Hamish Macbeth 14 (1999) - Death of a Scriptwriter

by M C Beaton

  Hamish sighed. “Lies, lies and more lies. Don’t go around trying to hide things from the police. All it means is that a lot of innocent people get grilled by Blair when the murderer could be running around loose.”

  He decided to spend what was left of the day trying to find out if anyone had seen Patricia on the morning of the murder. He drove over to Golspie and learned that the police had already questioned the waitresses at the Sutherland Arms Hotel and had found that Patricia did indeed have lunch there. No one had noticed that her manner was anything out of the way. She had, for example, not been muttering and talking to herself as she had been on the day that Dr. Brodie had found her. But although he diligently checked around Golspie—calling first on Hugh Johnston, the owner of Golspie Motors, the main garage—no one had seen Patricia or her car. It was a white Metro. Perhaps she had stopped somewhere for petrol. He drove miles, checking at petrol stations without success.

  Colin Jessop, the minister, arrived back at the manse and called, “Eileen!” No one answered. He went through to the kitchen. There was a note on the kitchen counter. It read, “Gone to Inverness with Ailsa. If I am not back, there is a casserole of stew in the fridge. Just heat it for your dinner.”

  He glared at the note and then crumpled it into a ball. It was this silly film business of Eileen’s that was making her forget her duties as a wife. Well, as soon as she got back, he would put a stop to it.

  He ate his solitary dinner, looking all the time at the kitchen clock. At nine o’clock he heard a car drive up.

  He got to his feet.

  His wife came in. He stared at her in outrage, at her makeup and at her dyed hair.

  “You look a disgrace,” he shouted, the veins standing out on his forehead. “You will go and wash that muck off your face, and tomorrow you will get your hair put back to normal, and then you will stop this film business which is leading you into the paths of sin.”

  Eileen looked at him coolly. “At least my hair is not bleached blond. I was in that new restaurant in Inverness today. What’s it called? I know. Harry’s. That’s the place. You see some interesting sights in there. I wonder what your parishioners would say if I described one of the sights I saw. But I’ll say no more about it, Colin. The hair stays, the makeup stays and the filming goes on.”

  He sank down slowly into his chair. Eileen gave him a gentle smile and went out, quietly closing the kitchen door behind her.

  §

  Hamish sat in front of the computer that evening. He tried Blair’s password again, fully expecting to find it had been changed; but unlike before, for some reason, his hacking had not yet been discovered.

  He studied the reports.

  Fiona King said she had backed off a little because she wanted a cigarette and Giles Brown, the director, couldn’t bear the smell of cigarette smoke. Gervase Hart said that he was bored and had strolled off a bit, looking for somewhere to sit down. Sheila said she had shown Penelope where to stand and then had gone back to join the others. Giles Brown confirmed that Sheila had been beside him when Penelope had screamed, so she could not possibly have done it. Harry Frame said he had gone off to find a quiet place in the mist for a pee. Patricia kept to her story about driving mindlessly around. No, she had not stopped for petrol. She had had a full tank when she set out.

  Hamish ploughed on through all the reports from various members of the television company, from the estate staff at Drim Castle, from the villagers of Drim.

  He sat back, bewildered.

  Who on earth could have murdered Penelope?

  The clue to it must lie somewhere in her background, and that background lay in Glasgow.

  He picked up the phone and called Detective Sergeant Bill Walton of the Glasgow police, an old friend. He was told Wal-ton was off duty that day, so he called his home number.

  “So it’s you, Hamish,” said Bill cheerfully. “My, you do have exotic murders up there. All we’ve got here is pedestrian jobs like slashings, muggings and drugs. No beautiful actresses.”

  “It’s this Penelope Gates, Bill,” said Hamish. “It’s a mess.” He outlined the suspects. “You see what I mean?” he said finally. “Any of them could have done it. It was a simple murder where someone saw an opportunity of getting rid of her. I don’t think it was planned. So I was wondering if you had been on the case, if there was anything in Penelope’s background.”

  “I’ve been working on it a bit,” said Bill, “and yes, I’ve been digging into Penelope’s background. She comes from a pretty slummy home in Parkhead.”

  “And how did she manage to get to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art?”

  “That was the mother. Saw her daughter as a modern Shirley Temple, always putting her into children’s competitions, all curls and frilly dresses. Got the money out of a doting uncle who keeps a newsagent’s in Cumbernauld. Violent, bullying father, minor offences, drunk and disorderly mostly.”

  “Any boyfriends in the past?”

  “I gather mother kept her under wraps and was furious when she married Josh. Would guess our Penelope was a virgin until she married Josh, unless that uncle she hated meddled with her. He was suspected at one time of child abuse, but nothing was ever proved.”

  “Could be that uncle. She could have threatened to expose him.”

  “Uncle was on holiday in Tenerife when the murder happened. I saw that writer woman on television. My money’s on her.”

  “Why?”

  “She came across as arrogant as sin and as cold as hell.”

  “She’s quite vulnerable,” said Hamish slowly. “In fact, she offered to pay me to find out who really did it.”

  “Could have done that to throw you off the scent.”

  “Don’t think so,” said Hamish with a flash of arrogance. “I do haff the reputation up here.”

  “Okay, Sherlock, but I don’t think I can help you.”

  “There’s another thing. That death of Jamie Gallagher. I’ve got a feeling in my bones that Josh didn’t do it.”

  “So just suppose for a minute you’re right. Who would want to get rid of both Jamie and Penelope?”

  “Fiona King,” said Hamish. “The producer. She’s a hardbitten, pot-smoking woman, and her job was under threat from both of them.”

  “Could she have killed Penelope? She was on the wrong side of the camera, if you know what I mean.”

  “She could have sprinted off through the mist. The mist and the heather block out sound.” He described the outcrop and the little space underneath.

  “But no matter how thick the mist, Penelope would have seen her or at least heard her.”

  “I thought of that, but she could have muttered something like ‘Just checking,’ slid over the edge and waited.”

  “You’re making my head ache, Hamish, but if anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  Hamish said goodbye and rang off.

  Almost immediately the phone rang. It was Jimmy Ander-son.

  “Just thought you would like to know,” he said, “Patricia Martyn-Broyd collapsed under Blair’s grilling and was taken off to hospital in Strathbane. Posse of lawyers from the TV company moved in. Police harassment and all that. Blair is in deep shit.”

  “I’ll go and see her. Aren’t you coming for your whisky?”

  “Can’t get away.”

  “I’ll drop in and see you after I’ve seen Patricia.”

  “Patricia, is it. Quite matey, are you?”

  “Love her to death,” said Hamish.

  He said goodbye to Jimmy and went out and got into the police Land Rover. As he drove along the waterfront, he saw with a sort of amazement that Lochdubh, tranquil in the evening light, looked the same. The fishing boats were chugging out down the sea loch from the harbour, children played on the shingly beach, the mountains soared up into the clear air and people were coming and going from Patel’s shop, which stayed open late.

  He reached the hump-backed bridge which spanned the road leading out of Lochdubh and then
put his foot down on the accelerator and sped towards Strathbane.

  It was only when he was halfway there that he remembered he had not delivered the fish to Angus. The Highland part of him hoped the seer would not zap him with something bad, but the commonsense side told himself severely that such a fear was ridiculous.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menaces of a ruffian.

  —Dr. Samuel Johnson

  A woman police constable was on duty outside Patricia’s hospital room. “She’s sleeping,” she told Hamish when he arrived. “They gave her a sedative.”

  “What was she like when she was brought in?” asked Hamish.

  “Weeping and mumbling.”

  “I’ll go in and sit with her for a bit.”

  The policewoman sat down again and flipped open the magazine she had been reading. “Suit yourself. But I don’t think she’ll wake up for ages.”

  Hamish went in. Patricia Martyn-Broyd looked very small and frail under the bedclothes. Her face had a waxen pallor. Damn Blair, thought Hamish, he’s gone too far this time.

  He pulled up a chair and sat down by the bed and looked around. It was the usual sterile hospital room. No flowers or cards, of course. Poor Patricia.

  She stirred and mumbled in her sleep. Hamish leaned forward. He felt he should let her sleep on but on the other hand did not want to return to Lochdubh without having found something out.

  “Patricia!” he said urgently.

  She mumbled again, and then her eyes opened. She looked around in a dazed way.

  “You are in the hospital in Strathbane,” said Hamish.

  “What happened?” she said weakly. “Did I have an accident?”

  “No, you collapsed while you were being interviewed by Detective Chief Inspector Blair.”

  “Who is he? Who are you?” demanded Patricia, her eyes frightened.

  “It iss me,” said Hamish anxiously. “Hamish Macbeth.”

  “I can’t remember,” she said weakly.

  “The murder,” he said urgently.

  “What murder? What are you talking about?” Her thin hands began to claw the sheet.

  Hamish went out into the corridor. “You’d better get a doctor,” he said to the policewoman. “She’s in a fair state and cannae remember a thing.”

  A doctor and a nurse were summoned and hurried into the room, firmly shutting Hamish outside.

  Hamish and the policewoman waited in silence. Finally the doctor emerged. “I’ve given her another sedative, and the hospital psychiatrist will see her in the morning. She needs absolute quiet and rest. I’ve read in the newspapers about bullying police tactics and never believed them until now. It’s a disgrace!”

  Hamish went off to police headquarters in Strathbane. He met Superintendent Peter Daviot as he was going into the building. “Well, Hamish?” said Daviot. “Any news?”

  “I called at the hospital to see Miss Martyn-Broyd,” said Hamish. “She is in a bad state of shock and appears to have lost her memory.”

  “This is dreadful.” Daviot turned and walked with Hamish back into the building. “Blair will need to be suspended, pending a full enquiry.”

  “And who will take over the case, sir? Jimmy Anderson?”

  “No, we need someone senior. I’ve already called Detective Chief Inspector Lovelace of Inverness to head the investigations.”

  “And what’s he like?” asked Hamish, thinking that Lovelace sounded a friendly sort of name.

  “He is a competent officer, and that is all you need to know, Macbeth.”

  Hamish went into the CID room. Through the usual haze of smoke he could see Jimmy Anderson, sitting at his desk.

  “Keeping that Scotch warm for me, Hamish?”

  “Aye, it’s there for you when you want a dram. Blair’s been suspended. I’ve just seen Daviot.”

  “Man, that’s great. My chance for glory.”

  “Sorry, Jimmy. He’s putting some man, Lovelace, from Inverness in charge.”

  Jimmy’s face darkened. “A new man will need to begin at the beginning. I don’t like Blair, but he’s the evil I know, if you get me.”

  “I’ve just come from the hospital,” said Hamish. “Patricia’s in a right taking. Lost her memory.”

  “How convenient,” sneered Jimmy.

  “If she’s putting it on, she’s a better actress than I would ha’ guessed,” said Hamish. “I cannae help feeling we’re looking at all this the wrong way round. Now, just supposing Josh Gates didn’t murder Jamie Gallagher and the person who really murdered Jamie murdered Penelope, who would spring to mind?”

  “Thon producer woman. Hard as nails. You could strike matches on her bum.”

  “Apart from her.”

  Jimmy scowled horribly. Then he said, “If they were both such a threat to the success of the TV thing, then there’s Harry Frame.”

  “So there is. I might call on him.”

  Jimmy looked up at the clock on the wall through the fog of cigarette smoke. “It’s eleven o’clock at night, man!”

  “I bet they’re all still awake. I’ll take my chances.”

  Hamish found Harry Frame in the bar of the Tommel Castle Hotel. The big man was alone and slumped over a pint of beer.

  “More police,” he said when he saw Hamish. “Haven’t you lot done enough? Poor old Patricia.”

  “I thought you lot considered her a pain in the neck.”

  “No one should suffer a breakdown because of police harassment,” said Harry truculently. “That man Blair!”

  “Well, he’s off the case. What I am curious about is whether you believe that Josh Gates killed Jamie Gallagher.”

  “For heaven’s sake, it’s nearly midnight and I am being kept up by the daft notions of the village bobby. I shouldn’t have to tell you your job. Josh was found with Jamie’s blood on his hands.”

  “Aye, but to my reckoning, Josh could have found the body, raised the head to see of he was dead, got blood on his hands and ran away in a panic and got drunk for the last time. Jamie was sabotaging the series with his interference and his dull scripts. Yes, I bet they were dull, and I bet when Angus Harris turned up claiming Jamie had stolen the script of Football Fever, you believed him. And Penelope Gates was starting to act like a prima donna and wanted everyone fired.”

  Harry Frame stood up and loomed over Hamish. “You lot are in deep shit. You’ve driven Patricia into a nervous breakdown. And now you, a village copper, are threatening me.”

  “I never did.”

  “Oh, yes, you are hinting with the subtlety of an ox that I murdered both Penelope and Jamie. Your superiors will hear about this.”

  Harry stormed off. Hamish looked after him curiously and then gave a shrug.

  The big man could complain all he wanted. All Hamish had done was have a chat with him. Nothing would come of it.

  In this, Hamish Macbeth was wrong.

  The following morning, before Hamish had had time to change into his uniform and while he was repairing a broken plank on his henhouse, Detective Chief Inspector Lovelace arrived.

  Flanked by Detectives Anderson and Macnab, he stood watching Hamish until Hamish, aware of his gaze, turned round.

  Lovelace introduced himself and then said curtly, “May we go inside? Anderson and Macnab, wait here.”

  They walked indoors to the police station. Lovelace sat behind Hamish’s desk and folded a pair of white, well-manicured hands on the desk in front of him. Hamish stood before him.

  Lovelace was a small, neat man with well-brushed fair hair. He had neat features and a small, prissy mouth. He looked at a corner of the ceiling and began. Hamish was to learn that Lovelace never looked you in the eye, not out of shyness or furtiveness, but more as if he thought his august gaze was too valuable to waste on underlings.

  “We will begin by asking why you are not in uniform.”

  “I wass chust attending to a few chores.”

>   “To a few chores…what?”

  “To a few chores, sir.”

  “You are being paid to police Lochdubh and the surrounding area, not to repair henhouses. Why did you call on Patricia Martyn-Broyd at the hospital without telling your superiors what you were doing and why?”

  “I know Miss Martyn-Broyd. I mean, I have known her since before the murders. We are by way of being friends,” lied Hamish. He did not want to tell Lovelace that Patricia had asked him to find out the identity of the murderer.

  “Nonetheless, it was your duty to inform your superiors of your movements. To the even more serious matter. You bullied and harassed Mr. Harry Frame last night and accused him of being a double murderer.”

  “I did not…sir. I was merely interested in discussing my views with him.”

  Lovelace’s gaze shifted to the window. There was a long silence.

  A child shrieked, “Gie that back, Hughie!” somewhere out on the waterfront, a dog barked and a wind sighed down the loch.

  “I have heard of your way of doing things,” said Lovelace at last. “This is not the Wild West and you are not an American sheriff. You will not step out of line again, and in order to make sure that you do not, I am giving you these orders. You will confine yourself to your duties as a village constable. I am now in charge of the murder inquiry. There are enough people working under me to deal with it. Do not approach anyone concerned with the case.”

  He stood up and walked to the door. Then he swung round. “And get your uniform on!”

  After he had heard him drive off, Hamish slumped down behind his desk. He was, he thought miserably, not suited for the police force. He enjoyed his job until he ran up against the pecking order of the British police force. Except during a major case like this, he was usually left to his own devices.

  Now he could not dare go near Drim, or see Sheila, and right at that moment, he would have liked to see Sheila. She was not only pretty, there was an endearing warmth about her.

  Gloomily judging that he would not have to sustain another visit that day from Lovelace, he went back to repairing the henhouse and when that job was finished, he got the trout out of the freezer and strolled along the waterfront and up the hill to the seer’s cottage.