M.C. Beaton - Death of a Bore

Miss Patty dropped the tray with a crash. Milk and coffee spilled over the carpet.

“You stupid girl,” roared Harry. “Clean that mess up and get out of here! No, on second thought, leave it until the police have left.”

“I’m so sorry,” wailed Miss Patty.

“Sod off,” said Harry brutally.

He turned to Jimmy and Hamish. “Where was I? Ah, yes, John. He was working on a script for us for Down in the Glen . Magnificent stuff. He was working on a second draft because the director wanted a few changes.”

“Who is the director?” asked Hamish.

“An English chap called Paul Gibson.”

“May we speak to him?”

“Not today. He’s up round John O’Groat’s way. On location.”

“When will he be back?”

“Tomorrow.”

Hamish produced a card. “Would you please ask him to phone me? And I would like to see the script.”

Harry buzzed his secretary. When she appeared, Hamish noticed she had been crying. “Get me John Heppel’s script for Down in the Glen ,” ordered Harry.

“Mr. Gibson has it with him.”

“What’s he doing carrying it around?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“Okay, get lost. I’ll call you.”

Miss Patty went out.

“Was it a good script?” asked Hamish while Jimmy threw him a bored look, wondering at all the questions.

“As I said, it was magnificent. I tell you, he had the right idea. Just because it’s a soap doesn’t mean that we can’t have a literary script.”

“And what was the plot?” asked Hamish.

For the first time, Harry looked uncomfortable. “Well, it was about a murder.”

“Describe it.”

“There’s this brilliant writer, and all the other writers are jealous of him and he begins to receive death threats. He moves to the Highlands and falls in love with Annie, one of our main characters, who is being raped by the laird. It looks like suicide because the gun is found in his hand.”

“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 coiner 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.”

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

5

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.