Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity (7 page)

“Did you see who was driving?”

“No, just a glimpse. Large hat, dark glasses.”

“Man or woman?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“You know how it is, I never talk to anyone, so when I go to Patel’s for my groceries, folk talk in front of me as if I’m invisible. Before her death, they were all vowing vengeance, but I was down today and there wasn’t a murmur. I can’t tell you any more.”

“The figure in the car,” pursued Hamish, “fat or thin?”

“Thin, I would say.”

“What colour was the hat?”

“Brown, I think. But the head was down over the wheel. I didn’t look very closely. I mean, if I had known it was the car a murdered woman was going to be found in later on, I would have looked more closely.”

“Murdered? Why do you say murdered?”

“I saw her television show. Cocky bitch and loving every minute of making people’s lives a misery. I would be amazed if she’d killed herself.”

“I want you to let me know if you hear anything,” said Hamish.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Public duty. You’re as bad as Angus Macdonald.”

Sean’s bright eyes turned on Elspeth. “And who is this?”

“I’m right sorry. I forgot to introduce you. This is Elspeth Grant, who works for the local newspaper.”

“You’re the astrologer. Angus Macdonald is fed up about that. He feels he should have been asked to do it.”

“I’m a reporter as well,” said Elspeth. “I’m tired of the astrology thing. I might ask Sam if he’d consider employing Angus.”

Sean looked amused. “Angus would try to be a proper astrologer and no one would like it. They like your daft predictions—you know, at five o’clock on Tuesday you will have a severe headache.”

“I’ll report what you have said.” Hamish got to his feet. He was tired. He had put the news of Priscilla’s engagement to the back of his brain but now it flooded his mind.

“And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,” said Sean suddenly, as Hamish was making for the door.

His back stiffened. He swung round, his eyes blazing. “What did you say?”

“Just quoting,” said Sean mildly. “I read a lot of poetry. Ernest Dowson.” He leaned back in his chair and half-closed his eyes.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses, riotously, with the throng, Dancing, to put pale, lost lilies out of mind.

“Come on!” snapped Hamish at Elspeth. “Leave him to his babbling.”

Carson was working late. “Report from Hamish Macbeth, sir,” said a constable, putting a printed sheet of paper on his desk.

Carson read it and then said, “Is Detective Anderson still in the building?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get him up here.”

When Jimmy entered, Carson said, “I have just had a report from Macbeth. Someone called Sean Fitzpatrick who lives on the road between Lochdubh and Glenanstey saw a green BMW at nine-thirty in the morning. Read it.”

Jimmy read the report and let out a soundless whistle.

“What I want to know is why it was left to Macbeth to find this out,” said Carson.

“It’s his beat, sir.”

“Ordinarily, yes. But I’ve had officers and detectives going from door to door and yet they’ve missed this. Tomorrow, make sure they all go over the area again.”

“Macbeth has a way of finding out bits that others miss,” said Jimmy.

“He is only a village constable, not Sherlock Holmes. I want no more lapses like this.”

“Do you want Macbeth to go round the village again as well?”

“No, he’s got that list to follow up. Leave him.”

Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!

O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air!

—Gerald Manley Hopkins

N
ext morning, Hamish reluctantly made his way to the bank manager’s house at a time when he knew he would be at work in the bank.

Mrs. McClellan answered the door. “I don’t need to ask you why you’ve come,” she said wearily. “It’s a nightmare.”

“So the television company did contact you?”

“Yes, some girl called Amy Cornwall. I’m haunted by this, Hamish. Do you remember when that awful dustman was blackmailing me over this? It never came out then and I thought it was all over. But this girl had got hold of that old newspaper cutting that said I had been charged with shoplifting. Remember I told you that we’d moved here because my husband felt the scandal deeply? I refused an interview and she said that they would talk about it just the same and that I should put my side of the story. I still refused. Now Crystal’s dead. Has she been murdered?”

“We believe so.”

“And that blackmailing dustman was murdered. It’s a nightmare all over again. Will this get in the newspapers?”

“Unless you killed her, no. My bosses will have the cutting about you from the newspaper so I can’t keep it quiet from them but they’ll have no reason to tell anyone. I must ask you what you were doing on Monday from early morning up till three o’clock.”

“I worked in the garden all morning. Then I got lunch ready for my husband. Oh, dear, if you ask him to confirm this, he’ll wonder why.”

“I’ll just tell him we’re asking everyone in the village for their movements and that’s pretty much the case. With any luck, you won’t need to say anything. You’re not the only one.”

Hamish next drove to Braikie and parked outside Mrs. Harrison’s shop. The reason her dingy shop still kept in business was because she let those on social security benefits run up a bill until their next government payment. Hamish walked in. The shop was empty except for Mrs. Harrison and an old-age pensioner who was paying for a meagre supply of bashed tins. Hamish waited until the customer had left and then asked, “Did Strathbane Television contact you about that old food-poisoning case?”

“That they did,” she said furiously, “and I chust told them that if they dared to show their faces here again, it would be the worse for them.”

“What could you do?”

“My two sons would be here to protect me. Persecuting an old widow woman like me. The case was years ago. They said it was my mutton pies. Havers! But I haven’t sold a mutton pie since.”

“I must ask you what you were doing on Monday morning and early Monday afternoon.”

“You know what folks are saying?” she demanded, her face twisted with spite. “They’re saying that chust because thon Priscilla got engaged to someone else, you’re taking it out on everybody.”

“Chust answer the question…
you horrible auld crone
.” Hamish had added the last part sotto voce, but she heard it.

“I’m not going to answer any of your questions.”

“Then I must ask you to accompany me to the police station.”

They glared at each other, and then Mrs. Harrison began to sob. Hamish stood helplessly wondering what to do until he saw those eyes behind the tears watching him sharply, as if to gauge his reaction.

So he waited, unmoved and apparently immovable, until she took out a grubby paper tissue and wiped her eyes.

“Ochone, ochone,” she said. “What’s a frail old woman to do?”

“Answer my question. Where were you last Monday?”

“I was here.”

“Witnesses?”

“Ask about. Folks’ll tell you, I’m always open on a Monday.”

“Thank you. That will be all for now.”

Hamish left the shop. He walked up and down the street, questioning various people, until one woman said, “Yes, she was open on Monday as usual. Except for around ten-thirty in the morning. I needed some milk, but she had a sign on the door. Back Soon, it said.”

Hamish returned to the shop. Questioned again, Mrs. Harrison said she had merely gone home to get her cigarettes. Hamish mutely stared at the packets of cigarettes behind her and Mrs. Harrison countered shrilly by saying that she did not normally smoke but the fuss about the television show had upset her nerves and she didn’t want to start a new packet. Hamish knew her to be mean and judged this seemingly improbable explanation to be true.

He warned her again that he would be back. Now for Barry McSween.

Barry McSween was not at home and his wife, red-eyed with recent weeping, volunteered that he was probably down in the pub in Lochdubh. Hamish found him there, sitting at a corner table, moodily drinking whisky.

He sat down opposite and Barry looked at him dully. “Folks are saying I killed that woman,” he said. “But I didnae. I wanted to. She brought shame on me.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” said Hamish. “She brought shame to a good few people. In a few weeks’ time, it’ll all have blown over and they’ll have something else to talk about. Now where were you on Monday?”

“That’s easy. Drinking.”

“Where? Here?”

“No, I was upset. I didn’t want to see any of the locals. I went to the bar at the Tommel Castle Hotel. I drank there until about two, when Mr. Johnston said I’d better go home and asked for my car keys.” Mr. Johnston was the manager. “I had to walk home. I went straight to bed. Jeannie’ll tell you.” Jeannie was his wife. “I didn’t wake until early evening, and I walked back to the hotel to pick up my car. That’s when I heard about the death. And I was glad. I’m sorry she committed suicide.”

“It hasn’t been in the papers yet, Barry, but we think it was murder.”

McSween’s normally ruddy face turned a muddy colour. “That cannae be true. Folks say she was found in her car and a pipe had been stuck in the exhaust and into the window of the car.”

Pipe, thought Hamish. I wonder where that length of pipe came from. I wonder if they’ve traced it.

Aloud he said, “I think that puts you in the clear, but I’ll need to check your story.” He pointed to the whisky glass. “How many of those have you had?”

“This is the second.”

“Make it the last. I don’t want to add to your troubles by charging you with driving over the limit.”

Hamish made his way reluctantly to the hotel, which, since he had learned of Priscilla’s engagement, he had been hoping to avoid. He wondered, not for the first time, why memories of Priscilla should still hurt. He finally decided that once you had been in love, it was like contracting an infection and a bit of the disease would always linger.

Mr. Johnston gave him a warm welcome and led him into the hotel office. “Coffee, Hamish?”

Hamish nodded. The manager poured him a mug and set it in front of him. “What brings you? The murder?”

“Aye, I’ve got to check Barry McSween’s story. He says on Monday he was up here drinking.”

“That’s right. The barman warned me he was getting drunk and I took his car keys away from him.”

“Did he make a fuss?”

“No, staggered out, quiet as a lamb.”

“I’m glad,” said Hamish. “I don’t like Barry, but, man, she did make a fool of him.”

“If you ask me, he made a right fool of himself. Any idea who did it?”

“We don’t know. So many suspects.”

There was a silence. Hamish drank his coffee.

“Must have been a shock to you,” said Mr. Johnston at last.

“The murder?”

“No, Priscilla.”

“Yes, it was. I thought she might have warned me. Who’s the fellow?”

“Some stockbroker in London. Lots of money. Parents are delighted.”

“Still, she might have told me. When’s the wedding?”

“Sometime in the spring.”

“Here?”

“No, London.”

That’s a mercy, thought Hamish. He couldn’t bear the idea of her getting married in Lochdubh.

He left the hotel and drove over to the village of Cnothan. He called at Police Sergeant Macgregor’s house to explain his presence on the other’s beat. “I don’t know why they sent you,” said Sergeant Macgregor. “I’ll put in a complaint about it.”

“You do that,” said Hamish amiably. “Now, the television researcher was going to dig up old scandal for a programme. On the list were Finlay Swithers and Maisie Gough. Finlay Swithers, well, it was probably that charge of wife beating, but who is Maisie Gough?”

“Poor wee mouse of a woman. Got accused a few years back of pinching the Mothers Union funds. Fact is, she’s a bit absent-minded and she’d given them to her friend, Mrs. Queen, for safekeeping and forgotten about it. Mrs. Queen was on holiday when she was accused. Comes back from holiday. Horrified to learn about Maisie. Charges dropped.”

“So why her?”

“Fault of the local papers. Charge reported but nothing when it was dropped. Word got around, of course, of her innocence, but anyone looking up the cuttings would still see the charge.”

“Funny how they still talk about the cuttings,” said Hamish. “It’s probably all on computer discs these days. Where will I find her?”

“Down by the loch. Waterside Cottages, number six. And when you’re finished, get out o’ my parish.”

“Gladly,” said Hamish, who hated Cnothan.

He walked down the drab, grey main street towards the black loch. It was one of those lochs artificially created by the Hydro Electric Board. No trees grew at its edge. No birds sang. Bleak, dreary, with a great dam at one end.

He found Waterside Cottages and knocked at the door of number six. He waited. There was a chill feel of approaching autumn and a smell of peat smoke in the air.

He frowned at the closed door. He sensed there was someone inside. He tried the door handle. The door swung open. He smelled gas and his heart began to race. He went into the kitchen. A small, grey-haired woman was lying with her head on a cushion inside the oven. Hamish switched off the gas and threw open the window. Then he lifted her gently out. “Miss Gough,” he said, raising her tear-stained face. “It iss not the coal gas. It iss the North Sea gas. You cannot be committing suicide with the North Sea gas.”

“I cannae dae anything right,” she moaned and burst into tears. Hamish sat beside her on the floor, cradling her in his arms, and rocking her backwards and forwards as if soothing a hurt child. He waited patiently until she had finished crying, took out a clean handkerchief, and dried her face. He then lifted her up and placed her in an armchair next to the stove. “I’ll wait till the gas clears and make us a cup of tea. Was it because of the television people?”

She nodded dumbly.

“But you were innocent.”