M.C. Beaton - Death of a Bore

“Really?” She sat down. “Get me a whisky. A large one.”

“Allow me,” said Blythe, giving Hamish a sympathetic look.

“Who’s he?” asked Heather, jerking a thumb at Blythe’s broad back as the literary agent walked over to the bar.

“He’s a literary agent who hopes to promote a novel written in Gaelic.”

“Then he’s daft. So what have you got?”

Hamish told her about Blythe’s assessment of the script. “I don’t see the point,” she complained. “Oh, thanks,” as Blythe handed her a double whisky.

“The point is this,” said Hamish eagerly. “As they seem to be so anxious to cover up what was in the original script, I’d like to know what it was. The whole atmosphere of this murder is wounded ego. Maybe some actor or actress didn’t like the part. No, wait a bit. They wouldn’t have the power to change the script. Could we get a search warrant?”

“For Strathbane Television? Their lawyers would take us to the cleaners. Besides, Alice Patty’s family are already suing the police.”

“Unless Alice Patty turns out to have been murdered.”

“Dream on.”

“Got the autopsy report yet?”

“Got the autopsy report yet what? ”

“Sorry. Have you got the autopsy report yet, ma’am?”

“Not yet. Have you anything else?”

“There’s an actress due up here soon, Patricia Wheeler. She’s said to have been close to John. I wanted a word with her in case John said anything to her that might give us a clue to his murderer.”

“I’ll get Anderson to speak to her.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” protested Blythe. “Why should someone else interview her when it was this officer here who thought of it?”

“Get me another whisky and I’ll think about it.”

Blythe rose to his feet. “Get it yourself, you old bag. I don’t work for you.”

Hamish was sorry to see him go. There was something very intimidating about Heather. Hamish had always thought of himself as a truly modern man, treating women like equals. But what about women treating men like equals?

Heather seemed unfazed by the insult. She held out her empty glass to Hamish.

“I don’t have any money on me,” lied Hamish.

“Oh, well, I’ll get it.” She leaned back in her chair and roared at the barman, “Another of these?”

Hamish suddenly remembered Lugs. The dog would be dying to be let out by now.

He rose to his feet. “I’ll just see if the television people have arrived.”

“You can get a clear view from the window. Sit down.”

“I’ve got my dog locked up in the Land Rover.”

To his surprise, she said mildly, “Go and get it.”

♦

“I will not let that bloody woman intimidate me,” said Hamish to his dog as he lifted Lugs down from the Land Rover and fished out the two biscuits he had kept for him from his pocket. “Here’s the television lot. I wonder whether I can get rid of her.”

He took out his notebook and searched for Elspeth’s mobile phone number. He dialled and waited impatiently until she answered.

“Elspeth, could you do something for me?”

“Like what?”

“There’s a woman who’s replaced Blair, and I want her out of the road for a bit. She’s in the bar at the Tommel Castle Hotel. Could you phone her and ask her if you could interview her? Woman’s angle. All that stuff.”

“I need a trade. Matthew’s behaving like an idiot. He’s talked the features editor into letting him spend the night on Standing Stones Island. ‘I Spent Night on Haunted Island’ and all that guff.”

“Do this for me. I think I’ve got an angle.”

“Okay. What’s this woman detective like?”

“Very charming. You’ll get on like a house on fire.”

“Bad choice of words. I believe the police station was nearly in flames last night.”

“Just a chimney fire. Please, Elspeth.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll phone her now.”

Hamish walked Lugs around the car park between the newly arrived television vans and then went into the hotel.

He could see Heather talking on the phone in the office. He waited patiently until she came out.

“I’m meeting some reporter down in the village,” she said. “She wants to do a profile of me. Look, carry on here. I won’t be long.”

Hamish took Lugs out for another walk and then put the dog back in the Land Rover.

He asked one of the technicians if Patricia Wheeler had arrived. “I think I saw her going in for a coffee,” he said.

Hamish went to the mobile cafeteria. He saw Ann King and asked her which of the actors present was Patricia Wheeler. “That’s her over in the corner. Good luck!”

Hamish judged Patricia Wheeler to be in her fifties. She was in the costume of a crofter’s wife – or rather what the television costume department fondly imagined the dress of a crofter’s wife to be. She was wearing a rough wool grey dress and had a tartan shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was heavily made up. Her grey hair was tied up in a scarf. She had a heavy jaw and small piggy eyes and yet managed to exude an air of strong sexuality.

“Patricia Wheeler? I’m the local constable, Hamish Macbeth. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Sit down. Go ahead.” Her voice was throaty.

Hamish removed his cap and sat down. “Places everyone!” shouted a girl from the doorway. The actors began to shuffle to their feet.

“That’s not for me. Not yet,” said Patricia.

“Were you friendly with John Heppel?”

“Yes, I was. Poor John.”

“Did he mention any enemies he might have made?”

“Only the villagers. He phoned me the afternoon before he was murdered and said they were out to lynch him.”

I don’t want to hear this, thought Hamish, assailed again by a pang of doubt that in his efforts to find any culprit other than one of the villagers, he was looking in the wrong direction.

“Anyone else? Anyone in this soap?”

“Not really. He complained a bit about changes to the script, but Paul always managed to calm him down.”

“Ah, the script. I’ve seen the one you’re working on, and I would swear that it wasn’t written by John Heppel.”

“I didn’t know you were a literary critic. I’ve got to go.”

“I would like to see the original script.”

“Then you’ll need to ask Sally Quinn.”

But Hamish found that Sally Quinn was in her office in Strathbane. He groaned to himself. Heather would return and would wonder where he was, and if he told her what he was doing, she would no doubt give him a blasting over going off on a wild-goose chase. And yet he was sure there was something wrong about it all. Maybe there had been something in the original script that gave a clue to the murderer.

He left Lugs back at the police station and drove off to Strathbane.

♦

Matthew closed his notebook after what he considered another useless interview. He wanted to do the feature on Standing Stones Island, but Elspeth didn’t want to be part of it.

He heard the school bell ringing for the lunch break – or dinner break as it was still called in Lochdubh – and decided to call on Freda. He found her attractive. He found Elspeth more attractive, but Elspeth seemed wrapped up in that odd local copper.

He walked past shrieking children in the playground and went into the small schoolhouse. Freda was in her office, marking exam papers.

“I wonder if I could tempt you to a bit of lunch,” he said.

“I’d love to. But I’ve brought a sandwich with me and I’ve still got papers to mark. How are you getting on?”

“Getting nowhere. Elspeth’s better at writing up the story of the suicide. I’ve got the features editor interested in a piece about spending a night on Standing Stones Island.”