M.C. Beaton: Death of a Bore

Hamish got rid of the chops. “Sit,” he ordered. “You didn’t really think your da was responsible for the graffiti?”

Dermott hung his head.

“I think,” said Hamish gently, “that something at home is bothering you. I think you want a policeman to call. What’s going on at home?”

The child began to cry. Hamish fished a box of tissues out of a cupboard and handed it to him, then waited patiently.

At last the crying ended on a hiccupping sob. “Dad’s hitting Ma,” he choked out.

“Does he drink?”

“A lot.”

“It’s hard for me to do anything unless your mother puts in a complaint.”

“You won’t tell the Social?” gasped the boy in sudden alarm.

“No, I won’t do that,” said Hamish, knowing that no matter how bad the parents, abused children still lived in terror of being snatched from their homes by the Social Security. “Leave it with me. I’ll think of something.”

When the boy had gone, Hamish turned over in his mind what he knew about the boy’s father. Alistair Taggart took occasional building jobs down in Strathbane. Hamish couldn’t remember seeing him drinking in the village pub. Perhaps he did his drinking in Strathbane and drove home.

He was almost relieved to have an ordinary, if unpleasant, village problem to cope with instead of fretting that John Heppel would somehow bring trouble to the area.

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

2

O! he’s as tedious

As a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live

With cheese and garlic in a windmill far ,

Than feed on cotes and have him talk to me

In any summer house in Christendom .

—William Shakespeare

It was one of those odd springlike November days you occasionally get in the Highlands where a balmy wind blows in off the Gulf Stream. Hamish longed to go fishing, but Wednesday had come around, the evening of John’s first class, and he had not yet dealt with Dermott’s problem.

He found out which building site Alistair Taggart had been working on, phoned, and found he had been laid off. He set out for the Taggart cottage, which was at the end of the village where a large hotel had once operated and now stood empty.

Taggart’s wife, Maisie, answered the door. She put a hand to her throat when she saw him. “What is it, Hamish? Not my boy?”

“No, no,” he said soothingly. “I’m asking everyone in the village if they saw anyone put that graffiti on Patel’s wall.”

Maisie Taggart had the faded remains about her of what had once been a pretty woman. There was an ugly bruise on one cheek.

“Who is it?” shouted a man’s voice. “Another of your fancy men?”

“That will be your man,” said Hamish equably. “I’ll speak to him.”

She looked frightened and flustered. “Now’s no’ the good time.” And then she was thrust aside, and Alistair loomed in the doorway.

“What is it?” he barked. “I’m just sorting this bitch out.” He jerked a thumb at his quivering wife. “She says she’s going to thon writing class. Wasting my good money so she can see her fancy man.”

Maisie squeezed past her belligerent husband and disappeared inside the house.

“And you can get lost!” shouted Alistair.

“I was chust calling to ask you if you knew anything about the graffiti on Patel’s shop, but now I’m here, you and I are going to have a serious talk.”

Alistair made to slam the door, but Hamish put a hand on his arm and hooked him out onto the waterfront.

“If you hit me,” said Hamish, “you will be charged with assault and go to prison.”

Alistair dropped the fists he had raised and then demanded, “Well, whit?”

“You cannae keep things quiet in a wee village like this,” lied Hamish, reflecting that Alistair’s abuse of his wife had been kept amazingly secret. “We all know you beat your wife.”

“Who’s saying so?”

“Everyone. She’s got a bruise on her cheek.”

“Fell down the stairs.”

“Aw, pull the other one. That excuse is as old as the hills. I’m after you now, Alistair Taggart. Your wife is going to that writing class. Every time now you threaten her, I’ll probably be outside your house with a tape recorder. When you drive back from Strathbane, if you get another job, the traffic cops will be looking for you and they’ll check you for drunk driving. Now, let’s just take a look at that car of yours and your papers.”

“This is harassment!”

“It’ll do you no harm to get a taste of what your wife’s been suffering.” Hamish walked over to where Alistair’s car was parked at the side of his cottage. “Let me see. The front near-side tyre needs to be replaced. Keys?”

Alistair handed them over and waited, sweating in the balmy air as Hamish did a thorough check of car and papers. “You need new brake lights,” said Hamish finally, “and your tax disc is out o’ date.”

The bully in Alistair crumbled. “Look,” he wheedled, “I’ll take Maisie to that class maself and treat her nice. Will you leave me alone then?”

“Probably,” said Hamish. “After you fix your car. Behave yourself.”

♦

Hamish returned to the police station and then set out to patrol his extensive highland beat with Lugs beside him. He had given up leaving Lugs with Angela, the doctor’s wife, because she had complained that Lugs spent more time with her than he did at home.

Lugs was a thoroughly spoilt animal. Hamish sometimes still had a pang when he thought of the death of his old dog, Towser, wondering if he had treated the animal well, wondering if he could have done something, anything, to prolong Towser’s life, and clever Lugs was the beneficiary. He was a greedy dog and could easily stop the diets Hamish tried to put him on by lying down and closing his eyes and whimpering.

As Lugs sat beside Hamish with his large ears flopping and something that looked remarkably like a human grin on his face, Hamish felt, not for the first time, that he was saddled with some sort of possessive wife.

A new pub had opened out on the Lochdubh-Strathbane road called Dimity Dan’s. Hamish had visited it several times since its grand opening a month before. On the first night there had been a stabbing. He suspected the owner, Dan Buffort, of supplying drugs.

The youth of the Highlands who once left for the cities or the army as soon as they had graduated school or college now showed a distressing propensity to stay at home in the villages and slope around, making trouble.

Hamish entered the smoky pub. Two youths were playing snooker, others were propping up the bar drinking Bacardi Breezers. A lot of alcopops, those sweet alcoholic drinks, were lined up behind the bar. The manufacturers had claimed that they weren’t targeting young people with their products, but Hamish did not believe a word of it. They were produced in tempting little innocuous-looking bottles with names like Archers Aqua Peach, Bliss, and Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

Hamish ordered a mineral water. “I hope you aren’t selling to underage girls and boys,” he said.

Dan Buffort was a burly man with thick tattooed arms, ginger hair, and small piggy eyes.

“Wouldnae dream o’ it,” he said with a grin.

“I’ve heard otherwise,” said Hamish. “If I catch you just the once, you’ll lose your licence.”

“I’ve naethin’ tae fear.” Dan polished another glass.

Something was nagging at the back of Hamish’s mind. When he had driven up to the pub, he was sure he had noticed something different. He paid for his mineral water and hurried out of the pub. He stood back from the building and stared up at it.