M.C. Beaton: Death of a Poison Pen

Hamish phoned Jimmy Anderson and explianed about Pat Mallone and that Jenny might be with him. Then he said, “I’d better check if her stuff’s been packed up as well. But I still think it might be worth pulling Mallone in for questioning. Why should he run off today of all days?”

“I’ll get on to it,” said Jimmy.

Hamish phoned Jenny’s landlady and asked if her clothes were still in her room. “Aye, I’ve just been up there to clean,” said Mrs. Dunne. “Everything’s there.”

Hamish’s heart sank. For one wild moment, he had hoped Jenny had gone off with Pat and that they had shoved Iain’s car over the cliff out of mischief.

He turned round as the door of the villa opened and the Robertses came out. “Do you mind moving?” shouted Cyril. “You’re blocking the drive and I have to reverse out.”

Hamish moved the Land Rover and watched as the couple got into their car and drove off. He began to follow them.

♦

Pat Mallone was cruising along the A9, whistling to the radio. The tall Grampian mountains soared up on either side of the car. A golden future stretched out in front of him. He realised he was glad to be leaving the Highlands behind, glad to be returning to civilisation. He was just debating whether to go into Aviemore and have a late breakfast when he heard the sound of a police siren behind him. He slowed down to let the police car past, when to his horror, it swung in in front of him and a police hand flapped out of the window indicating that he should stop.

Pat stared at the speedometer as he stopped the car. He hadn’t been going over the limit.

He rolled down the window.

“Yes, Officer? Is it important?” he said to the policeman who was staring down at him.

“Are you Patrick Mallone?”

“Yes, but…”

“You are to accompany us back to Strathbane for questioning.”

“Why?”

“Miss Ogilvie has gone missing.”

“Well, that’s her problem,” said Pat furiously. “Look, I’ve got to get to London.”

“That will not be possible.”

Rage and frustration boiled up in Pat. This Highland idiot of a copper was standing between him and a beautiful future, between this savage world of the north of Scotland and the glitter of London.

In a red mist of rage, he rolled up the window and accelerated off round the police car in front and straight down the A9. Up went the speedometer to 100mph and then to 115. Logical thought had left his brain. On he flew, zipping past car after car, several times narrowly missing a crash with a car coming the other way.

He glanced in his rear-view mirror. The blue light was now nowhere in sight. Get off the road, screamed his brain. But his emotions had taken control and they were telling him that he would be all right if only he could leave the Highlands of Scotland behind.

He eased his speed down a little and then gave a gasp of fright. A policeman on a motorbike had crept up on one side and was flagging him down.

Up went Pat’s speed again. He rounded a bend and jammed his foot on the brakes as hard as he could, stopping himself in time from running into several stationary cars in front.

The policeman on the motorbike stopped beside him and rapped on the window. Other policemen were appearing round the cars in front. A roadblock, thought Pat. Of course, they would put up a roadblock. He got out of the car.

“Over the bonnet o’ yer car, and pit yer hands ahint yer back,” roared the policeman. Feeling limp with fright and dismay, Pat meekly did as he was told. He was handcuffed and led to a police van and thrust inside while charges of speeding, not stopping when asked, obstructing police in their enquiries rang in his ears.

Pat sat miserably in the police van. Surely, they would question him and then let him go. He could then drive down to Inverness and get a flight to London.

♦

Sam received a phone call later that day from the police asking him to confirm that Pat had been on his way south for an interview with the Daily Bugle . Sam said grimly he knew nothing about it and suggested they phone the news editor of the Bugle . When the police rang off, Sam phoned the news editor, Jack Pelting, of the Bugle . Jack confirmed that Pat was due for an interview the following morning.

“He’s been taken in by the police for questioning,” said Sam. “His girlfriend’s disappeared. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother about him.”

“Why? He seems a good journalist. That colour piece on Braikie was excellent.”

“That wasn’t his. That was written by Elspeth Grant and he put his own name on it.”

Jack Pelting sighed. “Do me a favour and get a message to him and tell him the interview’s off. What about this Elspeth Grant?”

“Don’t you dare,” said Sam. “I need her.”

Sam then phoned police headquarters in Strathbane and told them to tell Pat Mallone that he was no longer wanted in London.

♦

Pat was being grilled by Detective Chief Inspector Blair. In vain did he keep repeating that he did not know what had happened to Jenny.

Why, then, Blair roared, did he take off like that without even informing his boss on the Highland Times that he was going? The questioning went on and on and Pat’s miserable eyes occasionally strayed to the large clock on the wall in the interview room as the hand went slowly round, eating up the precious minutes.

At last it was over and he was bailed to appear at the sheriff’s court in Strathbane. He was told his car was outside in the car park. Just as he was turning away, the duty sergeant handed him a note. “Message for you.”

Pat grabbed it and went out to his car. He was about to drive off when he thought he’d better read the message. It was from Sam. “Jack Pelting has cancelled your interview.”

He thumped the steering wheel in a fury. Then he looked at hfs watch. Six o’clock. Maybe he could just catch Jack. He phoned the Bugle and asked to speak to the news editor. He waited impatiently, chewing his knuckles. When Jack came on the phone, he sighed with relief. “It’s Pat Mallone,” he said. “Look, I can still make it. I was taken in by the police because a girl I know has gone missing. But I’ve just been released because it’s got nothing to do with me, so if I get down to Inverness for the plane, I can still make it.”

“Your boss up there tells me that you pinched another reporter’s copy for that piece on Braikie.”

“That was a mix-up.”

“Not the impression I got. Anyway, the interview’s off.”

“But…”

The phone went dead.

Pat sat there for a long time, and then he slowly drove off. To hell with the lot of them. He was going back to Ireland.

♦

Hamish had kept a discreet eye on the Robertses all day. They had gone out twice to the shops and were now inside their villa. He drove back to Lochdubh and changed out of his uniform. He phoned Angela, with whom he had left Lugs earlier, and begged her to keep the dog overnight. Then he phoned Elspeth and asked if he could borrow her car.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I want to keep an eye on the Roberts house without being seen.”

“Only if I can come with you.”

“All right,” said Hamish reluctantly. “If they’ve really got Jenny, they’ll probably make a move to get rid of her during the night.”

He walked along to the newspaper office. Elspeth was just emerging. “You work late,” commented Hamish.

“Well, Pat did do some work, and now that he’s gone, I’m stuck with double the amount of stories as well as the astrology column. Then Mrs. Glennon over in Alness who does the cookery recipes is sick, so I had to do them as well.”

“Wasn’t that difficult? All the measures of stuff and so on?”