Death of a Bore

I call the police?”

“I am the police. It’s probably one of the villagers.”

He opened the kitchen door and walked in. Elspeth was sitting at the kitchen table. There was a bowl of flowers on the table and the stove was blazing away.

“I phoned the hospital and heard you were on your way,” said Elspeth. “There’s a casserole in the oven.”

Hamish turned to Freda, who was glaring at Elspeth. “Thanks very much for the lift, Freda.”

Although he was obviously waiting for her to go, Freda plumped herself down at the table opposite Elspeth and asked, “Any chance of a dram?”

“You sit down, Hamish,” said Elspeth. “I’ll get it.”

Freda began to wish she had left. There was an atmosphere between Hamish and Elspeth – an atmosphere which seemed to exclude her.

There was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” said Freda. Matthew came in.

“Elspeth,” he said, “they’re going to be filming Down in the Glen here tomorrow. The director, Paul Gibson, is at the bar at the hotel. I thought we could see him together.”

“What about the producer?”

“There isn’t one. Gibson’s title is producer-director. It’s a way of cutting costs, I suppose.”

“Right. I’ll get my coat. I left it in the bedroom.”

“Thanks for everything, Elspeth,” said Hamish.

Freda brightened. With Elspeth gone, surely Hamish would invite her to have supper with him. But no sooner had Matthew and Elspeth left than there was another knock at the door.

“What now?” asked Hamish.

A severe-looking woman stood on the doorstep.

“Good evening, Constable,” she said. “I am Detective Chief Inspector Meikle.”

“Come in,” said Hamish. “Freda, do you mind? This is police business.”

Freda left in a bad temper. Perhaps if Hamish had shown any interest in her, she would not have bothered about him. But she regarded Elspeth as competition, and besides that, her friends had found Hamish attractive. Men are credited with having hunter instincts, but women have them as well, and all at once Freda was firmly determined to marry Hamish Macbeth.

¦

Heather Meikle took off her coat and handed it to Hamish. He hung it on a peg by the door.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“Seems all right. What brings you?”

She sat down at the table in the seat vacated by Freda and clasped her hands in front of her.

Heather Meikle was a tall woman with a sallow face and short brown hair. She had a long thin nose and a thin mouth. She was dressed in a tailored suit and sensible shoes.

Her eyes were of an indeterminate colour and were now fixed on Hamish Macbeth with a piercing stare. “I discovered that a major murder enquiry had been turned over to a village policeman,” she said.

“I noticed there weren’t any other police around,” said Hamish cautiously.

“I may say, I have never heard of anything more ridiculous in my life. Proper investigations will resume tomorrow. I saw the news film of the villagers shouting and throwing things at Heppel. Any one of them could have committed murder from the looks of them.”

Hamish again spoke cautiously. “It is my opinion, ma’am, that not enough attention is being paid to the television people. John Heppel was an infuriating man. Very vain. He liked humiliating people. He was addicted to getting his face on television. They are filming Down in the Glen here tomorrow. It’s a good opportunity to talk to the director and the cast.”

“I think you might be letting your loyalty to the villagers mislead you. I want you to concentrate on them.” Her stomach gave a rumble.

Hamish wanted rid of her but was trapped by the rules of highland hospitality.

“I have a casserole in the oven,” he said. “Would you like some?”

She hesitated and then smiled. “That’s very kind of you. I didn’t have time to eat.”

Hamish laid out knives and forks and plates and lifted the casserole out of the oven, where it had been kept warm on a low heat. “This is a present,” he said, “but it looks like venison.” He spooned out two generous helpings. He was glad Lugs was still with Angela. The dog would have created merry hell until he got some.

He uncorked a bottle of red wine and put two glasses on the table. “What kind of wine is it?” Heather asked.

Hamish read the label. “I got it from Patel’s the other week. It just says red wine.”

“Oh, well, I’ll try it. I’m staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel for the one night. My driver is up at the hotel. I sent him back and told him to wait for my phone call, so I can have a drink without breaking any laws.”

She ate with a hearty appetite and drank most of the wine. “You have a reputation for resisting promotion,” she said. “Why?”

“Local police stations are closing down all over,” said Hamish. He did not want to tell her that he had no ambition whatsoever. People never understood that. “I feel I have a duty to the highland communities. Someone’s got to keep an eye on the old people living up on the moors.”

“If you say so. I wish Blair hadn’t literally bullied that secretary to death.”

“It definitely was suicide?”

“Oh, yes, she left a very clear suicide note, typed on her computer, blaming Blair.”

“It was a suicide note? I mean, it wasn’t the draft of a letter she meant to send to the newspapers or police headquarters?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you tell me exactly what it said?”

“I’ve got a copy somewhere. Have you any coffee? And a brandy would go nicely with it.”

Hamish went through to the living room and rummaged in a cupboard by the fire. There was a bottle of brandy that someone had given him two Christmases ago. He was just straightening up from the cupboard when Heather appeared in the living room. “It’s more comfortable in here,” she said. “Why don’t you light the fire?”

“I haven’t lit a fire in here in ages,” said Hamish. “I think the chimney needs to be swept.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be all right. Light the fire and make the coffee, and then I’ll show you the letter.”

I wonder if marriage would be like this, thought Hamish sulkily. But he retreated to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. Then he returned to the living room and put kindling and paper on the fire and, when it was burning, added slabs of peat.

When she was seated with a tumbler of brandy – she had poured it herself – she rummaged in her capacious handbag and produced a black notebook. “Here we are. She said, ‘The bullying of that man Blair is more than I can stand. The police brutality has shocked me. I’m getting out of this. You should be sorry but you won’t be sorry.’”

“And that’s it!” exclaimed Hamish. “Did she sign it?”

“No, but she cut her wrists in the bath, and the note was left on the floor beside the bath.”

“Who did she mean by ‘you’?”

“The world in general, I suppose.”

“She had been having an affair with her boss, Harry Tarrant, and I think she might have been having an affair with John Heppel as well. What was the toxicology report?”

“I haven’t had the autopsy report yet. Too soon. What are you getting at?”

“Our murderer tried to make John Heppel’s death look like suicide in a clumsy and amateurish way. Maybe he’s got a bit more expert. I mean, that could have been a draft of a letter. How was the paper? Had it been cut top or bottom?”

“Why?” Heather reached forward and picked up the brandy bottle and filled her tumbler.

“Well, just suppose she’s writing a letter on her computer and prints it off. Say someone drugs her and alters the letter so that all that appears is what you’ve got. No ‘Dear’ anybody or address.”

“You’re wandering in the realms of fantasy, Officer.”

“But was her computer checked? They forgot about John Heppel’s computer.”