Elspeth tasted her glass of wine cautiously. She reflected she should have known better than to order white wine in a bar. It tasted like vinegar.
“Right,” said Matthew when he had gulped down his whisky. “That’s better.”
They walked up to the bar, where a diminutive highland barmaid was staring vaguely into space. Apart from Elspeth and Matthew, there were only two other customers.
Matthew handed over the photograph of Harry Tarrant.
“We’re reporters from the Daily Bugle,” he said. “We’re reporting on that murder in Cnothan. Did this man come here on the day of the murder?”
“When was that again?”
“The seventeenth.”
“Aye, so it was. I wisnae here. Big Jake was on duty. You’d best ask him.”
“Where do we find him?”
“Sullivan Road. The housing estate up the back o’ the town. Number 5.”
“Is it far? Should I go back to the car park and get the car?” asked Matthew.
“No. It’s just a toddle. Go to the end and turn left. You’ll see the council houses up on the hill.”
♦
The walk in the driving rain turned out to be a long one, and by the time they reached Big Jake’s address, they were soaked to the skin.
A man in dirty pyjamas answered the door. He was tall with a long thin face. His grey hair was thinning on top, but he had a long ponytail at the back.
“Big Jake?” asked Matthew.
“Aye.”
“We’re reporters from the Daily Bugle. Can we come in?”
“No. I’m busy.”
Matthew fished out the photograph of Harry. “Can you tell us if this man was in the Fisherman’s Arms the evening John Heppel was murdered over in Cnothan?”
“Aye, that’s him. I mind him well. I said if he drank ony mair, I’d need to take his car keys off him.”
“He was there all evening?”
“About three hours.”
“Was he with anyone?”
“No, sat by hisself drinking whisky.”
“Jake!” called a woman’s voice from inside the house.
“Like a told you,” said Jake, “I’m busy.” And he slammed the door.
“What a wasted day,” grumbled Matthew as they bent their heads before the rising storm and hurried back to the car. “I’ve an awful feeling in my bones we’re not going to find much to write about.”
But he was wrong.
∨ Death of a Bore ∧
8
When constabulary duty’s to be done,
The policeman’s lot is not a happy one.
—W. S. Gilbert
After Matthew and Elspeth had arrived back at the Tommel Castle Hotel and had changed into dry clothes, they met in the bar.
“We’ll need to find something to write,” said Elspeth.
“Couldn’t we just stay in this nice hotel for the evening and start tomorrow?”
“No, I think…Oh, good evening, Mr. Johnson.”
“Shame about Hamish Macbeth,” said the manager.
Elspeth’s eyes widened in shock. “What’s happened to Hamish?”
“He was up at John Heppel’s cottage when someone struck him a sore blow on the head. Perry Sutherland saw the cottage door lying open and went in and found him.”
“Where is he?”
“Over at Braikie Hospital.”
“Come on, Matthew,” said Elspeth.
♦
The waiting room of Braikie Hospital was full of villagers from Lochdubh. Mrs. Wellington strode forward to meet them. “They’re only allowing us in two at a time,” she said. “You’ll need to wait.”
“How is he?” asked Elspeth.
“He had a bad blow to the head, but they say he is only slightly concussed. It’s not serious.”
“Who’s with him now?”
“Miss Garrety, the schoolteacher.”
“And who’s with her?”
Mrs. Wellington gave a sly smile. “We all agreed to let her go in on her own. It’s time Macbeth was married.”
“Is there a canteen in this place?” asked Matthew.
“Yes, on the first floor.”
“Come along, Elspeth. We’ll get a cup of tea while we’re waiting.”
When they were out of earshot, Matthew said, “I’ve got a plan.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s go down to the basement instead. Maybe there’s a laundry room there where we could disguise ourselves and jump the queue.”
“We’d be spotted. We can’t cover our faces.”
“We can if we find some surgeons’ stuff.”
Fortunately the basement area appeared to be deserted. They tried door after door. Most were locked.
“Someone’s coming,” hissed Elspeth.
“In here!” urged Matthew, reopening one of the doors he knew was unlocked.
They waited. There was a sound of squeaking wheels. Matthew opened the door a crack.
A hospital porter was trundling a laundry basket on wheels. He went into a door at the end of a long corridor. Matthew waited. The man reappeared and walked down past where they were hidden.
When he had gone, Matthew said, “I know where the laundry is. Come on.”
They hurried along to the laundry room. “The stuff’ll be dirty,” complained Elspeth.
“Then we’ll pick out the least dirty ones.”
♦
Freda sat by Hamish’s bed and held his hand. “Are you sure you feel all right?”
“I’d feel better if someone from police headquarters would arrive and tell me why that computer was never checked.”
The door opened and two masked figures entered. One said to Freda, “You’ll need to leave, miss. We have to take Mr. Macbeth to the operating theatre.”
“What’s this?” cried Hamish in alarm. “No one said anything to me about needing an operation.”
The smaller of the ‘surgeons’ held open the door and said pointedly to Freda, “If you don’t mind, miss.”
When Freda had gone, Elspeth jerked down her mask and said, “Surprise!”
“What the hell are you two doing?” exclaimed Hamish. “Trying to give me a heart attack?”
“We checked Harry Tarrant’s alibi,” said Elspeth. “It checks out. Tell us what happened to you.”
“I was looking at John Heppel’s computer. It had been wiped clean, but I wondered why it had been left behind. Surely some computer expert could have recovered stuff from the hard drive. Then someone hit me on the head.”
“And the computer was gone?”
“That was the reason for hitting me on the head,” said Hamish impatiently.
The door opened and Jimmy Anderson walked in. Matthew and Elspeth jerked up their masks and walked out.
“Press?” asked Jimmy, staring after them.
“Yes.”
“Oldest trick in the book. You don’t need surgery, and yet here are two masked surgeons in dirty robes in your room. I hope they catch something awful. Who were they?”
“Couple of reporters from the Bugle. One was Elspeth Grant.”
“Ah, your ex-squeeze.”
“Never mind her. Tell me, Jimmy, why that computer was left there.”
“Well, the cops are blaming the forensic team, and the forensic team are blaming the cops. I think it was because it was a black laptop on a black desk. They didn’t notice it. Daviot is blaming Blair, and Blair is blaming everyone he can think of. They’re getting on to the server to see if they can retrieve anything that might have been in the e–mails.”
Hamish leaned his bandaged head back on the pillows. “You know the trouble? We’re dealing here with a rank amateur who killed in a fit of spite and rage and then tried to cover it up. I wish the villagers had never attacked John Heppel and been filmed for television doing it. It’s taken the whole focus away from Strathbane Television. At least the press have their uses. Harry Tarrant was nowhere near Cnothan on the night of the murder. Oh, the magic of television. No one asked him where he was on the night of the murder.”