M.C. Beaton - Death of a Bore

But it transpired Archie had not been out the night before. “There were the waves out there as high as houses,” said Archie. “What’s this about a fire at that bastard’s cottage?”

Hamish told him.

“Probably the fires o’ hell where he lives now coming up through the floor,” said Archie.

“I think they’ll find out it was set deliberately,” said Hamish.

“I iss like thon thing on the telly.”

“What thing?”

“On Boys in Blue .”

“I don’t watch it.”

“It wass on the other night. This man murders his wife and makes it look like suicide. He’s got an alibi that he was somewhere else. Then he thinks they might find some of his – that stuff.”

“DNA.”

“That stuff. So he sets fire to their flat while the forensic team are working. Kills them all.”

Hamish walked on deep in thought. Surely even an amateur would know that the forensic team had finished their work. But what about someone in television? It was a closed world, where he often thought they lived in their fantasies rather than in the real world.

He returned his dog to the police station. There was an angry message from Blair telling him to get over to Cnothan and try to find an eyewitness to the fire.

Cnothan was his least favourite place, being a drab village bordering on a man-made hydroelectric dam and loch. If only John had lived in the village itself, there might have been the chance of an eyewitness. He drove out onto the moors and to the blackened shell that was John’s cottage.

There was a small group of sightseers. He went from one to the other, asking them if they had seen anyone near the cottage the night before, but they all swore they had been nowhere near it. A white-suited forensic team were picking their way through the blackened ruins. The Cnothan fire chief was watching. Hamish approached him. “Set deliberately?”

“Aye,” said the fire chief. “They’re saying it looks that way. Two petrol cans found out the back.”

Hamish returned to the police station and checked his messages. Nothing from Kirsty. He wondered whether they were still filming at the Tommel Castle Hotel and headed there.

The vans were all parked outside. He went into the manager’s office. “They’re all in the lounge,” said Mr. Johnson. “It’s evidently the scene where the wicked laird is charged with rape. They’ve got some Scottish actor trying to do an upper-class English accent.”

“I thought it was only American films where they went in for English-bashing. They want a villain, so they get an English actor.”

“Aye. Did you see Braveheart ? What a load of bad historical rubbish.”

“Couldn’t bear to. Can I take a peek?”

“Go on. Be my guest.”

Hamish walked to the doorway of the lounge and looked in. An actor playing a detective stood in front of the fireplace. He pointed at the laird. “You followed Morag Mackenzie down to the beach and there you raped her,” he was saying.

“Oh, I say,” said the laird. “What utter tosh.”

“Cut,” shouted Paul Gibson. He said to the actor who was playing the laird, “Can you put a bit more life in your voice? You’ve just been accused of rape. You should be horrified. Right, get set, everyone. Action.”

Hamish moved away and went outside. It was still drizzling, but there was a patch of blue sky over to the west.

He took out his mobile phone and called Jimmy. “I suppose they’ve checked everyone’s background,” said Hamish. “Anyone with a criminal record?”

“Minor things. Cannabis smoking. That sort of thing. Nothing major.”

“I wonder if any of them are mad.”

“You mean crazy?”

“Yes, a history of mental disorder.”

“If they have, it wouldn’t be on the police files; it would be on their medical records.”

“I think someone really unbalanced is responsible for this. Someone went into a crazy rage and killed John Heppel and then panicked and tried to make it look like suicide. By the way, did forensics ever come up with an explanation as to why they missed taking John Heppel’s computer?”

“They keep saying it was black on a black desk. They must have missed it.”

“That’s very odd. I mean, there they are, looking for hair and fibres and bits of dust, and they miss a whole computer.”

“I think they’re covering up for one of the team. I think it’s likely that one of them said he had loaded it up when he hadn’t. There’s one of them, Jock Ferguson, who’s hardly ever sober. He should have been fired long ago, but he’s a leading light of the Strathbane police rugby team. Drunk or sober, he plays a grand game and they don’t want to lose him. There’s an enquiry going on.”

“Right. Talk to you later.”

Hamish drove back to John’s cottage. The forensic team were just packing up. “Which of you is Jock Ferguson?” he asked.

A huge man stepped forward. Hamish could smell whisky on him.

“I want to know why you missed the computer.”

“I’m sick o’ this,” said Jock truculently. “It was an oversight. That’s all. We’d checked it for prints and there weren’t any and there was nothing on the computer either.”

“But there might have been something on the hard drive.”

“There’s an enquiry going on, and I can’t stand here all day talking to you.”

Hamish watched him go. He was convinced the man was lying. Had someone bribed him to forget the computer?

He wondered where Jock drank and if he had been seen drinking with any of the television people.

He watched until the forensic team had packed up and left, then phoned Jimmy again. “I’ve just spoken to Jock Ferguson, and I’m sure he’s lying. I wonder if someone got to him about that computer. Where does he drink?”

“I guess with the rugby boys in the Thistle. It’s that pub down Glebe Lane in Strathbane.”

“I know it. I’m going to go there.”

“Hamish, if Blair finds out you’ve been in Strathbane, there’ll be ructions.”

“What happened with Patricia?”

“Grilled for hours but sticks to her story.”

“Has she been charged with obstructing the police?”

“No. Get this: Blair’s taken a fancy to her.”

“I didn’t think that man took a fancy to anything that didn’t come in a bottle.”

“I tell you, he’s gone all soppy. And, get this, she’s persuaded that director, Paul Gibson, to pay Blair a fee as police adviser. He’s starstruck.”

After Hamish had rung off, he climbed back into the Land Rover and headed for Lochdubh, marvelling again at the magic of television. It seemed to be like some sort of drug. People would appear on humiliating game shows just to get in front of the camera.

As he was approaching Strathbane, Elspeth’s face seemed to appear before him. He really must take her out for dinner and have a chat. He was behaving like a cad by avoiding her.

But his feelings about her were still mixed. Some of the time he felt a sexual longing for her, and at others he felt she threatened his bachelor freedom.

He parked in Strathbane and headed for the Thistle.

He went up to the barman and flashed his identification.

“Jock Ferguson drinks in here, doesn’t he?”

“Aye, most nights.”

“Have you ever seen him drinking with anyone from Strathbane Television?”

“I watch that soap of theirs, so I would recognise the actors, and I never saw him with one of them.”

“Did you ever see him drinking with anyone who wasn’t part of the usual rugby crowd?”

He frowned in thought. Then he said slowly, “There was one night recently he was in here, and instead of standing at the bar like he usually does, he was over in the corner with a fellow with thick grey hair and a sort of actor’s face. Small eyes, squashy nose.”