Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity

by M C Beaton

  When Hamish put down the phone, defeated, he marvelled again at the power of television. Had it been a newspaper interview, then he would not have been forced to go through with it, but everyone always went on as if television were some sort of government enforcement agency. People who would not speak to the press let television cameras and reporters into their homes.

  He thought about Elspeth. It was good of her to offer to lie for him. On the other hand, that horoscope had been cruel. Lugs gave a short, sharp bark from the kitchen and then rattled his food bowl.

  Hamish sighed and went through to the kitchen. “You’ve been fed already,” he said crossly. Lugs gave a pathetic whimper as Hamish lifted a casserole out of the oven. “Oh, well,” said Hamish weakly. “Just a little bit. What am I going to do about that wretched woman, Lugs?”

  But Lugs was eyeing the casserole with his bright blue eyes, his mind only on food.

  On the following Monday, Hamish awoke with a heavy heart. Somehow he would get through the interview. He would be bland and smiling, no matter what skeletons from his past Crystal let out of the cupboard. His complimentary copy of the Highland Times rattled through his letter box. He made a cup of coffee and spread the paper out on the kitchen table. He turned to the horoscope to make sure Elspeth had no more nasty messages for him. He read that those born under the sign of Libra would find that a problem that had been haunting them had been forcibly removed. Death would solve all problems. He stared at it and then his eye travelled to Scorpio. Had the girl gone mad?

  All the trouble and strife you have caused will come back to haunt you and violently, too. Don’t leave home on Monday. Lock the doors and close the curtains and do not even answer the phone. If you go out, then something terrible will happen to you.

  What on earth was Elspeth up to? Did she think that Crystal would read her horoscope and cancel the interview? He reached for the phone to ring her and then decided against it.

  He went about his chores, fed his hens, checked on his sheep, repaired a broken section of fence, and then, after a light lunch, sponged and pressed his uniform and put it on.

  At precisely two o’clock, there was a knock at the front door of the police station. He opened it. Four people stood there. They introduced themselves. A thin nervous woman, Felicity Pearson, researcher; a fat, smooth man, Harry Jury, cameraman; a thin bearded man, Tom Betts, director; and a cross little man, John Leslie, sound.

  “Where’s your boss?” asked Hamish.

  “Should be here any minute,” said Harry. “If you don’t mind, we’ll just start getting set up.”

  “Come in,” said Hamish reluctantly. He led them into the police office.

  “Right,” said the director, Tom Betts. “You just sit behind your desk while we get the light right.”

  What an age of preparation it seemed to take! Hamish waited patiently while a microphone was fitted to his tunic, while bright lights shone in his face, while he had to speak several times until the sound was adjusted. Felicity sat crouched in a corner studying a sheaf of notes.

  “Are those the questions?” asked Hamish. “Can you give me some idea of what I will be asked?”

  “Fraid not,” said Felicity. “Madam does not like anyone to be prepared. She likes the interview to be natural. Then we have to rush it back. It goes out tonight.”

  Hamish looked at the clock. “It’s now three o’clock,” he said. “When is Miss French going to arrive?”

  They all looked puzzled. “Should be here by now,” said Harry.

  Felicity gave a nervous giggle. “She was upset by her horoscope.”

  “In the Highland Times?” asked Hamish sharply. “I thought she wouldn’t read it.”

  “Oh, some girl from the paper interviewed her and then talked about horoscopes. Crystal is very keen on horoscopes. She sent me out this morning to buy a copy of the Highland Times.”

  Hamish sent up a prayer that the absent Crystal should turn out to be superstitious.

  Tom took out a mobile phone and rang Strathbane Television. When he rang off, he said, “That’s odd. They say she left in plenty of time. In fact she left at eight. Said she wanted to cruise around Lochdubh and get a feel of the place.”

  “Unhitch me from this microphone,” ordered Hamish. “I’d better drive around and look for her. She may have met with an accident.”

  The sound man removed the microphone. Hamish was heading for the kitchen door when it was thrust open and Angela Brodie stood there, her face quite white.

  “It’s awful, Hamish. Come quickly. She’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Crystal French.”

  THREE

  Lady, the stars are falling pale and small

  —G. K. Chesterton

  “Where is she?” cried Hamish.

  “Up on the back road. I think it’s suicide.” Hamish started to run, his long legs going like pistons. He raced along to Patel’s grocery store, up the lane at the side, up to the narrow, grassy road, little used.

  The green BMW stood there, a bright splash of colour against the purple of the heather on the flanks of the hillsides. The engine was still running. A hose led from the exhaust and in the top of one window. He seized the door handle. Locked. He grabbed a rock and smashed the window on the passenger side, reached in and unlocked the door, climbed in, and leaning round Crystal’s body, switched off the engine. Crystal French was slumped over the wheel. Taking out a handkerchief and holding it over his nose to protect himself from the fumes, Hamish felt Crystal’s neck for a pulse. Nothing.

  Dr. Brodie came along in his car. “Leave her to me, Hamish,” he called. “Phone for an ambulance.”

  “I think it’s too late for that.” Hamish got out of the car. He retched and coughed and then reached back into the dashboard and picked up Crystal’s mobile phone. He phoned for an ambulance and then called police headquarters. Dr. Brodie had Crystal’s body out on the ground and was fixing an oxygen mask over her face. “I brought the oxygen tank the minute Angela told me,” he said, “but man, it’s no good, no good at all.” He looked up and then shouted, “Show some decency, for God’s sake.”

  Harry had arrived with Tom and Felicity and John, and Harry was busy filming the scene.

  Harry reluctantly put down his camera. Hamish walked round to where Crystal was lying and knelt down by her body. Her once-beautiful face was a ghastly pink. He felt with his long fingers, probing her neck and then the back of her head. “There’s a lump here,” he said to Dr. Brodie.

  Dr. Brodie crouched down beside him. “Where?”

  “Feel there, just at the back.”

  “Aye, there’s a bit of a lump. I may as well take the mask off. She’s well and truly dead, Hamish.”

  A crowd was gathering. They stood silently, a little distance away. Hamish saw Elspeth among the onlookers. He would need to have a word with her.

  He seemed to wait a very long time before he heard the ambulance coming.

  The police arrived at the same time as the ambulance. Heading them was not Detective Chief Inspector Blair, who was on leave, but his replacement, a tall, thin man, Detective Chief Inspector Carson.

  Hamish reported briefly how he had found the car with the engine still running.

  “Thank goodness it seems a straightforward case of suicide,” said Carson.

  “As to that,” said Hamish cautiously, “she’s got a lump on the back of her head.”

  Carson had a long face, a long, thin nose and drooping eyelids over pale eyes. Those eyes raked Hamish up and down. “Are you a qualified medical examiner?”

  “No, sir. But…”

  “But nothing. You will say nothing about this until the experts have done their job. Go back to your station, type out your report, and then question the people in the village to see if there are any witnesses to her arrival, see if anyone saw anything.”

  Hamish saw Detective Jimmy Anderson eyeing him sympathetically. As Hamish walked past him, he whispered, “Get th
e whisky ready. I’ll try to drop in later.”

  When he got back to the police station, the phone was ringing. He picked up the receiver. Daviot’s voice came down the line, sharp and anxious. “What’s happening?”

  Hamish described how he had found Crystal. “It’s a blessing in a way,” said Daviot. “Nice, neat little suicide. Wraps it up. No fuss, no scandal.”

  “There is one thing, sir,” said Hamish. “She’s got a lump on the back of her head. Someone could have socked her and then faked the suicide.”

  “You must be mistaken. A lot of people have bumpy heads—naturally, I mean. These television people are often prone to depression. It’s the life they lead. What does Carson say?”

  “At the moment, he is of the opinion it’s suicide, but to my mind that’s wishful thinking.”

  “Carson is a good man and a highly experienced officer. Anyway, if it were murder, guess who would be the first suspect?”

  “Who?”

  “You,” said Daviot nastily and slammed down the phone.

  Now, I could look at it this way, thought Hamish, sitting down in front of his computer. I could go along with it and do a report and not mention that bump. If I mention it, they’ll need to do something about it. They all want it to be suicide. She was investigating the methods of the Highland police, finishing with me. On the other hand, this is my parish and there’s a murderer out there. I’m sure of it. Someone as vain and egocentric as Crystal French would never commit suicide, but on the other hand, a lot of people must have wanted her dead.

  He began to type. He wrote about how he had found the car with the engine still running, and that from the colour of Crystal’s face, she had died of carbon monoxide poisoning. But he had felt the back of her head and found that lump, and in his opinion, she could have been stunned and a suicide faked.

  He worked steadily and then sent the report off to Strathbane. Now, he thought, I’d better have a word with our astrologer.

  He walked along to the Highland Times. There was no receptionist. The street door led straight into the editorial room. Sam Wills looked up as he entered. “Grand story, Hamish,” he said. “Pity it hadn’t happened later in the week. It’ll be old news by the time the paper comes out next Monday.”

  “Pity that,” said Hamish sarcastically. “Your astrologer about?”

  “Elspeth’s still out. Great girl that. Can turn her hand to anything.”

  “What about murder?” asked Hamish and walked out leaving Sam staring after him.

  He saw Elspeth walking towards him along the waterfront. When she came up to him, he said, “I want you to come with me to the police station. There are a few questions I want you to answer.”

  Once at the station, he led her into the office and said curtly, “Sit down.”

  “What are those television lamps and cables doing here?” asked Elspeth.

  “I was supposed to give Crystal an interview. Now, I read your horoscopes this morning…”

  “Another fan?”

  “Be serious. You knew Crystal was a Scorpio. I think all that stuff about not going outdoors was directed at her. And Libra? Death was going to solve my problems?”

  Elspeth looked guilty. “I thought it was worth a try. I thought I was doing you a favour.”

  “How?”

  “Well, Crystal was fascinated to find out I was an astrologer. She believes all that stuff. She said she would get the paper today. I thought she might stay home and let you off the hook.”

  “Why should you do that for me? You don’t even know me.”

  “I was sick of that trouble-making bitch. I just wanted to give her a fright.”

  “Someone did more than that.”

  Elspeth’s eyes widened. “You mean it isn’t suicide?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you said…”

  “Forget it.”

  There came a tentative knock at the kitchen door and then Harry, Tom, John, and Felicity came into the office. “We’ll just pack this stuff up,” said Harry, “and be out of your way.”

  “I would like to ask you a few questions,” said Hamish. “That will be all, Miss Grant. I’ll be speaking to you again.”

  He waited until she had left and then he said, “Was Miss French depressed in any way?”

  “Not that I could see,” said Harry. “What about you, Tom?”

  The director shrugged. “She has a new director each week. I’ve been brought up from Manchester. I didn’t even speak to her. The producer would know more about it.”

  “Who is the producer?”

  “Alistair Campbell.”

  “And he doesn’t come out with you?”

  “No,” said Tom, “that’s the job of the director. I take the film back and the producer looks at the rushes and does the editing. He picks the directors as well.”

  Hamish turned to Felicity. “Would you say she was depressed?”

  “Well…she was very edgy lately. She’d been getting a lot of nasty letters. I think they were getting her down. No one wants to be that hated.”

  “Had she been married?”

  “No,” said Felicity. Her pale, weak features seemed to tighten. “Although rumour has it she was having an affair with the head of features and that she’d moved into the bed of the managing director.”

  “Names?”

  “Callum Bissett’s the managing director and Rory MacBain is the head of features.”

  “And are both men married?”

  “Yes,” said Felicity. “You mean, that might have made her depressed? Only being able to attract married men?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that at all. Are you her usual researcher?”

  “I’m really a producer,” said Felicity. “I’m between shows. Just helping out. I did the village shop one, but Amy Cornwall did the crofter thing.”

  “If you could all leave your extension numbers at Strathbane Television, I would like to speak to you all again.” He passed over a notepad and they all wrote their numbers on it.

  “Where did Crystal French come from?”

  “Edinburgh,” said Tom.

  “And what did she produce there?”

  “She was only a researcher,” said Harry. “It was Rory who brought her up and promoted her to presenter. At first we could see his point. She was a real stunner, and we don’t have any of those around Strathbane Television. But what a bitch! The minute the show went national, she demanded a bottle of champagne to be put in her dressing room every day. She queened it around the place. I don’t think there was one person she was nice to.”

  “If she was having affairs with these two men, she must have been nice to them.”

  “Oh, she was nice to anyone she thought could be useful,” said Harry.

  They packed up their gear and left.

  Hamish sat down at the computer again. He typed out all the gossip they had given him about Crystal and sent it off. Then he set off around the village, looking for witnesses, but no one seemed able to help him until Mrs. Wellington volunteered the information that Willie Lamont, formerly a policeman and now working at the Italian restaurant, often walked his dog along the back road. Hamish headed for the restaurant.

  Willie was there, scrubbing the floor. The delight of Willie’s life was cleaning.

  “It’s yourself, Hamish,” he said, throwing the scrubbing brush into a pail of soapy water.

  “Have you heard about Crystal French’s death?”

  “Aye, a bad business. I mean, no one’ll miss her, but it’s bad she had to choose Lochdubh to commit suicide in.”

  “I’m told you usually walk your dog up the back road. Did you see anything or anybody?”

  “Fact is, I didnae take the beast a walk this morning. Just let it out into the garden.”

  “Why was that?”

  Willie looked uncomfortable. Then he said sheepishly, “I’m a Scorpio.”

  “You mean that rubbish about not going out of the house?”

 
“There could have been something in it.”

  “I’m surprised you even turned up for work!”

  “Lucia made me go.” Lucia was his Italian wife and a relative of the owner. “She said it was a lot of rubbish. But I’ll bet thon Crystal was Scorpio.”

  “Let me know if you hear anything, Willie. I’m going back up there.”

  “Blair handling the case?”

  “No. Thank God the scunner is away, although I think his replacement is going to be every bit as nasty.”

  That evening, Detective Chief Inspector Carson was studying Hamish’s reports. He sent for Jimmy Anderson. “Tell me about this Hamish Macbeth,” he said, tapping the reports.

  “Oh, he’s a clever one is Hamish,” said Jimmy. “Matter of fact, I was just about to go over to see him. He picks up things the ordinary copper misses.”

  “I want to think this was suicide,” said Carson. “But Macbeth said she had a lump on the back of her head. He seems to think someone stunned her unconscious and then faked the suicide.”

  “Aye, that’s Hamish for you. Always pointing out something no one wants to believe, and it always turns out to be right.”

  “I haven’t had the pathologist’s report yet.” Carson sat frowning. “Did Macbeth get on well with Blair?”

  “Not always. Hamish’s methods are a bit unorthodox.”

  “I’ve a feeling we might need an unorthodox mind on this one. Go over and have a chat with him and find out what else he knows.”

  “It might have been someone she knew,” said Hamish that evening, pouring Jimmy a generous measure of whisky.

  “How d’ye figure that out?”

  “Of course someone could have hidden in the backseat of her car, waiting for the right moment. But it’s more likely she gave a lift to someone.”

  “But if she was slugged on the back of the head, it would need to be someone behind her. I mean, if she gave a lift to someone, then that someone would surely sit in the passenger seat.”

  “True. But wait a bit. I wish we had that pathologist’s report. She could have been socked on the head somewhere else and driven to a quiet spot, like that back road.”