M.C. Beaton - Death of a Bore

♦

“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 road 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 underage.

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 Lochdubh.

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.

“It’s me – Hamish. Elspeth, I’m working on this John Heppel case and wondered if you had any background on the man.”

There was a silence, and then Elspeth said in a cold voice, “What ever happened to ‘How are you, darling? How’s the job? Are you well?’”

“I wrote,” said Hamish defiantly.

“I suppose you did. I wasn’t working on the John Heppel thing. Another reporter was. The background was in the paper. Didn’t you read it?”

“I haven’t had time,” said Hamish defensively.

“Wait a minute.”

Hamish held on, staring down at Strathbane, which lay sprawled under low-flying clouds, one great cancer on the beauty of the surrounding Highlands.

Elspeth came back on the line. “I’ll give you the main details. John Heppel was not brought up in a slum but in a tidy bungalow in Bearsden. He was an income tax inspector but was out of work for a while. He went into politics.”

“What politics?”

“Some bunch of Trotskyites. Hurled a brick at a policeman during a demonstration and was jailed for three months due to the fact that his ailing parents got him a good lawyer and he had a clean record up till then. Parents now dead. No romantic involvement we could find.”

“What about friends? Was there by any chance a Harry Tarrant mentioned anywhere?”

“Now, that rings a bell. Wait a minute. The reporter who covered the story has just walked in.”

Hamish waited patiently.

After what seemed a very long time, Elspeth came back on the line. “In the old report on that demonstration there was a Harry Tarrant arrested as well.”

“Great!”

“Why? Who’s Harry Tarrant?”

“He’s the drama executive of Strathbane Television, and John was writing a script for them. Are you enjoying yourself down there, Elspeth?”

“I don’t know. I’m just another reporter here. I miss the independence I had up there.”

“You could always come back.”

“I’ll think about it. I have to go.”

The news editor loomed over Elspeth after she had put the phone down. “Not taking personal calls, I hope?”

“No, it was business. An old friend of mine, Hamish Macbeth, the local copper in Lochdubh, is working on that writer murder.”

“Might be an idea to send you up there. Now that most of the press will have gone, you might get a good story since you know this policeman and know the area.”

“Here!” complained Matthew Campbell, the reporter who had already been working on the story. “Are you taking it away from me?”

“No, the pair of you can go. But go easy on expenses.”

♦

Hamish drove on to Strathbane Television. He wondered whether to interview Harry Tarrant but decided to leave it for the moment. He asked for Paul Gibson.

A man not a lot older than Hamish finally appeared. He had thick curly grey hair and a mobile comedian’s face.

“Am I under arrest?” he joked.

“No, just a few questions.”

“Let’s go round the corner to the pub. I’ve had enough of this place for one morning.”

They walked round to one of those awful Scottish pubs which had just been redecorated with tartan carpet, bad murals of Highlanders brandishing claymores in front of a Bonny Prince Charlie with an epicene face. Syrupy piped Muzak sounded through the smoke-laden air.

Paul ordered a Malibu and milk. Hamish was always amazed at the new exotic tastes of drinkers. He ordered a mineral water for himself and carried both glasses back to a round table and sat down in a plastic chair with arms made out of simulated stag’s horns.

“I want you to tell me all about John Heppel,” said Hamish.

“There’s not much to tell,” said Paul. “I wanted several changes in the script and told the script editor, and she got on to him.”