Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity (5 page)

“No, he is not,” said Hamish, “and a lot of the locals would be pleased he made a fool of himself on television.”

“Aye, and there was an anonymous call saying that Barry had been heard threatening to kill her. Then there’s Mrs. Harrison.”

“What about her?”

“She was heard the other day telling the customers that something really nasty was going to happen to Crystal.”

Hamish groaned. “I wish I knew where to start.”

“I think you’re going to have more freedom on this one than Blair would have given you. Carson was impressed with your reports. I’m going to interview the errant husbands at Strathbane Television in the morning. Care to come along?”

Hamish brightened. “Wouldn’t Carson mind? It’s out o’ my territory.”

“I’ll square it with him. I’ll see you outside the television building at ten in the morning. But I’ll be talking to that astrologer friend of yours. By the way, what does Angus Macdonald think of the competition on his patch?”

“I don’t know,” said Hamish thoughtfully. Angus Macdonald was the local seer. “But I think I’ll pay him a late visit and find out.”

Angus Macdonald lived in a small, whitewashed cottage above the village with a long winding path leading up through green fields to it. It looked from a distance like a cottage illustrated in a fairy-story. Hamish left the Land Rover at the foot of the path.

He knew it must be nearly eleven o’clock at night and hoped the seer was still awake. As he approached, the cottage door opened and Angus stood there, looking as usual like one of the minor prophets with his shaggy grey hair and long beard.

“It iss yourself, Hamish,” he said. “Bad business.”

“It is that. How’s yourself, Angus?”

“Fair to middling. What have you brought me?”

“I havenae brought you anything,” said Hamish crossly. “You can’t expect folks to bring you presents the whole time.”

“It helps the spirits,” said Angus portentously.

“The only spirits that help you, you auld moocher, are the ones that come in bottles, and I don’t mean genies either.”

“I do not like your attitude,” said Angus loftily, “and you will not be enjoying the hospitality of my house.”

Hamish sighed and caved in. “I’ve a nice Dundee cake at home that Mrs. Wellington gave me. You can have it.”

“Then go and get it,” said Angus and slammed the door.

Hamish was tempted to forget about him, and yet he knew Angus heard and noticed a lot more than other people. He went home and collected the cake and returned.

“Come in, come in,” said Angus cheerfully, taking the cake and going on as if it were the first time he had seen Hamish that day.

Hamish ducked his head and walked in. He always thought Angus kept his cottage looking as antique as possible to impress visitors. A peat fire smouldered on the hearth with an old blackened kettle hung on a chain over it. Angus went through to the kitchen in the back and placed the cake on a shelf, already stacked with groceries.

He returned. “You’ll be having a wee dram?”

“No, Angus, I’ve had enough and I’m driving. Let’s get down to business. You hear and see things. I’m desperate to find out if this Crystal woman was murdered or whether it was suicide.”

Angus gave him an evil look. “So why don’t you ask your wee friend, the astrologer, to look in her stars?”

“Come off it, Angus. You know she makes it up.”

“Aye, but that one has the sight and one day it iss going to surprise her.” By the sight, Angus meant the second sight, a gift that meant whoever had it could sometimes tell the future.

“It’s not the future I’m interested in,” said Hamish, “but the past.”

Angus put one bony finger on his forehead, like a Tenniel illustration of the Dodo in
Alice in Wonderland
. Then he shook his head.

“I havenae got a thing.”

“That’s unlike you, Angus. I mean, even if you don’t know anything, you usually make something up.”

“I tell you what, Hamish, I will ferret around and work night and day for ye.”

“And what do you want in return?” asked Hamish suspiciously.

“Your dog.”

“No, neffer, absolutely and finally, not. Why did you even ask?”

“I haff neffer seen a wee dog wi’ thae blue eyes afore.”

From that, Hamish surmised that Angus thought Lugs would be an added attraction.

“No,” he said again.

“Then,” said the seer waspishly, “I suggest you go to Elspeth Grant for help. She probably did it herself.”

Hamish rose and made for the door. “Why?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Her predictions are so daft, she decided to commit murder to make one o’ them come true,” said Angus spitefully.

What a waste of time, thought Hamish grumpily, as he strode down the hill to his Land Rover.

There was nothing more he could do that night. Tomorrow, he would go to Strathbane Television and see what he could find out.

Tempt not the stars, young man, thou canst not play

With the severity of fate
.

—John Ford

W
hen Hamish met Jimmy outside Strathbane Television, the detective said, “Carson’s already in there. They’ve given us a room for the interviews. He says you can sit in on the questioning.”

“Makes a change from Blair.”

“He’s ambitious. He thinks you might have brains. He don’t know you like I do.”

Hamish followed Jimmy into the building and through long corridors and then up two flights of stairs. Jimmy pushed open the door.

Detective Chief Inspector Carson rose to meet them. “Sit yourself over in that corner, Macbeth,” he said. “I just want you to observe.” Then he turned to a policewoman who had been making coffee and said, “Show in our first. Let me see. That will be the managing director, Mr. Bissett.”

Hamish studied the executive as he came in. He looked in his middle forties, dressed in a charcoal-grey business suit, silk tie, and striped shirt. He had a fleshy face and thick lips, small brown eyes, and an open-pored large nose. His brown hair was flecked with grey.

Callum Bissett sat down and said, “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got a lot to do.”

“And so have we,” said Carson. “I have the preliminary pathologist’s report. Miss French died of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Poor girl,” said Callum, shaking his head. “She had everything to live for.”

“There is one difficulty,” went on Carson. “She had been struck a blow on the back of the head prior to her death. In our opinion, she could have been stunned and a suicide faked.”

Callum’s face registered shock. “Are you sure? I mean, she might have hit her head on something at home.”

“That might be the answer,” said Carson, “but until we can be sure, we’ll need to go on and ask questions. What were your relations with Miss French?”

“I hardly knew her. I mean, it was Rory MacBain’s idea to bring her up from Edinburgh. Of course, I called her in after the success of the first show to congratulate her and tell her it was going national.”

“Did she ask for more money?”

Callum looked shifty. “Well, let’s say she didn’t have to. I offered.”

Carson’s cold eyes bored into those of the managing director. “Did she have any leverage on you?”

“What are you talking about?” Callum blustered.

“There is a rumour that you were having sexual relations with Miss French.”

“Bollocks! I’m a married man.”

Carson shuffled his notes. Callum took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“Ah, here we are,” said Carson. “Miss French’s flat is opposite an all-night garage. My men are currently studying the videos. The security cameras sweep the forecourt of the garage and also cover the entrance to the building where Miss French had a flat. Do you want to tell us anything now, or do you want to wait until we have viewed all the film on the security cameras? I must warn you, if you are found to have been lying to the police, then we can charge you with obstruction.”

Callum gave a very false, expansive smile. Wouldn’t ever have qualified for a job on the other side of the camera, thought Hamish. “I did visit her at her flat several times,” he said. “I know it looks bad, but I merely went along to discuss business and have a quiet drink.”

“I hope for your sake that is true. Our forensic team is still going over her flat. But I can tell you they found a vase with a dozen red roses and on the florist’s card that came with it is a message. It reads, “To my blonde goddess from your devoted Callum.””

Callum leaned forward and looked earnest and sincere. Going to tell a real whopper, thought Hamish.

“I see I must explain the world of show business to you,” said Callum. “We’re the luvvies. We pay each other exaggerated compliments.” He spread his hands. “Okay. I did butter her up. I gave her flowers and champagne. And why not?”

“We’ll leave it for the moment,” said Carson. “Now, as to her state of mind: How did you judge it?”

“I must admit I was worried about her. She was very strung up, very nervous. I wondered at one point whether she might be on drugs—speed or something like that.”

“Indeed? We’ll look into that.”

“Is there anything else? I really need to get to work.”

“Not for the moment. Send Rory MacBain in.”

Callum put his head round the door of Rory’s office. “Your turn with the fuzz. Look, tell them the damn woman was on the verge of a breakdown.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Like working here?”

“Of course, I—”

“Then tell them. If you ask me, it was straightforward suicide and now they’re sniffing around a murder. And guess who they’ll have their eye on?”

“Who?”

“You, of course. You brought her up from Edinburgh. You were diddling her.”

“Who told you that?”

“She did. Now get along there and do your bit.”

When Rory walked into the interviewing room, Hamish thought he looked a bit like his boss; heavy-set, well-groomed, paunchy and fleshy, but with thin mousy hair combed over a pink scalp.

Carson started right away. “Sit down, Mr. MacBain. Describe your relations with Crystal French.”

“We met at a televison conference in Edinburgh…”

“When?”

“Last year. At the Edinburgh Festival.”

“Which hotel?”

“The George.” A bright little memory flashed across Rory’s frightened brain, that of leading Crystal out of the bar and up to his room. But there had been no staff in the corridor outside. Play it cool.

“Did you have sexual relations with her?”

“How dare you!” shouted Rory. “I’m a married man.”

Carson tuned to the pathologist’s report. “There are two disturbing things here. It appears she may have been stunned with a blow to the head and then a suicide faked. Secondly, she had sexual intercourse recently. We will be taking DNA samples.”

Wasn’t him anyway, thought Hamish, watching the flicker of relief in Rory’s eyes.

Carson leaned forward. “I urge you to be honest, Mr. MacBain. I ask you again: Did you have sexual relations with Crystal French?”

Rory sat with his head down. Then he said, “If I tell you, can you keep it from my wife?”

“Unless you are guilty of murder, I see no reason why Mrs. MacBain should know.”

“I did, then, but that was down in Edinburgh. Just the one night at the George. I’ll come clean. I would have resumed the relations when she came up here, but she kept putting me off, saying, wait till I get settled. Then she was a success and could snub me as much as she liked.”

“You mean you were prepared to use your position to seduce an employee?”

“Oh, get real,” snapped Rory. “She seduced me.”

“What was her state of mind recently?”

“I was worried about her,” said Rory. Better actor than his boss, thought Hamish. “She was given to emotional tantrums, but, well, in this business, you get used to that.” Callum’s had a word with him, thought Hamish. Rory was going on. “As a matter of fact, I suggested she might try therapy.”

“When was this?” asked Carson.

“Just last week.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said she was all right. But you know what they say, if you’re mad then you’re the last to know.”

“Was she depressed?”

“Yes, she was distressed and frightened. You see, we were getting bags of hate mail and death threats.”

“Death threats? You didn’t report those.”

“Oh, television stations always get death threats. Lots of nutters out there. But it was getting to Crystal. I told her to just look at the size of the mail bag. That’s what counts. Poor thing. Committing suicide like that.”

“As I said, we are not sure it was suicide.”

“I don’t believe it. I’m telling you, that poor girl’s state of mind was a mess.”

He was asked several more questions and then allowed to leave.

“I think we should have this Felicity Pearson in,” said Carson. “She seems to be a fund of gossip, to judge from what she told Macbeth.”

“I’m afraid, sir, that by now she won’t have much to tell us,” said Hamish.

“Why?”

“I think she’ll be told to keep her mouth shut. They might even have offered her her old show back.”

Carson consulted his notes again and then raised his eyes and looked at Hamish.

“You think so? So what would you do?”

“The three others were with her when she was talking to me—I mean Harry Jury, Tom Betts, and John Leslie. I would question them all together.”

“Right, we’ll try it your way.”

“Although,” said Hamish, “I suppose they’ve all been warned by now.”

The policewoman was sent to fetch the four. They shuffled in together. The policewoman arranged four chairs in front of Carson’s desk. Hamish eyed her sympathetically and wondered what she thought about being given all this dogsbody work, from making the coffee to arranging the furniture.

“I’ll get right to the point,” said Carson, changing tack. “This is now a murder enquiry.” Felicity gave a little gasp.

“Now before you all tell me what an emotional mess Crystal was and how she was ripe for suicide, I must urge you to tell the truth.”

Before anyone could speak, the door opened and a man popped his head round it. “Just wondered if you wanted to see me.”