Death of a Bore (12 page)

‘What row?’

‘There’s a hundred-foot-high statue on the top of Beinn a’ Bhragaidh. It was erected a year after his death by, to quote, “a mourning and grateful tenantry to a judicious
kind and liberal landlord.” An awful lot of people want it pulled down.’

‘See their point. Do we go straight to Strathbane Television, or do we call at police headquarters first?’

‘The television station, I think.’

‘I’ve often wondered,’ said Matthew, ‘why you settled for working for the
Daily Bugle
’s Scottish edition. You could have gone to London. I only heard the
other day that the main office had made you an offer.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to be too far away from the Highlands.’

‘Glasgow’s far enough away for me. I’ve never been further north than Inverness. It’s a whole different world up here. You know how it is these days. The Scots
don’t want to holiday in Scotland any more. They want the sun. It’s cheaper to take a holiday in Spain than book into some of these hotels in Scotland.’

They drove on in silence as the road wound through rocky clefts where tumbling waterfalls cascaded down, across heathery moorland, the single-track road winding in front of them until they
crested a hill and Matthew exclaimed, ‘What’s that doing there?’

‘That is Strathbane. Our very own area of pollution.’

The town lay in a valley below them, dark and ugly. The sun was disappearing behind the clouds, and a last ray shone on the oily waters of the deserted docks.

‘What do they do for a living?’

‘Collect their dole money, spend it on drink or drugs, and then go out and mug people for more money. That’s the tower block lot. There’s a respectable section of the
population: small factory owners, lawyers, dentists, doctors, shopkeepers, schoolteachers, people like that.’

‘And television people?’

‘Apart from the odd secretary or two, I don’t think you’ll find any local people. Make two right turns on Ferry Street and then a left.’

‘Was there a ferry?’

‘There was at one time. It went out to Standing Stones Island, that lump you can see away out on the water. No one lives there now. They say it’s haunted.’

‘That would be a good feature. A night on the haunted island.’

‘You’re on your own on that one.’

‘I might give it a try,’ said Matthew.

‘Left!’ ordered Elspeth. ‘Here we are.’

Miss Patty was being interrogated at police headquarters, so it was a bouncing blonde with bouncing cleavage who escorted Elspeth and Matthew to Harry Tarrant’s
office.

Harry greeted them warily, told them to sit down, and asked them what they wanted.

‘We gather that you knew John Heppel quite a time ago when you were both members of the Trotskyites,’ said Matthew, plunging right in.

Harry stiffened and then gave a jolly laugh. ‘Ah, the follies of youth.’

‘Can you tell us what sort of person he was?’ asked Elspeth.

‘Fine man,’ said Harry. ‘A really good writer.’

‘How did he come to be writing a script for you?’ asked Matthew.

‘He e-mailed me and said it was difficult to write in the city. I suggested he come up to the Highlands for a bit of peace and quiet. I asked him if he would like to try his hand at
writing something for television.’

‘Why
Down in the Glen
? Hardly demands a literary script,’ Elspeth pointed out.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Harry. ‘Soaps can be educational – should be educational. I thought we needed to go upmarket with some serious
writing.’

‘I’m sure the police have asked you this.’ Elspeth studied Harry’s eyes. ‘Where were you on the evening John Heppel was murdered?’

‘Minding my own business,’ snapped Harry, ‘and I suggest you do the same.’

Matthew took out his notebook and began to write. ‘Harry Tarrant said yesterday that he refused to state where he was on the evening of the murder,’ he said out loud.

‘Wait a minute.’ Again that forced jolly laugh. ‘Scrub that out. I’ve nothing to hide. I went for a drive. It had been a tough day and I find driving soothes
me.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Ullapool. I dropped in at the Fisherman’s Arms for a drink and then drove back. It’s a long drive. I must have left around six o’clock and got back at eleven
o’clock and went straight to bed.’

‘Had John made any enemies in the television company?’

‘No, everybody was very impressed by him. Now, if there’s nothing more, I have work to do.’ He buzzed for the secretary to show them out.

As they were walking along one of the long corridors, Elspeth said to the secretary, ‘I forgot to ask Mr Tarrant for a publicity photograph for our files. Can you get me one?’

‘Sure. Just wait in reception and I’ll bring you one.’

‘Now what?’ said Matthew outside.

‘Ullapool,’ said Elspeth. ‘It’s about an hour’s drive. We’ve got the photo of him. Let’s ask in the Fisherman’s Arms if he was there.’

‘What’s Ullapool like?’

‘Very pretty. Lots of tourists in the summer. They like to take the ferries out to the Summer Isles, uninhabited isles, to look at the seabirds and dolphins. Won’t be very busy
now.’

As they drove off, Matthew grumbled, ‘The sun’s gone down already. Does it never stay light up here?’

‘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.

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.’

Fortunately 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!’