M.C. Beaton: Death of a Bore

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Willie, “but you’re wrong. Paul Gibson may be a flake, but murder?”

“I never said he was a murderer,” said Hamish.

♦

“So what do you do now?” asked Elspeth on the road back. “You’re never going to get a search warrant on the strength of this script.”

“I’ll think of something. Do you mind if we stop here for a bit? I’ve got to walk Lugs.”

“Oh, Hamish! ”

♦

Hamish went back to the police station, made himself coffee, and sat down to think out a plan of action.

Then he began to wonder if Harry Tarrant, the executive drama producer, knew that the script had been changed.

Leaving Lugs this time after he had fed him, he drove off to Strathbane. The wind had shifted round to the north. He rolled down the window and sniffed. He could smell snow in the air.

At Strathbane Television he had to wait some time before he was able to see Harry Tarrant.

Hamish handed over the script. “Someone sent me the original script,” he said. “I wondered whether you knew that they were working on a different script.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’ve seen the script they’re working on. The storyline is vaguely the same, but that’s all.”

Harry picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Sally,” he said, “could you step along to my office?”

He turned to Hamish. “We’ll get this sorted out.”

Sally Quinn came in and stopped short at the sight of the script on Harry’s desk.

“This copper,” said Harry, “says you aren’t working from John’s script.”

“Well, we are, more or less,” said Sally, looking flustered. “John’s script as it stood was unworkable.”

“Why wasn’t I consulted?”

“We didn’t want to bother you. Paul said a few minor changes were necessary.”

“Bring me a copy of the script he’s using.”

Sally glared at Hamish as she went out.

♦

Paul Gibson was still in bed when the maid came in to clean his room. “Sorry, sir,” she said, backing out. “I’m that used to you being up early.”

“It’s all right. Come in. We’re having a late start.” He climbed out of bed and put on his dressing gown. The maid approached the bed with clean sheets. “It looks like snow,” she said.

“That’s all right. Some snow scenes might be nice.”

“It’s that exciting having the telly people here, sir.”

“Must be a very quiet life up here for you,” said Paul, lighting a cigarette.

“Not always. Our local policeman has solved some murders, and we had the telly and newspapers all over the village.”

Paul stiffened. “If he’s that good, why is he still a village bobby?”

“He says he likes it here, that’s why. Of course, we’re all saying in the village he should get married and settled down. We thought he might marry the schoolteacher, but she’s running around with that reporter from Glasgow. Mind you, Elspeth Grant is back. She’s a reporter, too, but she and Hamish were sweet on one another. Maybe something’ll come of that. Mind if I vacuum, sir?”

♦

Harry glared at the script Sally had just handed him. “What the hell’s the meaning of this?” he roared.

“Paul rewrote it to make it something he could work with.”

“Without telling me?” He buzzed his secretary. “Get me Paul Gibson on the phone. And get me that director, Johnny Fremont, who did some of the last shows and get him up here fast.”

He turned to Hamish. “Is there anything else?”

“Why did you choose Paul Gibson?”

“John recommended him.”

“So John Heppel knew him? When? Where?”

“I think he had written to John once wanting to dramatise his book. Paul wrote the occasional script as well.”

The phone rang and Harry picked it up. “Paul. You’re fired.”

Hamish would have liked to hear the rest of the conversation, but Harry waved him away.

♦

Hamish went out into a changed world. The grimy streets and buildings of Strathbane were covered in snow. Fine white snow blew horizontally across the parking lot.

He drove up onto the moors, driving slowly and carefully because the road ahead seemed to be gradually disappearing. Then he dimly saw the orange light of a snowplough in his rear-view mirror and pulled aside to let it pass. With a feeling of relief, he followed it as far as the Tommel Castle Hotel and swung off into the hotel car park.

Paul Gibson would be rattled at being fired. Hamish decided to interview him and see if he could get him to betray himself.

The television crew were trapped in the hotel because of the blizzard. Mr. Johnson came out to greet Hamish. “My guests are getting fed up with this lot,” he said. “At first they found it all very exciting, but now they’re complaining. Television people do swear a lot. It’s like living on a building site.”

“Is the director around?”

“You’ll find him in the games room. He was shouting and swearing. I told him I’d turn him out, snow or no snow, so he went in there, the last I saw of him.”

Hamish pushed open the door of the games room, originally the billiard room in the days when the castle had been a private home. The old billiard table was still there, but a table tennis table had been added, and shelves held board games such as Monopoly and Scrabble.

Paul Gibson was slumped in an armchair by the fireplace.

“What do you want?” he asked harshly as Hamish put his peaked hat on the billiard table and sat down opposite him.

“I want to ask you again where you were on the night John Heppel was murdered.”

“Minding my own business, and I suggest you do the same.”

“You hated his script,” said Hamish. “Harry Tarrant was not aware until today that you weren’t using John’s script.”

Paul’s eyes blazed hatred. “You! You told him. Why? What’s it got to do with a murder?”

“I think it’s got everything to do with the murder. You stole that van. I don’t think the police have yet looked thoroughly into your background, but if you had the know-how to hot-wire that van, I’ll swear that you were in trouble with the law sometime in your past. You knew that as long as John was alive, he’d make sure you stuck to his script. You went up there and somehow forced him to drink a concoction of naphthalene. You watched him die. When he finally did, your hatred wasn’t even abated. You poured ink into his mouth.

“Then you panicked. You cleaned up the vomit and scrubbed the floor. You wiped John’s face clean where the ink had run down his chin. Then you wiped out the computer files, and just to be sure, you put in some software that would overwrite everything on the hard disk. Maybe you’d never used that programme before, and you knew the forensic team would be back the morning after the murder to continue their search. I don’t know how you got hold of Jock Ferguson. But you persuaded him to forget about the computer so that maybe you could go back and get it. Did you promise him a part in the soap or something? But you were too frightened to go back.

“You must have had some uneasy moments when you heard the computer had gone missing and the police were searching for it.

“I think that before the murder you had threatened John Heppel, and I think Alice Patty knew about it and said she was going to the police. So you killed her and faked another suicide.”

Paul studied him in silence, his eyes quite blank. Then he said, “Have you put all this rubbish in a report to Strathbane?”

“Not yet. I haven’t any hard proof. But now I know it was you, I’ll dig and dig until I get it.”

“It’s snowing hard,” said Paul mildly. “You won’t get to Strathbane tonight.”