row going on still about the duke’s statue in Golspie.”
“What row?”
“There’s a hundred-foot-high statue on the top of Beinn a’ Bhragaidh. It was erected a year after his death by, to quote, “a mourning and grateful tenantry to a judicious kind and liberal landlord.” An awful lot of people want it pulled down.”
“See their point. Do we go straight to Strathbane Television, or do we call at police headquarters first?”
“The television station, I think.”
“I’ve often wondered,” said Matthew, “why you settled working for the
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to be too far away from the Highlands.”
“Glasgow’s far enough away for me. I’ve never been further north than Inverness. It’s a whole different world up here. You know how it is these days. The Scots don’t want to holiday in Scotland any more. They want the sun. It’s cheaper to take a holiday in Spain than book into some of these hotels in Scotland.”
They drove on in silence as the road wound through rocky clefts where tumbling waterfalls cascaded down, across heathery moorland, the one-track road winding in front of them until they crested a hill and Matthew exclaimed, “What’s that doing there?”
“That is Strathbane. Our very own area of pollution.”
The town lay in a valley below them, dark and ugly. The sun was disappearing behind the clouds, and a last ray shone on the oily waters of the deserted docks.
“What do they do for a living?”
“Collect their dole money, spend it on drink or drugs, and then go out and mug people for more money. That’s the tower block lot. There’s a respectable section of the population: small factory owners, lawyers, dentists, doctors, shopkeepers, schoolteachers, people like that.”
“And television people?”
“Apart from the odd secretary or two, I don’t think you’ll find any local people. Make two right turns on Ferry Street and then a left.”
“Was there a ferry?”
“There was at one time. It went out to Standing Stones Island, that lump you can see away out on the water. No one lives there now. They say it’s haunted.”
“That would be a good feature. A night on the haunted island.”
“You’re on your own on that one.”
“I might give it a try,” said Matthew.
“Left!” ordered Elspeth. “Here we are.”
¦
Miss Patty was being interrogated at police headquarters, so it was a bouncing blonde with bouncing cleavage who escorted Elspeth and Matthew to Harry Tarrant’s office.
Harry greeted them warily, told them to sit down, and asked them what they wanted.
“We gather that you knew John Heppel quite a time ago when you were both members of the Trotskyites,” said Matthew, plunging right in.
Harry stiffened and then gave a jolly laugh. “Ah, the follies of youth.”
“Can you tell us what sort of person he was?” asked Elspeth.
“Fine man,” said Harry. “A really good writer.”
“How did he come to be writing a script for you?” asked Matthew.
“He e–mailed me and said it was difficult to write in the city. I suggested he come up to the Highlands for a bit of peace and quiet. I asked him if he would like to try his hand at writing something for television.”
“Why
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Harry. “Soaps cap be educational – should be educational. I thought we needed to go upmarket with some serious writing.”
“I’m sure the police have asked you this.” Elspeth studied Harry’s eyes. “Where were you on the evening John Heppel was murdered?”
“Minding my own business,” snapped Harry, “and I suggest you do the same.”
Matthew took out his notebook and began to write. “Harry Tarrant said yesterday that he refused to state where he was on the evening of the murder,” he said out loud.
“Wait a minute.” Again that forced jolly laugh. “Scrub that out. I’ve nothing to hide. I went for a drive. It had been a tough day and I find driving soothes me.”
“Where did you go?”
“Ullapool. I dropped in at the Fisherman’s Arms for a drink and then drove back. It’s a long drive. I must have left around six o’clock and got back at eleven o’clock and went straight to bed.”
“Had John made any enemies in the television company?”
“No, everybody was very impressed by him. Now, if there’s nothing more, I have work to do.” He buzzed for the secretary to show them out.
As they were walking along one of the long corridors, Elspeth said to the secretary, “I forgot to ask Mr. Tarrant for a publicity photograph for our files. Can you get me one?”
“Sure. Just wait in reception and I’ll bring you one.”
¦
“Now what?” said Matthew outside.
“Ullapool,” said Elspeth. “It’s about an hour’s drive. We’ve got the photo of him. Let’s ask in the Fisherman’s Arms if he was there.”
“What’s Ullapool like?”
“Very pretty. Lots of tourists in the summer. They like to take the ferries out to the Summer Isles, uninhabited isles, to look at the seabirds and dolphins. Won’t be very busy now.”
As they drove off, Matthew grumbled, “The sun’s gone down already. Does it never stay light up here?”
“You don’t know much about your own country,” said Elspeth. “In high summer it’s nearly light all night.”
¦
Hamish was at that moment sitting in John Heppel’s cottage. He knew the place had been fingerprinted and thoroughly searched. But contrary to what people saw on television about forensic detection, he knew the forensic team from Strathbane were sometimes sloppy, particularly if there was a football match on television.
It was then that he noticed the computer was still on John’s desk. Why on earth had it not been taken away and a thorough search made of the contents?
He moved over to John’s desk and switched on the computer and went to Word and clicked into the files. He stared in amazement. There was nothing there. No record of the suicide note.
He opened the desk drawers. The police had taken all the papers out of the desk, but why not check the computer? He tapped the e–mail icon. To his surprise John’s password was logged in. He went to the Inbox. No messages at all. He was sure someone, probably the murderer, had wiped everything clean. But surely some computer expert down at Strathbane could check the hard drive.
He phoned Jimmy Anderson and was told he was out. He then dialled the pub next door to police headquarters. Jimmy came on the line. “What’s this, Hamish? Can’t I have a quiet drink?”
Hamish told him about the empty computer. “Someone’s slipped up there,” said Jimmy. “You’d better bring it over here.”
“How’s Miss Patty getting on?”
“Blair’s interviewing her, and I gather the lassie’s getting hysterical.”
“Does that scunner never realise he could get more out o’ people by being nice for a change?”
“Never has, never will. See you when you bring that computer over.”
Hamish switched off the computer. There was a split second during which his highland sixth sense was suddenly and violently aware of danger. Then a heavy blow struck him on the back of the head.
¦
