M.C. Beaton - Death of a Bore

Hamish told him about the power cut. “Well, grab a computer and start typing,” said Jimmy.

As he typed his report, Hamish could only marvel that his obsession with that script had paid off. He had once been on a case where a scriptwriter had been murdered by an author. What made some writers and would-be writers so dangerously vain and unstable? Maybe they were like actors, always craving attention, not quite grown up.

Hamish just wanted to get the report finished and get home. It was a relief to think that Superintendent Daviot would be safely home in bed, and by the time he turned up for work in the morning, Blair would be ready and waiting to take the credit.

He did not know that at that very moment Blair was closeted upstairs in the super’s office, talking to Daviot.

“This is good work,” Daviot was saying, “and it was right of you to wake me up.”

Blair thought quickly. It would be a tortuous business trying to hide the fact that it was Macbeth who had solved the two murders. But on the other hand, if Macbeth got the kudos, Daviot would once more want him transferred to Strathbane. Before Macbeth could be promoted, there would be assessments and exams. Macbeth would hate that. And with any luck, while it was all going on, the police station at Lochdubh would be closed down.

“As a matter of fact,” said Blair with the oily smile he always had on his face when talking to his superior, “it was Macbeth that solved the whole thing.”

He outlined how Hamish had found the original script and had leapt to the conclusion that the murderer was Paul Gibson, about Elspeth being held hostage, and about her rescue.

“So I was thinking, sir, that Macbeth is wasted up in that village. We could do with him here.”

Daviot studied Blair’s face. He knew that Blair loathed Hamish and that his suggestion was prompted by spite. But Blair was the type of officer that Daviot felt comfortable with. He was always polite and a good member of the Freemasons. One always knew where one was with men like Blair, whereas the maverick Macbeth was another thing entirely.

“Where is Macbeth?” he asked.

Daviot’s secretary, Helen, came in at that moment with a tray of coffee. Women’s liberation had passed Daviot by, and he had summoned Helen to headquarters and when she arrived ordered her to make coffee.

“I believe Hamish Macbeth is in the detectives’ room, sir.”

“Good, good. Send him up. I’ll have a word in private with him.”

♦

Hamish had just finished his report when he got the summons to go upstairs. His heart was in his boots. Blair had just come in and shouted, “Grand work, Macbeth. I told the super how well you’d done.”

Daviot surveyed Hamish when he entered. Hamish needed a shave, red bristles were showing on his chin, his shirt was dirty at the collar, and he smelled of burning rubber.

“Sit down, Hamish,” said Daviot. “Helen, a cup of coffee for the officer.”

Helen, who disliked Hamish, slammed a cup of coffee down in front of him so that some of the liquid spilled into the saucer.

When Helen had left, Daviot said, “You have done very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Mr. Blair agrees with me that talents such as yours are wasted in a highland village.”

“With all respect, sir , I was able to solve these murders because I was able to use my own initiative. If I were in Strathbane, I would just be another policeman and would have to take orders. I might have to spend a lot of my time on traffic duty.” And Blair would see to that, thought Hamish gloomily.

Daviot leaned forward. “But if you were to become a detective, that would be another matter.”

“If I left Lochdubh and you closed down me police station, that would leave Cnothan and Lochdubh without a police officer. Who would then check on the frail and elderly in the outlying crofts?”

“I am sure that could all be done from here.”

“I don’t think the press would like it either,” pursued Hamish. “The first time an old lady up on the moors has a fall in her croft house and is left lying there for twenty-four hours, the papers would take you to the cleaners…sir.”

Daviot frowned. He knew Hamish had friends in the press, not to mention that girlfriend of his who worked for the Bugle .

“And,” went on Hamish eagerly, “do you know of anyone in Strathbane who ever wants to go north of here even on their off days? They go down to Inverness or Perth.”

“Detective Chief Inspector Heather Meikle is anxious to get you transferred to Inverness.”

“Sir, if that were to happen, I would end up suing the chief inspector for sexual harassment.”

“Well, let’s leave that alone for the moment,” said Daviot quickly. He knew of Heather’s man-eating reputation. “There is going to be a great deal of press coverage over this.”

“I’m not good at that at all,” said Hamish. “The press always likes a senior officer to brief them.”

Daviot visibly brightened. He loved being on television.

Helen put her head round the door. “Sir, the press are in the front hall and demanding a statement. Mr. Blair suggested that PC Macbeth might like to address them.”

“No, no, I’ll deal with them myself.”

“With your permission, sir,” said Hamish, “I’d really like to get home. It’s been a long, hard day.”

“Very well, Hamish. Off you go.”

♦

Hamish made his way quietly out of police headquarters by the back door and walked round to the car park. He could see that the front hall of the building was already bright with television lights.

He got in and drove off. He felt relief flooding him as he headed up onto the moors. At one point he braked hard as a deer skittered across the road in front of him and leapt off into the snow.

Then outside Lochdubh, he pulled into a lay-by on the one-track road to let a procession of television vans pass him.

“Go on,” he muttered. “Get the hell out of my village.”

As he descended into the village, he saw that the street lights were still out. He searched for his keys outside the police station and found he had forgotten them. He tried the handle of the kitchen door and found he had forgotten to lock it. And to think I give lectures on home security, he thought.

He lit the hurricane lamp again and then the wood stove. He realised he was ravenously hungry and could not remember when he had last eaten. Probably that dinner with Kirsty for which he still had to pay. He got two lamb chops out of the fridge, put a frying pan on the stove, and waited for the chops to cook. Lugs sat up and begged, but Hamish gave him another dog biscuit and told him for the hundredth time that he was on a diet.

The stove had a back boiler, so he knew there would be enough hot water for a shower by the time he finished his meal.

He ate, the kitchen grew warm, the hurricane lamp threw a soft light, and he was beginning to feel drowsy when he heard a wail from outside. Lugs barked and his coat stood on end.

“Good boy. Wait there,” said Hamish.

He opened the kitchen door and looked out. A large cat lay on its side in the snow. It let out a wail again.

Hamish went back in and got the hurricane lamp, tying the bristling, barking Lugs to the table leg.

He bent down over the cat. He discovered it had a broken leg. He was sure it was a wild cat with its big head and wide face and yellow eyes now full of pain.

“Will this damn night never end?” he groaned.

He went in and got a blanket and lifted the cat onto it. Its body was lighter than it should be. He thought the animal, unable to hunt, was probably starved. He wondered just how long the leg had been broken.

Shutting the police station, he made his way along to Dr. Brodie’s and banged on the door.