M.C. Beaton: Death of a Bore

And then he saw it.

A new CCTV camera had been installed, but instead of pointing down to the pub entrance and the car park, it was pointing directly along the Lochdubh Road.

Hamish ran back into the pub and through to the toilets. A window was open. He looked out, and there, racing over the moors in the distance, were two small figures.

He went back into the bar and confronted Dan. “You will get that new camera of yours pointed down at the entrance where it should be. You put it there so you’d know when I was coming.”

“It was those idiots who installed it,” said Dan, quite unfazed. “I’ll get it put right.”

“See that you do. I’ll be watching you closely from now on, day and night. One sight of an underage boy or girl or one sight or suspicion of drugs and I’ll have you closed down fast.”

Hamish left and continued on his long beat. His duties involved calling in on the elderly and the isolated, and he got back to the police station just in time to change into civilian clothes and attend John Heppel’s meeting at the village hall.

There were a lot of villagers there. Twin sisters, Jessie and Nessie Currie, were in the front row beside Mrs. Wellington and Archie Maclean. Clarry was in the row behind them, and beside him was Willie Lament, another ex-policeman who had gone into the restaurant business, Mr. Patel, Callum McSween, and Freda, the school-teacher. Various other villagers filled the other seats. To Hamish’s surprise, Alistair Taggart was there with his wife, Maisie.

Hamish took a seat at the back next to Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said. “Don’t you know the man’s an idiot?”

“Well, he got a book published. I’ve always wanted to write. I need all the help I can get. Where is he? We were due to start at seven-thirty.”

“He’ll want to make an entrance,” said Hamish.

At quarter to eight precisely, John Heppel strode into the room. His coat was slung over his shoulders and he was carrying a large travelling bag. He hung his coat on a hook and then mounted the stage, carrying the bag, and faced the class. He was dressed all in black: black roll-necked sweater, black cords, and black shoes. His face was made up.

“He has the make-up on, make-up on,” hissed Jessie Currie, who, like Browning’s thrush, said everything twice over.

“Maybe he’s a transferite,” said Willie Lament.

“ Transvestite is what you mean,” boomed Mrs. Wellington.

“I have put on my television make-up because they said they would be here,” said John crossly. “Perhaps we should wait.”

“I cannae wait all nicht,” called out Archie. “I’ve the fishing to go to.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“Very well,” said John. He bent down and opened the bag and lifted a pile of his books onto the table in front of him. “At the end of the class I will be glad to sign one of my books for you. A special price. Ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds!” exclaimed someone. “They’re remaindered for three pounds ninety down at Best Books in Strathbane.”

John ignored the interruption.

“I will tell you all how I got started,” he began. His eyes assumed a fixed look, and his voice took on the droning note of the habitual bore. “I was born into one of the worst slums in Glasgow. We didn’t even have a bath.”

Hamish’s mind drifted off as the voice went inexorably on, and he only snapped to attention after twenty minutes when Mrs. Wellington stood up and said, “You said you would teach us how to write.”

John looked flustered. “I think, then,” he said, “we will start by discussing the novel. Perhaps we will discuss linear progression.”

“Do you mean the plot?” called Hamish.

“Er, yes.”

“Then why not say so?”

“I tell you what I am going to do,” said John. “I am going to ask you all to bring a piece of writing here next week. It can be anything you like – poetry, essays, fiction, anything – and I will give you the benefit of my expert advice. It will be easier for me to assess your work if it is typed and in double spacing.”

“You mean we’ve all got to get computers, get computers?” wailed Jessie.

“Perhaps not right away,” said John. “I will now take questions.”

Archie piped up. “Have you met J.K. Rowling?”

“Ah, yes, a most charming lady. We signed books together in Edinburgh. She was kind enough to congratulate me on my work.”

What a liar, thought Hamish. Any bookshop lucky enough to get J.K. Rowling was not going to clutter up the premises with a minor author.

“Do you think it’s easier to write for children?” asked Mrs. Wellington.

“Very much so,” said John.

Angela stood up, her thin face flushed with annoyance. “I think that is very misleading,” she said. “A lot of people are misguided enough to think that writing a children’s book is easy, but the author needs to have a talent for that genre.”

“Perhaps I said that,” conceded John, “because I personally would find it easy despite my own unfortunate childhood. Why, I remember one dark Christmas…”

And he was off again down memory lane. A bored highland audience does not stamp out or make any noise. It just melts away. Hamish decided to join them.

He was just heading back to the police station when he saw the Strathbane Television van approaching along the waterfront. He stood out in the middle of the road and held up his hand.

Jessma Gardener was in the front seat. She rolled down the window. “If you’re on your way to the writing class, you’re too late,” said Hamish. “It’s finished.”

“Oh, good,” said Jessma. “I couldn’t bear the thought of it But the lights are still on in the village hall.”

“Cleaning up,” lied Hamish, who well knew that some of the audience were still there. “Why does Strathbane News want to cover a village writing class?”

“There’s a new drama executive who handles the soap. John’s written a script for it. The exec says it’s brilliant, so we’re asked to cover anything John Heppel wants us to. Still, thank goodness for an early evening.”

She waved to him. The van did a U-turn and headed back out of the village.

“I’ve been very petty,” Hamish told his dog when he entered the police station. “I should have let the wee man have his bit of glory, and him all made up for it. But I don’t like him and that’s a fact. It’s not because he’s a bore. It’s something else. I feel he means trouble.”

“Do you usually talk to your dog?” asked a voice behind him.

Hamish blushed and turned round.

Freda Garrety stood there, smiling. Hamish had left the kitchen door open.

“Can I help you?” he asked stiffly.

“I wanted to talk to you about John Heppel.”

“All right. Shut the door and sit down. Tea or something stronger?”

“I wouldn’t mind a dram.”

Hamish took down a nearly full whisky bottle from the cupboard and two glasses.

“That’s a very odd-looking dog,” she said. “I’ve never seen a dog with such blue eyes.”

“Water?” asked Hamish, ignoring her remark because he was cross with her for finding him talking to Lugs.

“Just a little.”

Hamish filled a jug with water and put it along with the whisky and glasses on the table. He poured two measures.

Freda added a little water to her glass. “He presented a copy of his book to the school library. Because he’d won a literary prize and all that, I didn’t think of checking it. Then I found one child after another was asking to borrow it. So I took it home and read it. It’s full of swearwords and explicit sex. Now, I know they get a lot of stuff on television and on the Internet these days, but I do try to keep them children as long as possible. I mean, I don’t want to contribute to fouling up their minds.”