Death of a Bore

“If they have, it wouldn’t be on the police files; it would be on their medical records.”

“I think someone really unbalanced is responsible for this. Someone went into a crazy rage and killed John Heppel and then panicked and tried to make it look like suicide. By the way, did forensics ever come up with an explanation as to why they missed taking John Heppel’s computer?”

“They keep saying it was black on a black desk. They must have missed it.”

“That’s very odd. I mean, there they are, looking for hair and fibres and bits of dust, and they miss a whole computer.”

“I think they’re covering up for one of the team. I think it’s likely that one of them said he had loaded it up when he hadn’t. There’s one of them, Jock Ferguson, who’s hardly ever sober. He should have been fired long ago, but he’s a leading light of the Strathbane police rugby team. Drunk or sober, he plays a grand game and they don’t want to lose him. There’s an enquiry going on.”

“Right. Talk to you later.”

Hamish drove back to John’s cottage. The forensic team were just packing up. “Which of you is Jock Ferguson?” he asked.

A huge man stepped forward. Hamish could smell whisky on him.

“I want to know why you missed the computer.”

“I’m sick o’ this,” said Jock truculently. “It was an oversight. That’s all. We’d checked it for prints and there weren’t any and there was nothing on the computer either.”

“But there might have been something on the hard drive.”

“There’s an enquiry going on, and I can’t stand here all day talking to you.”

Hamish watched him go. He was convinced the man was lying. Had someone bribed him to forget the computer?

He wondered where Jock drank and if he had been seen drinking with any of the television people.

He watched until the forensic team had packed up and left, then phoned Jimmy again. “I’ve just spoken to Jock Ferguson, and I’m sure he’s lying. I wonder if someone got to him about that computer. Where does he drink?”

“I guess with the rugby boys in the Thistle. It’s that pub down Glebe Lane in Strathbane.”

“I know it. I’m going to go there.”

“Hamish, if Blair finds out you’ve been in Strathbane, there’ll be ructions.”

“What happened with Patricia?”

“Grilled for hours but sticks to her story.”

“Has she been charged with obstructing the police?”

“No. Get this: Blair’s taken a fancy to her.”

“I didn’t think that man took a fancy to anything that didn’t come in a bottle.”

“I tell you, he’s gone all soppy. And, get this, she’s persuaded that director, Paul Gibson, to pay Blair a fee as police adviser. He’s starstruck.”

After Hamish had rung off, he climbed back into the Land Rover and headed for Lochdubh, marvelling again at the magic of television. It seemed to be like some sort of drug. People would appear on humiliating game shows just to get in front of the camera.

As he was approaching Strathbane, Elspeth’s face seemed to appear before him. He really must take her out for dinner and have a chat. He was behaving like a cad by avoiding her.

But his feelings about her were still mixed. Some of the time he felt a sexual longing for her, and at others he felt she threatened his bachelor freedom.

He parked in Strathbane and headed for the Thistle.

He went up to the barman and flashed his identification.

“Jock Ferguson drinks in here, doesn’t he?”

“Aye, most nights.”

“Have you ever seen him drinking with anyone from Strathbane Television?”

“I watch that soap of theirs, so I would recognise the actors, and I never saw him with one of them.”

“Did you ever see him drinking with anyone who wasn’t part of the usual rugby crowd?”

He frowned in thought. Then he said slowly, “There was one night recently he was in here, and instead of standing at the bar like he usually does, he was over in the corner with a fellow with thick grey hair and a sort of actor’s face. Small eyes, squashy nose.”

Paul Gibson, thought Hamish. Could it have been Paul Gibson?

? Death of a Bore ?

12

Good Lord, what is man! For as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks, With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all, he’s a problem must puzzle the devil.

—Robert Burns

Hamish phoned back to the police station and checked his messages. There was one from Kirsty. “I’ve got it,” she said.

He phoned the television station and asked to speak to her. “Where can we meet?” he asked.

“You promised me dinner.”

“So I did,” said Hamish. “I’ll meet you at eight o’clock in the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

But when he rang off, his mind was buzzing with the news that it had possibly been Paul Gibson who had been drinking with Jock Ferguson. Damn! He was slipping. He hadn’t asked when. He went back to the Thistle, but the barman couldn’t remember the precise evening, only that it had been about a week ago.

Hamish then phoned Elspeth. “I need your help.”

“Oh, really? I wondered when you were going to deign to talk to me.”

“Come on, Elspeth. I’ve been that busy. This might turn out to be a big story for you.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Strathbane, but I can be at the hotel in half an hour.”

“See you in the bar.”

¦

When Hamish entered the bar, Elspeth was sitting in a corner. She was wearing a tailored trouser suit and a white silk blouse. Her hair was smooth and shiny. Once again, he found himself missing the old Elspeth, who wore dreadful clothes and had frizzy hair. This new Elspeth seemed somehow unapproachable.

“Sit down, Hamish. What gives?”

“For the moment this is off the record,” he cautioned her. “Okay. Talk.”

He told her about Jock Ferguson and his suspicion that the forensic man had been drinking with Paul Gibson. Her odd silver eyes fixed on his face, Elspeth asked, “So where do I come in?”

“Gibson’s English. I want to get a bit of background on him. Do you think you could tell him you want to write a profile on him and find out what shows he’s worked on before? I don’t want to pull him in for questioning. If he’s our murderer, then he’s mad and dangerous.”

“Okay, Sherlock. He’s still in the lounge for the great-detective-reveals-all scene. When they break, I’ll catch him.”

There was a long silence. Hamish shifted uncomfortably. Then he said, “I don’t know how to handle us, Elspeth.”

“I know. But I’ve grown out of casual affairs, Hamish.”

“It wasn’t a casual affair.”

“But you didn’t want to make it permanent?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. If you looked like the old Elspeth, it would be easier to talk. But you look so sophisticated.”

“It’s still me underneath.”

“Let me have time to think, Elspeth.”