M.C. Beaton - Death of a Bore

“I never really thought. I was that angry. He stood with the door a wee bit open.”

“And you weren’t aware of anyone outside apart from yourselves?”

“No.”

“Now, on the road back before you got to Cnothan, you passed a van.”

“I didnae notice anything on the road. I was still mad, you see. But I tell you this, Hamish Macbeth. I’m going to go on writing. Thon nice lady writer thought I should.”

“I don’t know how long I can keep your visit quiet, Angus, but I want you to think hard. Like I said, there may be something important you’ve forgotten.”

♦

Hamish drove back to the police station. He fed Lugs and then set out for Strathbane. He was anxious to talk to Miss Patty again.

As he left Lochdubh, he saw the door-to-door salesman, Hugh Ryan, leaving the Currie sisters’ cottage. He stopped and called to him. Ryan walked over. “They’re polite here,” he said. “I’ll give you that. But I cannae even sell a duster.”

“I’m off to Strathbane. Why don’t you try some of the housing estates there?”

“Maybe.”

“Or try the Tommel Castle Hotel. Tell the manager I sent you. They always need more cleaning stuff.”

Hamish drove off. A rising wind had moved round to the north-east, and little pellets of snow were beginning to dance crazily in the air.

Hamish swore under his breath. No snow had been forecast, and the gritters hadn’t been out to lay salt. He hoped they’d get to it soon, or he would have an evening of being called out to road accidents.

But as he drove down into Strathbane, the snow changed to sleet and then rain. A wet mist was beginning to blanket the town, a mist made hellish orange by the sodium light of the street lamps.

He parked at Strathbane Television and asked at the desk to speak to Miss Patty.

While he waited, he tried to sort out in his head the complexities of the case. It couldn’t have been anyone in Lochdubh, could it? But Highlanders are ultra-sensitive creatures, and John had wounded so many egos. It had been a hate crime.

Miss Patty appeared, flustered and nervous.

“I would like to talk to you,” said Hamish. “Is there anywhere we can go that’s private?”

She hesitated and then said, “Mr. Terrent is out this efternoon. There is a keffy next door. Perheps…”

“Yes, that’ll do. Do you want to get your coat?”

“No, it’s right next door.”

To Hamish’s relief, the café was run by Italians, which meant hot coffee and clean tables. He bought them both coffee and then they sat down.

“Miss Patty,” he began, “I noticed you were extremely upset at the news of the murder of John Heppel.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Was he more to you than just a scriptwriter?”

She flushed an ugly red. “No.”

“Are you from Strathbane?”

“No.” Her thin ringless hands wrapped themselves round the coffee cup for comfort.

“Where are you from?”

“Glesgow.”

“Glasgow! Which part?”

The genteel accents suddenly left her, and she demanded harshly, “Why? What’s it got to do with you where I come from?”

“I thought you might have known Mr. Heppel years ago.”

“No.”

“If you are lying, Miss Patty, I can find out. What is your first name?”

“Alice.”

“Right, Alice. When did you get the job up here?”

“Two years ago.”

“That would be after the last takeover. Was the job advertised in the Glasgow papers?”

“Yes.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair and surveyed her. Never lie to a Highlander, lassie, he thought cynically. We’ve all got master’s degrees in bullshit.

“I think you knew Harry Tarrant in Glasgow. I also think you knew John Heppel. I think you met them when you were a member of the Trotskyites.”

“I have nothing more to say to you.” She banged down her cup and jumped to her feet. “I’ve got to get back.”

“Sit down,” barked Hamish, “or I’ll have you for obstructing a police investigation.”

She sat down again. All traces of refinement had gone. Her face had hardened, and her mouth was set in a stubborn line. “Give me your home address,” he ordered.

“I don’t see – ”

“Address! Now!”

“Ten Swan Avenue. I’m off, and next time you want to talk to me, pig, you can do it through my lawyer.”

She stormed out, and this time Hamish let her go.

He went back to his vehicle and took out a map of Strathbane and looked up Swan Avenue. It was in one of the better residential districts, out towards the Lochdubh Road.

He drove out there and turned onto Swan Avenue and found number 10. It was a trim little villa. He noticed there were two bells. She must rent either the upstairs or the downstairs.

He went to the door and pressed both bells. A small elderly man answered. “What’s happened?” he asked, staring at the uniformed policeman.

“Does Miss Patty live here?”

“Yes, she rents upstairs, but she’s at work at the moment.”

“May I come in? I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Yes, come in. The place is a bit of a mess. I live here alone and I never was one for housekeeping.”

The living room he led Hamish into was impeccable. Hamish wondered what his idea of a mess was.

“Your name, sir?” said Hamish, taking off his cap and laying it on one of those knee-high tables which must be the cause of more bad backs than anything else, people having to stoop every time they reached for a cup of something.

“Barry Fraser. What’s all this about Miss Patty?”

“I’m investigating a murder. Miss Patty is not a suspect. We merely like to get background on everyone. Does she have any men friends?”

“Not lately.”

“But she did have?”

“There was this one chap who came a couple of times. Wee man with a black beard.”

Harry Tarrant, thought Hamish.

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t know. She had a hell of a row with some fellow about two months ago. At first I didn’t think it was her because she normally speaks in that prissy voice of hers. She was shouting, ‘You used me, you bastard. I’ll tell Harry.’ Then the man shouted back, ‘He won’t do anything. You’re a rotten lay.’”

“I’ll kill you,” she shouts, and then she throws a vase at him as he was leaving by the front door.

“When I went out, the man had gone, she was sitting at the top of the stairs crying, and there were bits of a glass vase in the hall where it had crashed against the door. I gave her a warning. I told her to clean up the mess and if she ever created a scene like that again, I’d tell her to leave. Nothing bad happened after that, and she pays her rent regularly.”

“Thank you,” said Hamish. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention my visit to her.”

“I hope she’s not in any trouble. I mean, apart from that one incident, she’s been an ideal tenant.”

“I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Hamish left and climbed into the Land Rover. He could not put in a report about Miss Patty because Blair would start howling about him being on Strathbane turf.

He phoned Jimmy Anderson and told him all he had found out. “Great stuff, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “Do you think the man she was shouting at could have been John Heppel?”

“Could have been. Don’t tell Blair I’ve been in Strathbane.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take all the credit for this. I’ll get her in for questioning. I’d better go and see this neighbour myself and start from there.”

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

7

But to us, probability is the very guide of life .

—Bishop Joseph Butler

Hamish had a leisurely breakfast the following morning, and then he took Lugs for a walk. He could not see any police about the village, and he was puzzled by their absence. Surely Blair had not decided to leave a murder investigation to the local copper.