Death of a Bore

She looked at him sadly. “If you need time to think, Hamish Macbeth, then it means you don’t want to commit yourself to anything.”

“I’m not saying that. Please, Elspeth.”

“Okay. I’ll find out about Paul Gibson. Maybe we’ll talk when all this is over.”

“I’d like that.”

Two actors walked into the bar. Elspeth got to her feet. “They seem to be taking a break,” she said. “Where will you be?”

“Back at the police station.”

“I’ll phone you if I’ve got something.”

¦

Elspeth went through to the lounge and approached Paul Gibson. “I’m from the Daily Bugle,” she said. “I wonder if I might interview you.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Now?”

“Yes, now would be fine.”

They sat down in a corner of the lounge. “What’s this?” he said. “No tape recorder, no notebook?”

“I’ve a great memory, and I find either of those things puts people off.” Elspeth did actually tape interviews but saw no reason to waste tape on an interview that would never be published, and she did indeed have an excellent memory. “Just begin at the beginning and go on from there. What attracted you to show business?”

Paul seemed only too happy to talk. He had grown up in the East End of London. His family life had been unhappy. His father had run away when he was very small. He had spent a lot of his time at the cinema. After school he had managed to get a degree in media studies at Luton University and had got a job as a researcher at the BBC. He had progressed to script editor and then director. He had decided to freelance. He described the shows he had directed. There was a production of Vanity Fair and then a popular spy series. The spy series had been filmed in 1995. There was a gap until he began to direct a few soap operas starting in 1998, which had all been failures, Elspeth remembered.

“What were you doing between 1995 and 1998?” she asked.

“Oh, this and that,” he said airily. Elspeth did not press him. He said that when Harry Tarrant had phoned his agent and offered the job in the Highlands, he had been delighted to accept. “I’ve always been romantic about Scotland,” he enthused.

“Did you have any difficulties with John Heppel’s script? I mean, he was hardly a television writer.”

“Oh, I tweaked it a bit. John was happy. We got on just fine.”

Elspeth then let him talk on about himself and his brilliance as a director and finished by taking photographs of him.

Then she went up to her room and typed out everything he had said on her computer, printed it off, and took it down to the police station in Lochdubh.

“This last soap he directed, Spanish Nights, it didn’t run long, did it?” asked Hamish.

“It was a monumental failure. They even built a pseudo-village in Spain to use as the setting.”

“But this gap. What was the spy series?”

“It was called Betrayal. Filmed by Church Television. They do a lot of programmes for ITV. I’ll phone the office in London and see if they’ve got a contact.”

Hamish went into the kitchen, where he fed Lugs, lit the stove, and put on a kettle of water for coffee. Elspeth was on the phone for half an hour.

She finally joined him, her face flushed with excitement. “I got through to Church Television. I spoke to one of the producers. He remembers Paul. He was fired from the spy series after the third episode. He had been quarrelling the whole time with the producer, and then he punched him in the face, right on the set, calling him an amateur. He was fired and had a nervous breakdown. The company were very sympathetic. Said he’d been working very hard and it was due to stress.”

Hamish went through to the computer. “Let me get his statement. Here we are. He says he was back at his digs in Strathbane the whole evening of the murder. I’m going down there to question his neighbours.”

But when Hamish arrived at Paul’s address in Strathbane, it was to find that he rented the top half of a villa and that the people downstairs were away on holiday and none of the neighbours had noticed him coming or going.

He went back to Lochdubh, walked Lugs, and changed into his one good suit, then went to the hotel to meet Kirsty.

Her first words were, “Aren’t we going to get a drink at the bar first?”

“We’ll have one at the table,” said Hamish. He wanted to make the evening as short as possible so that he could study that script at his leisure.

She was wearing a skimpy top, which showed her bare midriff, and low-slung velvet trousers. She had a small diamond in her navel.

Hamish was always glad that there was a new maitre d’ at the hotel to replace the Halburton-Smythes’ former butler, who had once filled that post. He had always sneered at Hamish.

There was a set menu, but Kirsty went straight to the a la carte. She ordered a lobster cocktail, to be followed by fillet steak. “I think we should have a bottle of white wine to start,” she said brightly, “and one of these nice reds to follow.”

“Aren’t you driving?”

“I took a minicab, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you drive me home.”

Hamish thought of his meagre bank balance. He ordered the set meal for himself. Kirsty ordered the wine. As Hamish would be driving, she drank most of it herself. She said, “You can look at the script later. This is my evening.”

And she chattered. She talked about her hair shampoo and about how she hoped to be a model. She talked about her diet – not much in evidence, thought Hamish sourly. She talked about her friends and their love life and somehow managed to drink and eat at the same time.

Hamish excused himself and said he had to go to the toilet. Instead, he signalled to the maltre d’, who followed him out of the dining room. “Peter,” said Hamish desperately, “I havenae enough money with me.”

“Tell you what,” said Peter. “I’ll say the bill’s on your account and you can make some arrangement with Mr. Johnson tomorrow when he comes on duty.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s going to be one very drunk young lady.”

“I know.”

Hamish returned to the table. Kirsty continued to drink and eat. Her voice became more slurred, and she began to press her foot against Hamish’s under the table. He jerked his chair back. She tried to take his hand. He pretended not to notice and put his hands on his lap. She finished her meal with a confection of strawberries, cream, and meringue, washed down with a half bottle of dessert wine.

“Now let’s see that script,” said Hamish over coffee. Kirsty waggled a finger at him and giggled. “Not yet.”

At the end of the meal Hamish had to help the staggering Kirsty out to the car park. She draped her arms around him and tried to kiss him, but he disengaged himself and helped her into the police Land Rover.

As he drove off, to his immense relief she fell asleep. He drove gently a little way and stopped. He reached across her to where she had put her briefcase on the floor; and gently extracted the script in its green folder and put it in the side pocket of the Land Rover. Then he sped off, driving as fast as possible to Strathbane. On the outskirts he woke her up and asked for directions.

Outside the block of flats where she lived, he helped her down. “Come in for a coffee,” she said.

“Sorry, I’ve got to get back.”

“No coffee, no script.”

Hamish helped her up to the front door of the flats. Then he turned and sprinted back to the Land Rover, jumped in, and drove off, leaving her staring wearily after him.

¦