M.C. Beaton - Death of a Bore

“Is she home now?”

“I saw her driving up when I left. I thought we’d go round and see her together.”

♦

Patricia opened her door as far as the chain would allow. “I’m not talking to you any more without my lawyer,” she said.

“You can talk to us here or talk to us down at the station,” said Jimmy.

She hesitated and then reluctantly unhooked the chain and opened the door wide.

The walls of her living room were decorated with photographs of herself in various stage and television productions. The furniture looked as if it came from.

Ikea. Jimmy and Hamish sat side by side on a white sofa. Patricia sat in an armchair opposite.

Jimmy flipped open his notebook. “In your statement,” he said, “you claim that on the day of the murder, you finished on location up on the moors outside Strathbane at four o’clock and went straight home and spent the rest of the evening indoors.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“But one of your neighbours saw you driving off in your car in the late afternoon.”

“He must be mistaken.”

“Come on. Where did you go?”

She gave a well-manufactured start of surprise. “Oh, how silly. I went out to get a take-away.”

“Where from?”

“Some Chinese place.”

“Which one?”

“I can’t remember.”

“We happen to know you went to John Heppel’s cottage,” said Hamish.

Jimmy looked at Hamish in surprise, reflecting that one never knew when Hamish Macbeth was lying or telling the truth.

She stared at Hamish for a long moment. Then she gave a shrug. “So what if I did?”

“What if you did!” echoed Jimmy. “This is looking bad for you. You were at the cottage of a man on the day he was murdered, and yet you lied to the police!”

“I was frightened,” she cried.

“Just tell us what happened,” said Hamish.

She seemed to crumple. “I just wanted to talk to him,” she said in a low voice. “That’s all. We had been so close. He said he had written in a big part for me. It would have given me a chance to really act. I drove up to the cottage. I got there just before seven o’clock. The lights were on. I hammered on the door but no one answered. His car was there. I tried the door but it was locked. I shouted through the letter box. He didn’t answer. So I came away and drove straight home.”

“Was there any other vehicle there?”

“There was a dirty little van parked at the end of the road leading to the cottage. I thought it had been abandoned.”

“Get your coat,” said Jimmy. “You’re going to have to come to headquarters with us now and make an official statement.”

“Have you still got a big part?” asked Hamish.

“No, it was cut.”

“Whose decision was that?”

“Harry Tarrant’s.”

“Why was it cut?”

“Paul, the director, said it was because it just didn’t work. I wasn’t ever one of the main characters, and he wanted to keep it that way.”

♦

At police headquarters Detective Chief Inspector Blair accosted Jimmy and asked him what was going on. His eyes gleamed when Jimmy told him. “You and I will interview her,” he said. “Macbeth, get back to your village.”

♦

Elspeth was feeling lonely. Matthew had gone to take Freda to dinner. She decided to go to John Heppel’s cottage just to get a feel for the place. The newspaper had given them two more days in case anything else happened. The feature was written, and there didn’t seem much more either of them could add to it. Still, the cigarette smuggling story had justified their trip and expenses.

She borrowed one of the hotel cars and set off.

The roaring winds of Sutherland were screeching down from the mountains and whistling through the heather. She drove up to John’s cottage, parked, and got out. Elspeth remembered her childhood in the Highlands, running before the wind with her friends like deer.

The great oak tree outside the cottage tossed its branches up to the ragged clouds streaming across the sky as if pleading against the ferocity of the wind.

She stood looking at the cottage, dark and secretive. Elspeth suddenly got a feeling she was not alone. There was malice and danger in the air. She got into her car and drove off to the end of the grassy track that led to the cottage, and stopped.

Had it been her imagination? Violence had taken place in that cottage. She thought she had lost her psychic abilities, but maybe they had come back now she was home again. Perhaps all she had sensed was the violence of the murder that had taken place in the cottage. She looked in the rear-view mirror, back along the track to the cottage, and as she did so, she saw a red light at the living room window.

Elspeth reversed, turned, and headed back.

Fire!

As she reached the cottage again, the living room window exploded with the heat of the fire, and the wind rushed in, fanning the flames to an inferno.

She pulled out her mobile and dialled the fire brigade. Then she phoned Hamish. She only got the answering machine at the police station, so she phoned his mobile.

“Hamish! John Heppel’s cottage is on fire.”

“I’m nearly at Lochdubh,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

Elspeth got out her camera and photographed the blaze. Then she phoned the Italian restaurant and told Matthew what had happened.

While she waited for the fire brigade, she watched in fascinated horror as the blaze grew even more ferocious and the roof caved in.

When the fire engine raced up, she moved her car well to the side to give them room.

As the firemen played their hoses on the blaze, Matthew and Freda arrived. Elspeth felt irritated at the sight of Freda. This was a news story, and she didn’t like ‘civilians’ cluttering up the scene. Then Hamish drove up.

Elspeth told him what had happened and about her odd feeling when she was standing outside the cottage.

“Did you smell anything?” asked Hamish.

“Like what?”

“Like petrol.”

“The wind was behind me, so it was probably blowing any smell of petrol away.”

“It must have been deliberate,” said Hamish. “The murderer must have wondered if he had left any trace.”

“But why now?” asked Matthew. “Everyone knows the forensics have finished their investigation. Elspeth, do you think you could file the story? Freda and I hadn’t finished our meal.”

Elspeth stared at him in surprise. What had happened to hotshot reporter Matthew? But she said, “All right. You go ahead. I’ll go to the Highland Times and file from there and send the photographs.”

“You’re an angel. Come on, Freda.”

“You know what I think?” said Hamish. “I’m more than ever convinced our murderer is an amateur, and a panicky one at that. I’ve asked for roadblocks to be set up.”

Hamish then phoned Jimmy and told him what had happened.

“I’ve just heard,” said Jimmy.

“How did you get on with Patricia?”

“Nowhere. She won’t speak without her lawyer. We’re waiting for him.”

Hamish fell silent. He was suddenly worried about Angus Petrie. What if Angus were the murderer, after all? Who but the murderer would want that computer? What if it did turn out to be Angus and he was subsequently arrested? The whole story about how Hamish Macbeth had aided and abetted a murderer would not only get him fired, it would land him in court. If only he had not been so focussed on that missing script. It was only a script, after all, but he had become obsessive about finding it. He had, in fact, become so determined to find it was one of the television people that he might have been overlooking the obvious.

♦

The next morning was damp and drizzly. Hamish took Lugs for an early morning walk along the waterfront. Archie Maclean, the fisherman, was sitting on the harbour wall smoking a roll-up. Hamish wondered, not for the first time, whether Archie ever slept. He was out all night at the fishing but could usually be seen around Lochdubh during the day.