M.C. Beaton: Death of a Bore

“Quite a lot of highland drunks feel the same way,” said Hamish, made malicious by boredom. “You know, they all think they’re off another planet.”

But John’s eyes had taken on the self-obsessed glaze of the bore. “You are wondering why I never married?”

“Last thing I was wondering,” muttered Hamish.

“There was one woman in my life, one great love. But she was married. We met in secret. Our passion soared like…like…”

“Buzzards?”

“The eagle,” corrected John crossly. “She had raven hair and skin like milk.”

“Aye, well,” said Hamish, determinedly getting to his feet. “All verra interesting, but I’ve got to go.”

“Oh, must you? Then I shall see you next Wednesday.”

Hamish jammed on his cap. “Don’t get up,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”

He noticed that a wax coat hanging by the door was wet.

He was just getting into the Land Rover when John ran out after him. “You’ve forgotten your book.”

“Aye, thanks.” Hamish took it from him and threw it onto the passenger seat and drove off at great speed.

He won’t last the winter, he told himself, unaware at that time that John Heppel was to leave the Highlands but not in a way that Hamish Macbeth expected.

♦

As Hamish drove along the waterfront in Lochdubh, he saw that one wire mesh waste bin had not yet been stolen by the fishermen to be used as a lobster pot. He stopped the Land Rover with a jerk, picked up John’s book, opened the window, and hurled the book into the bin. The inscription had annoyed him.

He drove a little further and then noticed a small crowd outside Patel’s general store. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, was one of the group, and she waved to him.

Hamish stopped again and rolled down the window. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s dreadful,” said Mrs. Wellington. “Come and look.”

Hamish climbed down and walked over. The group parted to let him through. There on the whitewashed wall of the store by the door, someone had sprayed in red paint, “Paki Go Home.”

“And he’s not even Pakistani!” wailed Mrs. Wellington. “He’s Indian.”

The door of the shop, which had been closed for the night, opened, and Mr. Patel came out. “Hamish, what’s happened?” he asked.

“Some maniac’s been writing on your walls,” said Hamish.

Mr. Patel looked at the wall. “Who would have done this?” he asked, looking round the little crowd.

“Do you sell spray paint?” asked Hamish.

“Yes, but never to children. I mean, I only sell it to people who’re going to use it round the house.”

Hamish addressed the group. “I want all of you to ask round the village and find out if anyone saw anyone near the shop. You closed half-day today, Mr. Patel. It gets dark after two in the afternoon. So it must have happened sometime between then and now. In the meantime let’s get some turpentine and wash the stuff off.”

“What about fingerprints?” asked Mrs. Wellington.

“No forensic team’s going to turn out for this, and the kit I’ve got wouldn’t be able to get one off that wall. Let’s get to it. And tell that new schoolteacher, Miss Garrety, that I’ll be along to speak to the pupils tomorrow first thing.”

“You think it’s children?” asked Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, who had joined the group.

“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “I chust cannae think of anyone who would do this. Mr. Patel is one of us and has been for ages.”

The group was getting larger, and everyone was desperate to take a hand at cleaning the wall. Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his fiery hair. “If it was ‘English Go Home,’ I could understand it,” he said to Angela. “There’s a lot of stupid English-bashing in Scotland these days.”

“But not in Lochdubh,” said Angela. “It must be someone from outside. Everyone in Lochdubh knows that Mr. Patel originally came from India.”

♦

The next day Hamish put his odd-looking dog, Lugs, on the leash and walked along to the village school. The school, like his police station, was under threat. The children were taught up to the age of eleven years, and then the older ones were bussed to the secondary school in Strathbane. There had been various moves to close down the school, but each time the well-organised villagers had mounted such a strong protest that they had succeeded in keeping it.

Miss Freda Garrety, the schoolteacher, was a tiny slip of a thing in her twenties. She barely came up to Hamish’s shoulder. She had straight black hair cut in a bob and a white triangular face with large black eyes. She was dressed in a black T–shirt and black trousers. Hamish thought she looked like a harlequin.

“I’m here to speak to your pupils,” said Hamish.

“About the graffiti?” She had a lowland accent. “Make it quick. Exams are coming up.”

Hamish walked into the classroom, where the children still sat behind old–fashioned desks: the oldest at the back and the youngest at the front.

He walked to the front of the room. “I’m here to talk to you about the racist graffiti on the wall of the general store. This is a disgrace and should not be allowed to happen in Lochdubh. Do any of you know anything about this?”

Solemn faces stared back at him, but nobody spoke. “Now, some of you may know something but don’t want to tell me in front of the others. If you do know anything at all, I want you to call at the police station with one of your parents.”

A small boy put his hand up.

“Yes?”

“My faither says there’s too many foreigners in this country. Maybe you should speak to him.”

“You’re Dermott Taggart, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Is your father at home?”

“He’s down on a building site in Strathbane.”

“Do you think he might have had something to do with this?”

Dermott looked suddenly frightened. “Don’t be telling him I said anything,” he said, and burst into tears. Freda rushed forward to comfort him.

“Anyone else?” asked Hamish.

Silence.

“Well, listen carefully. Racism is a serious crime. The culprit will be punished, and mark my words, I’ll find out who did this.”

♦

Hamish returned to the police station and went into his office, where he stared blankly at the computer. Who on earth would want to paint a racist slogan on Patel’s shop?

There was a cry from the kitchen door. “Hamish, the telly’s here. They’re outside Patel’s wi’ that writer cheil.”

Hamish rushed out. Archie Maclean stood there. “Ye wouldnae think they’d bother.”

Hamish walked with him round to Patel’s. John Heppel was standing outside the shop, facing a camera crew.

“…and that is all I have to say,” he was declaring pompously. “I, John Heppel, will do my utmost to help the police find the perpetrator of this wicked crime. Thank you.”

Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion. John Heppel was made up for the cameras, and yet he could not see a make-up girl anywhere around.

He pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered to where John was talking with the interviewer, a pretty girl called Jessma Gardener.

“How did you find out about this?” demanded Hamish of John.

“Ah, Constable. I just happened to be passing and saw the television crew.”

Hamish leaned forward and drew a long finger down John’s cheek and then studied the brown make-up on his finger.

“Do you usually wear make-up?” he asked.

John flushed angrily. “I am so used to television appearances,” he said, “that I carry a kit in the car. I owe it to my readers to look my best at all times.”

Hamish turned to Jessma. “How did you hear about this?”