside the house.
‘Like a told you,’ said Jake, ‘I’m busy.’ And he slammed the door.
‘What a wasted day,’ grumbled Matthew as they bent their heads before the rising storm and hurried back to the car. ‘I’ve an awful feeling in my bones we’re no’ going to find much to write about.’
But he was wrong.
Chapter Eight
When constabulary duty’s to be done,
The policeman’s lot is not a happy one.
– W. S. Gilbert
After Matthew and Elspeth had arrived back at the Tommel Castle Hotel and had changed into dry clothes, they met in the bar.
‘We’ll need to find something to write,’ said Elspeth.
‘Couldn’t we just stay in this nice hotel for the evening and start tomorrow?’
‘No, I think . . . Oh, good evening, Mr Johnson.’
‘Shame about Hamish Macbeth,’ said the manager.
Elspeth’s eyes widened in shock. ‘What’s happened to Hamish?’
‘He was up at John Heppel’s cottage when someone struck him a sore blow on the head. Perry Sutherland saw the cottage door lying open and went in and found him.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Over at Braikie Hospital.’
‘Come on, Matthew,’ said Elspeth.
The waiting room of Braikie Hospital was full of villagers from Lochdubh. Mrs Wellington strode forward to meet them. ‘They’re only allowing us in two at a time,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to wait.’
‘How is he?’ asked Elspeth.
‘He had a bad blow to the head, but they say he is only slightly concussed. It’s not serious.’
‘Who’s with him now?’
‘Miss Garrety, the schoolteacher.’
‘And who’s with her?’
Mrs Wellington gave a sly smile. ‘We all agreed to let her go in on her own. It’s time Macbeth was married.’
‘Is there a canteen in this place?’ asked Matthew.
‘Yes, on the first floor.’
‘Come along, Elspeth. We’ll get a cup of tea while we’re waiting.’
When they were out of earshot, Matthew said, ‘I’ve got a plan.’
‘Like what?’
‘Let’s go down to the basement instead. Maybe there’s a laundry room there where we could disguise ourselves and jump the queue.’
‘We’d be spotted. We can’t cover our faces.’
‘We can if we find some surgeons’ stuff.’
Fortunatel
y the basement area appeared to be deserted. They tried door after door. Most were locked.
‘Someone’s coming,’ hissed Elspeth.
‘In here!’ urged Matthew, reopening one of the doors he knew was unlocked.
They waited. There was a sound of squeaking wheels. Matthew opened the door a crack.
A hospital porter was trundling a laundry basket on wheels. He went into a door at the end of a long corridor. Matthew waited. The man reappeared and walked down past where they were hidden.
When he had gone, Matthew said, ‘I know where the laundry is. Come on.’
They hurried along to the laundry room. ‘The stuff’ll be dirty,’ complained Elspeth.
‘Then we’ll pick out the least dirty ones.’
Freda sat by Hamish’s bed and held his hand. ‘Are you sure you feel all right?’
‘I’d feel better if someone from police headquarters would arrive and tell me why that computer was never checked.’
The door opened and two masked figures entered. One said to Freda, ‘You’ll need to leave, miss. We have to take Mr Macbeth to the operating theatre.’
‘What’s this?’ cried Hamish in alarm. ‘No one said anything to me about needing an operation.’
The smaller of the ‘surgeons’ held open the door and said pointedly to Freda, ‘If you don’t mind, miss.’
When Freda had gone, Elspeth jerked down her mask and said, ‘Surprise!’
‘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.
Death of a Bore Page 10
