“I’ll get Miss Patty to take you to her. Now I have work to do.” He buzzed for his secretary.
As Miss Patty led them to a staircase leading to the floor below, Hamish studied her with new interest. She was a small faded woman, possibly in her late thirties, with dull sandy hair and a pinched white face. Hamish felt suddenly sorry for her. She should have been secretary to a bank manager or had some sort of job away from this brutal world where she might get a bit of respect. Yet some people would put up with a lot to think they were part of show business.
“In here,” said Miss Patty, pushing open a door. “Selly, pelice to see you.”
Sally was a tall, angular woman with frizzy grey hair and pale eyes behind thick glasses. “I wish that silly cow would stop calling me Selly,” she said. “It’s the old Kelvinside accent. You hardly hear it these days. You’ve come about John’s death?”
“Did you think his script had merit?” asked Hamish.
“Brilliant stuff. Never seen anything like it,” said Sally to the window.
“Did everyone here like him?”
“Of course. Sweet man,” Sally told the coffee pot on her desk.
“Why isn’t there a copy of the script here?”
“Paul Gibson took all the copies with him on location. It wasn’t quite finished, and so he thought he’d go over it while he was away. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Jimmy’s phone rang. He took it out and moved to a coiner of the room. Hamish heard his exclamation of surprise and then “Right, sir.”
Jimmy rang off and turned to Hamish. “Developments. We’ve got to go.”
They thanked Sally and walked outside.
“What?” asked Hamish.
“Blair has arrested Alistair Taggart for the murder.”
? Death of a Bore ?
5
—Robert Louis Stevenson
The message they received when they arrived back at police headquarters was that Jimmy was to go immediately upstairs to join Blair and that Hamish Macbeth was to get back to his beat.
Hamish drove straight to Lochdubh, parked the Land Rover, collected Lugs, and walked up to Alistair Taggart’s cottage. He knocked on the door. Maisie Taggart answered. Her eyes were red with crying, and she hugged her thin figure.
“He didnae do it,” she said on a choked sob.
“Can I come in?”
She nodded and turned away. He followed her into their living room. A battered typewriter stood on a desk in the corner with a pile of typescript beside it. I wonder where folks get ribbons for those things today, thought Hamish, what with most people using computers.
He took off his cap and sat down. Lugs slumped in a corner and went to sleep.
“Why do they think he did it?” asked Hamish.
“Thon Perry Sutherland says he saw Alistair up at John’s cottage the night he was killed.”
“And why didn’t Perry say this before?”
“He said he didn’t want Alistair to get into trouble. Then that nasty fat detective kept shouting at him and accusing Perry of the murder, and that’s when Perry said he’d seen Alistair.”
“Did they search your house? Did they find anything incriminating?”
“They found a packet of mothballs.”
“I’ve got a packet of mothballs. I think everyone in Lochdubh has a packet of mothballs. Why did Alistair say he was visiting John?”
“He went to get the money back he’d paid for the writing class.”
“And did he?”
“Yes.”
“Was he drinking?”
“No, he’s sworn off. He just writes and writes. Drives me mad. At least when he was on the drink, he would pass out sooner or later and give me a bit o’ peace. Anyway, I’ve had enough of him. I’m off to my sister in Oban.”
“But if they haven’t any hard evidence, it’ll never get to court and he’ll be released.”
“Well, I won’t be here waiting for him – him and his writing.”
“Surely that’s better than the drink.”
A mulish look settled on her weak face.
Hamish repressed a sigh. He’d seen cases like this so many times before. The woman prays and prays that her man will give up the bottle, and when he does, she leaves him and usually moves in after a while with another drunk. These women had the awful craving to be needed, even if it meant lying for the drunk and cleaning up after him.
“You’d better give me your address in Oban,” he said.
“Why? Alistair’s got nothing to do with me any more.”
Hamish said patiently, “The police will want to interview you further. Don’t you have to make a statement?”
“I’ve already talked to that fat bully. I told him Alistair went out at five and came back at six.”
“Give me the address anyway.”
She told him her sister’s address, and he wrote it carefully in his notebook.
“And what about your son, Dermott? Won’t he be upset at being taken out of school?”
“No, he says he’ll be glad to get away as well.”
¦
Outside, Hamish said to Lugs, “We’re off to Cnothan. If Perry saw him, maybe someone else saw him and heard something.”
He drove off to Cnothan, and as he was driving through that dreary village, he saw one of those itinerate door-to-door salesmen who sell dusters and brushes and stuff for the kitchen. He stopped the Land Rover and got out.
The salesman, a shabby young man, was just leaving one of the houses. Hamish hailed him.
“I’ve got a licence,” said the man defiantly. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I just want to know if you went to any of the outlying cottages on the day that man was murdered.”
“Aye, I even went to that fellow’s cottage afore he was murdered.”
“What time of day would that be?”
“Early evening. Not sure of the time.”
“And you saw him?”
“Only for a wee bit. He was having a blazing row wi’ a big fellow. The big fellow was shouting, ‘I want my money back.’ And then the man what’s now dead said, ‘Oh, take it and get lost.’”
“Now, listen carefully. Did you see the big man drive off?”
“Aye, he jumped into a battered wee car and roared away. I went up to the door, but afore I could open my mouth it was slammed in my face.”
“You’ve got to come with me to the police station and make a statement. It is very important. Have you transport?”
“I’ve got my bike.”
“You heard all about the murder. Didn’t you think to talk to the police?”
“Why? I didnae do it and the man was alive when I saw him.”
“Right. Follow me.”
