Death of a Bore (11 page)

Matthew and Elspeth had been instructed to keep her away from the other press by taking her out to a hotel on Loch Lomond. The hotel was rather grand, and the manager protested bitterly about
the filth Betty had left in the bath and the head lice she had left on the bed.

Then on the day of the trial, as they arrived with Betty outside the High Court, a frustrated reporter from the opposition punched Elspeth in the face and Matthew leapt out and gave him the
Glasgow kiss – butting him on the face with his forehead.

Then Betty in the witness box had taken against the judge and called him a deaf old bugger when he asked her to repeat an answer.

But surely, Elspeth had thought, it would all be worth it after Betty’s husband had been found guilty, so they typed up all the background to the story and looked forward to seeing their
bylines prominently displayed in the morning edition.

Not one word appeared. When they demanded the reason, they were told that the editor had decided their background story was too fish-and-chip – too sordid for a family paper – and
had spiked the lot.

Elspeth had never thought she would long for the days when she wrote the astrology column for the
Highland Times
and covered everything from shinty matches to dried flower arrangement
competitions. And her psychic abilities appeared to have deserted her in the city as if blocked out by all the sordidness.

‘It’s going to be late by the time we reach Inverness,’ said Matthew. ‘Let’s book into a hotel and have a decent dinner and we’ll go north first thing in the
morning.’

‘All right,’ said Elspeth, thinking it would be nice to have a hot bath and a change of clothes and make-up before she saw Hamish Macbeth again.

As they crossed the highland line and the Grampian mountains reared up on either side of the car, Elspeth’s pulse began to quicken. She was going home again.

Hamish eased back the driver’s seat of Freda’s little car to accommodate his long legs.

‘You’re wearing a suit!’ exclaimed Freda. ‘Never tell me you’ve got a suit on under that coat of yours.’

‘It iss my best suit.’

‘You don’t go clubbing in a suit. You wear casuals. Jeans. Stuff like that.’

‘I cannae be bothered going back to change,’ said Hamish huffily. ‘I’ll take my tie and jacket off.’

Freda was beginning to regret having asked him. What would her friends make of him?

Elspeth and Matthew made good time and reached Inverness much earlier than they had expected to.

But the prospect of dinner beckoned, and so they decided to stick to the original plan of setting out for Lochdubh in the morning.

When dinner was over, Matthew said, ‘It’s early yet. What’s Inverness got in the way of amusement?’

‘There are a couple of clubs.’

‘What about dropping into one for a drink? I’d like to see what the local talent looks like.’

‘All right. But not for long. We can walk. It’s round the corner from this hotel.’

‘Good,’ said Matthew cheerfully. ‘Now I can have a really big drink.’

Hamish Macbeth was not enjoying himself. Although still in his early thirties, he felt old and crotchety. Where was the fun of being jammed on a small dance floor where the
music hurt his ears and the air was thick with smoke, cheap perfume and sweat?

Freda had cast off her long winter coat to reveal that she was wearing nothing more than a cropped top and a tiny red leather skirt. Hamish had left his jacket in the cloakroom along with his
tie. The dancing came as no problem to him: it seemed to consist of jumping around and waving his arms in the air.

I wish I hadn’t brought him, thought Freda. Her friends, the ones she had made since first visiting the club, were sitting over in the small bar area staring at them.

When the dance number finished, she said, ‘I would like a drink.’

‘I’ve got to go to the men’s room,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’

‘What are you drinking?’

‘Give me a minute and I’ll get them when I come back.’

Freda’s friends, Cheryl, Sharon and Mary, moved along the banquette they were sitting on to make room for her.

‘Who’s the boyfriend?’ asked Cheryl.

‘He isn’t my boyfriend. He’s the local bobby.’

‘He’s got gorgeous red hair,’ sighed Sharon. ‘I was dancing up next to him. I’d give anything for eyelashes like that.’

Freda looked round at them in amazement. ‘You fancy him?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ sighed Mary.

At that moment Hamish appeared. ‘What are you all having to drink?’ he asked. They all ordered Bacardi Breezers. Gloomily Hamish went to the bar. It was going to be an expensive
night. He ordered the drinks and then a tonic water for himself. ‘Where are the glasses?’ he asked the barman.

‘They all drink from the bottle here,’ said the barman.

Hamish made his way back to the table and sat in a chair facing Freda and the girls.

The disco music started again just as they were beginning to speak. Conversation was nearly impossible.

Elspeth came on to the dance floor, and as she gyrated with Matthew, she glanced across at the bar and stumbled. ‘Sorry,’ she shouted in Matthew’s ear.
‘I’ve just seen Hamish Macbeth.’

‘The bobby?’

‘That’s the one. He’s at the bar.’

‘Let’s join him.’

Hamish slowly rose to his feet as he saw Elspeth approaching. She looked more sophisticated than the last time he had seen her. Her thick hair had been defrizzed, and she was wearing it in a
French plait. She was dressed in a tailored blouse and skirt and high heels. Gone were the charity shop clothes and clumpy boots.

‘What are you doing here?’ he shouted.

‘On that murder story. Can we have a word with you outside?’

He nodded.

Freda got up and followed him. Her interest in Hamish was awakened anew by her friends’ admiration of him. Besides, who was this woman?

Hamish turned round in the doorway and saw Freda following. ‘This is business, Freda. If you like to wait inside, I’ll come back for you.’

‘And dance by myself? A date’s a date, Hamish.’

‘All right. We’d best get our coats. It’s freezing outside and you haven’t got much on.’

Matthew and Elspeth were already outside. ‘Let’s find a pub,’ said Matthew. ‘I was only in there a few minutes and I’m deaf already.’

‘You haven’t introduced us, Hamish,’ said Elspeth, looking at Freda.

‘Oh, sorry. Freda, this is Elspeth Grant, who used to work for the
Highland Times.
Elspeth, our new schoolteacher, Freda Garrety.’

‘And I’m Matthew Campbell,’ said Matthew. ‘There’s a pub on the other side of the street.’

‘More noise, probably,’ said Elspeth. ‘Let’s use the hotel bar.’

In the hotel, after they had sat down in the bar, Elspeth covertly studied Hamish. Did he remember making love to her? As if picking up her thought, Hamish blushed and stared at the table.

Freda’s eyes darted suspiciously from one to the other.

The waiter came up and they all ordered drinks. Hamish stuck to tonic water, although he suddenly felt that a whisky would be nice. Then he thought a cigarette would be even better. He had given
up smoking but was still occasionally haunted by a yearning for nicotine.

‘Now, Hamish,’ began Elspeth, ‘we’re going up to Lochdubh in the morning to do a background piece on this murder. Any other press around?’

‘No, they’ve given up apart from checking every day with headquarters in Strathbane. There isn’t much I can tell you aside from what’s been in the papers.’

‘Tell us from the beginning,’ said Matthew. He looked curiously at Hamish. He sensed Elspeth’s tension and had seen Hamish blush. Surely she hadn’t. Had she? Some of the
already rebuffed reporters were going around saying she was a lesbian. But then, they said that about every girl who turned them down.

Hamish began to talk about the writing class and the bruised egos of the would-be writers. He described the murder and the false arrest of Alistair Taggart.

‘It’s bound to be one of those people in the writing class,’ said Matthew

‘I don’t think so,’ said Hamish stiffly. ‘I know them all.’

‘I don’t think you know the violence of the humiliated writing ego,’ said Matthew. ‘Elspeth, do you remember that new reporter who got struck with a fit of the
Hemingways? He wrote this news story which went something like this: Constable Peter Hammond was patrolling his beat on a foggy night in the mean streets of Glasgow. The fog muffled noise apart
from the shrill sound of a child crying. He remembered his youth . . . and on and on and on until in the last paragraph he gets to the point and says someone shot him.

‘The news editor went ballistic and tore it up in front of him and told him to write a proper news story. The reporter screamed that he had written a literary work of art and tried to
strangle the editor, and it took three of us to haul him off.’

‘No one in the village,’ said Hamish firmly.

‘Then if not in the village, where?’ asked Matthew.

Elspeth studied Hamish with those odd silver eyes of hers, Gypsy eyes. ‘What about Strathbane Television?’ she asked.

‘Why there?’ asked Hamish cautiously.

‘He was writing a script for
Down in the Glen.
If he was as nasty as he appears to have been, he could have riled someone there. Wait a bit. You asked me about the Trotskyites.
Harry Tarrant was there at the time. Has he got an alibi for the time of the murder?’

‘I don’t think anyone asked him,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s Strathbane’s job, but they always walk on eggshells when it comes to television.’

‘We’ll ask him,’ said Matthew cheerfully.

‘Let me know what he says.’ Hamish turned to Freda. ‘I’ve got to start work early tomorrow. Would you mind if we went home?’

Freda pouted. She had intended to dance until the small hours. But returning with Hamish meant she could get this policeman whom her friends found so attractive all to herself.

On the long road back to Lochdubh, Freda chattered about this and that, but Hamish replied in monosyllables. He was engulfed with an odd longing for Elspeth, and yet he had
not thought about her all that much since she had left for Glasgow.

Was Matthew Campbell just another reporter? They seemed very much at ease in each other’s company.

He got out of the car at Freda’s home. She put her face up to be kissed, but he didn’t notice, his thoughts being still focussed on Elspeth.

What a waste of an evening, thought Freda, watching his long figure make its way along the waterfront to the police station.

One of the many faults of Detective Chief Inspector Blair was that as soon as the press lost interest in a case, he was apt to lose interest in it as well. He had put the
murder of John Heppel to the back of his mind and the investigation to the back of his workload. He was in a bad mood because although the raid on Dimity Dan’s had been successful –
drugs found along with teenage drinkers – his moment of glory had been all too brief.

Hamish Macbeth had sent over a computerized report on how he had asked Callum to deliver the box of rubbish to the police station; it contained a statement from Callum and witness statements
from Freda and Callum as well. Somehow the report had found its way to his boss’s desk. Daviot had sent for him the morning after the raid. Fortunately Blair remembered in the nick of time
that it was Peter Daviot’s daughter’s birthday and rushed out and bought a huge box of chocolates and a card.

‘That is so kind of you. Sheila will be delighted,’ said Daviot, who adored his eldest daughter. ‘I must say, you’re quite like one of the family.’

And the blistering lecture he had meant to give Blair was modified to a mild reprimand. ‘I’m surprised you did not mention Macbeth in your report.’

‘I’m right sorry, sir,’ grovelled Blair. ‘It must ha’ slipped my mind. I should ha’ given Macbeth the credit. But I think there’s a reason for that.
Macbeth insists on being a village bobby, and somehow you don’t think of the village bobby when it comes to a major raid.’

‘You have a point there,’ said Daviot with a sigh. ‘How is the investigation into the murder of John Heppel going?’

‘We’re still working on it.’ Blair was suddenly struck with what he thought of as a brilliant idea. ‘I was thinking of pulling my men out of Lochdubh,’ he said,
omitting to say that he already had, ‘and letting Hamish Macbeth get on with it. Softly, softly approach, sir. He knows the locals.’

‘Are the press still interested?’

‘No, they’ve given up.’

‘Let’s try Macbeth for, say, a week, and see how he gets on.’

The following day Matthew and Elspeth booked in at the Tommel Castle Hotel. Matthew had talked on the road up as the landscape grew wilder about how he loathed the countryside
and how he would always be a city boy at heart. But as he walked outside the hotel after a very good lunch, the day was crisp and clear and the sun was shining. He breathed in the pure air and
stared up at the soaring mountains. He would never have believed that a part of the overcrowded British Isles could be so deserted.

Elspeth appeared behind him. ‘Admiring the view?’

‘It’s pretty breathtaking.’

‘Nowhere else like it. There are Atlantic seals in the harbour, golden eagles on the mountains, and red deer on the moorland. You can find places where you can walk miles and see nothing
made by man.’

‘You love it here, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I’m ambitious, too. There’s not much up here for the ambitious. We’d better get started. Strathbane Television first.’

‘I must say the food at this hotel is cordon bleu standard.’

‘That’s Clarry, the chef. When Hamish was a sergeant, Clarry was his sidekick. But he spent all the time cooking until he discovered that was all he really wanted to do.’

‘Why did Macbeth get demoted back to constable?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime.’

They got in Matthew’s car and drove off. ‘How come Sutherland is so empty?’ asked Matthew.

‘It’s because of the old Duke of Sutherland. At the start of the nineteenth century he owned the biggest private estate in Europe. It amounted to some one and a half million acres
and covered a huge part of northern Scotland. He discovered he could get more money from grazing sheep than from the crofters. This caused the brutal removal of up to fifteen thousand people from
the Duke of Sutherland’s estates to make way for the sheep. Some were resettled in coastal communities like Lochdubh to take advantage of the herring boom. More were shipped abroad: many to
North America. The clearances fundamentally changed the landscape of much of northern Scotland. The tiny settlements were swept away, leaving the occasional ruins you can see dotted about.
There’s a row going on still about the duke’s statue in Golspie.’