Death of a Bore (20 page)

‘That’s very odd. I mean, there they are, looking for hair and fibres and bits of dust, and they miss a whole computer.’

‘I think they’re covering up for one of the team. I think it’s likely that one of them said he had loaded it up when he hadn’t. There’s one of them, Jock Ferguson,
who’s hardly ever sober. He should have been fired long ago, but he’s a leading light of the Strathbane police rugby team. Drunk or sober, he plays a grand game and they don’t
want to lose him. There’s an inquiry going on.’

‘Right. Talk to you later.’

Hamish drove back to John’s cottage. The forensic team were just packing up. ‘Which of you is Jock Ferguson?’ he asked.

A huge man stepped forward. Hamish could smell whisky on him.

‘I want to know why you missed the computer.’

‘I’m sick o’ this,’ said Jock truculently. ‘It was an oversight. That’s all. We’d checked it for prints and there weren’t any and there was
nothing on the computer either.’

‘But there might have been something on the hard drive.’

‘There’s an inquiry going on, and I can’t stand here all day talking to you.’

Hamish watched him go. He was convinced the man was lying. Had someone bribed him to forget the computer?

He wondered where Jock drank and if he had been seen drinking with any of the television people.

He watched until the forensic team had packed up and left, then phoned Jimmy again. ‘I’ve just spoken to Jock Ferguson, and I’m sure he’s lying. I wonder if someone got
to him about that computer. Where does he drink?’

‘I guess with the rugby boys in the Thistle. It’s that pub down Glebe Lane in Strathbane.’

‘I know it. I’m going to go there.’

‘Hamish, if Blair finds out you’ve been in Strathbane, there’ll be ructions.’

‘What happened with Patricia?’

‘Grilled for hours but sticks to her story.’

‘Has she been charged with obstructing the police?’

‘No. Get this: Blair’s taken a fancy to her.’

‘I didn’t think that man took a fancy to anything that didn’t come in a bottle.’

‘I tell you, he’s gone all soppy. And, get this, she’s persuaded that director, Paul Gibson, to pay Blair a fee as police adviser. He’s starstruck.’

After Hamish had rung off, he climbed back into the Land Rover and headed for Lochdubh, marvelling again at the magic of television. It seemed to be like some sort of drug. People would appear
on humiliating game shows just to get in front of the camera.

As he was approaching Strathbane, Elspeth face seemed to appear before him. He really must take her out for dinner and have a chat. He was behaving like a cad by avoiding her.

But his feelings about her were still mixed. Some of the time he felt a sexual longing for her, and at others he felt she threatened his bachelor freedom.

He parked in Strathbane and headed for the Thistle. He went up to the barman and flashed his identification. ‘Jock Ferguson drinks in here, doesn’t he?’

‘Aye, most nights.’

‘Have you ever seen him drinking with anyone from Strathbane Television?’

‘I watch that soap of theirs, so I would recognize the actors, and I never saw him with one of them.’

‘Did you ever see him drinking with anyone who wasn’t part of the usual rugby crowd?’

He frowned in thought. Then he said slowly, ‘There was one night recently he was in here, and instead of standing at the bar like he usually does, he was over in the corner with a fellow
with thick grey hair and a sort of actor’s face. Small eyes, squashy nose.’

Paul Gibson, thought Hamish. Could it have been Paul Gibson?

Hamish phoned back to the police station and checked his messages. There was one from Kirsty. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said.

He phoned the television station and asked to speak to her. ‘Where can we meet?’ he asked.

‘You promised me dinner.’

‘So I did,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll meet you at eight o’clock in the Tommel Castle Hotel.’

But when he rang off, his mind was buzzing with the news that it had possibly been Paul Gibson who had been drinking with Jock Ferguson. Damn! He was slipping. He hadn’t asked when. He
went back to the Thistle, but the barman couldn’t remember the precise evening, only that it had been about a week ago.

Hamish then phoned Elspeth. ‘I need your help.’

‘Oh, really? I wondered when you were going to deign to talk to me.’

‘Come on, Elspeth. I’ve been that busy. This might turn out to be a big story for you.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in Strathbane, but I can be at the hotel in half an hour.’

‘See you in the bar.’

When Hamish entered the bar, Elspeth was sitting in a corner. She was wearing a tailored trouser suit and a white silk blouse. Her hair was smooth and shiny. Once again, he
found himself missing the old Elspeth, who wore dreadful clothes and had frizzy hair. This new Elspeth seemed somehow unapproachable.

‘Sit down, Hamish. What gives?’

‘For the moment this is off the record,’ he cautioned her.

‘Okay Talk.’

He told her about Jock Ferguson and his suspicion that the forensic man had been drinking with Paul Gibson. Her odd silver eyes fixed on his face, Elspeth asked, ‘So where do I come
in?’

‘Gibson’s English. I want to get a bit of background on him. Do you think you could tell him you want to write a profile on him and find out what shows he’s worked on before? I
don’t want to pull him in for questioning. If he’s our murderer, then he’s mad and dangerous.’

‘Okay, Sherlock. He’s still in the lounge for the great-detective-reveals-all scene. When they break, I’ll catch him.’

There was a long silence. Hamish shifted uncomfortably. Then he said, ‘I don’t know how to handle us, Elspeth.’

‘I know. But I’ve grown out of casual affairs, Hamish.’

‘It wasn’t a casual affair.’

‘But you didn’t want to make it permanent?’

‘No. I mean, I don’t know. If you looked like the old Elspeth, it would be easier to talk. But you look so sophisticated.’

‘It’s still me underneath.’

‘Let me have time to think, Elspeth.’

She looked at him sadly. ‘If you need time to think, Hamish Macbeth, then it means you don’t want to commit yourself to anything.’

‘I’m not saying that. Please, Elspeth.’

‘Okay. I’ll find out about Paul Gibson. Maybe we’ll talk when all this is over.’

‘I’d like that.’

Two actors walked into the bar. Elspeth got to her feet. ‘They seem to be taking a break,’ she said. ‘Where will you be?’

‘Back at the police station.’

‘I’ll phone you if I’ve got something.’

Elspeth went through to the lounge and approached Paul Gibson. ‘I’m from the
Daily Bugle
,’ she said. ‘I wonder if I might interview
you.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Now?’

‘Yes, now would be fine.’

They sat down in a corner of the lounge. ‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘No tape recorder, no notebook?’

‘I’ve a great memory, and I find either of those things puts people off.’ Elspeth did actually tape interviews but saw no reason to waste tape on an interview that would never
be published, and she did indeed have an excellent memory. ‘Just begin at the beginning and go on from there. What attracted you to show business?’

Paul seemed only too happy to talk. He had grown up in the East End of London. His family life had been unhappy. His father had run away when he was very small. He had spent a lot of his time at
the cinema. After school he had managed to get a degree in media studies at Luton University and had got a job as a researcher at the BBC. He had progressed to script editor and then director. He
had decided to freelance. He described the shows he had directed. There was a production of
Vanity Fair
and then a popular spy series. The spy series had been filmed in 1995. There was a gap
until he began to direct a few soap operas starting in 1998, which had all been failures, Elspeth remembered.

‘What were you doing between 1995 and 1998?’ she asked.

‘Oh, this and that,’ he said airily. Elspeth did not press him. He said that when Harry Tarrant had phoned his agent and offered the job in the Highlands, he had been delighted to
accept. ‘I’ve always been romantic about Scotland,’ he enthused.

‘Did you have any difficulties with John Heppel’s script? I mean, he was hardly a television writer.’

‘Oh, I tweaked it a bit. John was happy. We got on just fine.’

Elspeth then let him talk on about himself and his brilliance as a director and finished by taking photographs of him.

Then she went up to her room and typed out everything he had said on her computer, printed it off, and took it down to the police station in Lochdubh.

‘This last soap he directed,
Spanish Nights
, it didn’t run long, did it?’ asked Hamish.

‘It was a monumental failure. They even built a pseudo-village in Spain to use as the setting.’

‘But this gap. What was the spy series?’

‘It was called
Betrayal.
Filmed by Church Television. They do a lot of programmes for ITV. I’ll phone the office in London and see if they’ve got a contact.’

Hamish went into the kitchen, where he fed Lugs, lit the stove, and put on a kettle of water for coffee. Elspeth was on the phone for half an hour.

She finally joined him, her face flushed with excitement. ‘I got through to Church Television. I spoke to one of the producers. He remembers Paul. He was fired from the spy series after
the third episode. He had been quarrelling the whole time with the producer, and then he punched him in the face, right on the set, calling him an amateur. He was fired and had a nervous breakdown.
The company were very sympathetic. Said he’d been working very hard and it was due to stress.’

Hamish went through to the computer. ‘Let me get his statement. Here we are. He says he was back at his digs in Strathbane the whole evening of the murder. I’m going down there to
question his neighbours.’

But when Hamish arrived at Paul’s address in Strathbane, it was to find that he rented the top half of a villa and that the people downstairs were away on holiday and none of the
neighbours had noticed him coming or going.

He went back to Lochdubh, walked Lugs, and changed into his one good suit, then went to the hotel to meet Kirsty.

Her first words were, ‘Aren’t we going to get a drink at the bar first?’

‘We’ll have one at the table,’ said Hamish. He wanted to make the evening as short as possible so that he could study that script at his leisure.

She was wearing a skimpy top, which showed her bare midriff, and low-slung velvet trousers. She had a small diamond in her navel.

Hamish was glad that there was a new maître d’ at the hotel to replace the Halburton-Smythes’ former butler, who had once filled that post. He had always sneered at Hamish.

There was a set menu, but Kirsty went straight to the à la carte. She ordered a lobster cocktail, to be followed by fillet steak. ‘I think we should have a bottle of white wine to
start,’ she said brightly, ‘and one of these nice reds to follow.’

‘Aren’t you driving?’

‘I took a minicab, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you drive me home.’

Hamish thought of his meagre bank balance. He ordered the set meal for himself. Kirsty ordered the wine. As Hamish would be driving, she drank most of it herself. She said, ‘You can look
at the script later. This is my evening.’

And she chattered. She talked about her hair shampoo and about how she hoped to be a model. She talked about her diet – not much in evidence, thought Hamish sourly. She talked about her
friends and their love life and somehow managed to drink and eat at the same time.

Hamish excused himself and said he had to go to the toilet. Instead, he signalled to the maître d’, who followed him out of the dining room. ‘Peter,’ said Hamish
desperately, ‘I havenae enough money with me.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll say the bill’s on your account and you can make some arrangement with Mr Johnson tomorrow when he comes on duty.’

‘Thanks.’

‘That’s going to be one very drunk young lady.’

‘I know.’

Hamish returned to the table. Kirsty continued to drink and eat. Her voice became more slurred, and she began to press her foot against Hamish’s under the table. He jerked his chair back.
She tried to take his hand. He pretended not to notice and put his hands on his lap.

She finished her meal with a confection of strawberries, cream and meringue, washed down with a half bottle of dessert wine.

‘Now let’s see that script,’ said Hamish over coffee.

Kirsty waggled a finger at him and giggled. ‘Not yet.’

At the end of the meal Hamish had to help the staggering Kirsty out to the car park. She draped her arms around him and tried to kiss him, but he disengaged himself and helped her into the
police Land Rover.

As he drove off, to his immense relief she fell asleep. He drove gently a little way and stopped. He reached across her to where she had put her briefcase on the floor and gently extracted the
script in its green folder and put it in the side pocket of the Land Rover. Then he sped off, driving as fast as possible to Strathbane. On the outskirts he woke her up and asked for
directions.

Outside the block of flats where she lived, he helped her down. ‘Come in for a coffee,’ she said.

‘Sorry, I’ve got to get back.’

‘No coffee, no script.’

Hamish helped her up to the front door of the flats. Then he turned and sprinted back to the Land Rover, jumped in and drove off, leaving her staring blearily after him.

Hamish told a protesting Lugs he would need to walk himself, let the dog out, and went into the police office, opened the script and began to read.