Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity

by M C Beaton

  “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.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m Alistair Campbell, the producer of Crystal’s show.”

  “We’ll get to you later,” said Carson.

  “Right.”

  “Wait a minute!” Hamish shouted to the producer’s retreating head. Alistair Campbell reappeared. “Did you just get to the office?” asked Hamish.

  “Yes, just got in. The girl at reception told me where you were and I thought I’d get any questions over with before I start work.”

  Hamish turned to Carson and said, “I think Mr. Campbell should answer questions first, as he hasn’t had time to see anyone.”

  Carson studied Hamish for a long moment and said, “Do come in, Mr. Campbell. Another chair please.”

  Hamish crossed the room and said to the policewoman, “I’ll do that.”

  She flashed him a grateful smile and returned to her position by the door.

  “So, Mr. Campbell,” said Carson. “I’ll start with you.” Hamish noticed Felicity’s hand reaching out to tug Alistair’s jacket and said sharply, “Miss Pearson!”

  She flushed and put her hands on her lap.

  “What was your impression of Crystal French?” asked Carson.

  The producer was a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties with a long mobile face and horn-rimmed glasses. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Can I talk ill of the dead?”

  “As long as it is the truth.”

  “I don’t believe it was suicide,” said Alistair. “She was a downright bitch and one of the worst people I’ve worked with. She had an ego the size of Mount Everest. She made everyone’s life a misery.”

  “Would you say she was depressed?”

  “Anything but. She seemed to think her role in life was to make other people depressed.”

  “That is interesting. Your managing director and your head of features claimed she had gone mad, that she was nervous and strung out.”

  “They did? Well, they knew her better than I did.” He winked. “Know what I mean?”

  Felicity could contain herself no longer. “You should not talk about your bosses.”

  “I can say what I like,” said Alistair easily. “I’m finished here. I’ve got a job with the BBC in Glasgow.”

  Carson stared at Felicity. “You said to Constable Macbeth that Crystal French was depressed.”

  “All I meant,” said Felicity shrilly, “was that the letters she got were getting her down.”

  “And you said,” Carson ploughed on, “that she was having affairs with Callum Bissett and Rory MacBain.”

  Felicity turned white. “I didn’t mean that. I was upset by her death.” She clasped her hands together. “Oh, don’t tell Callum I said so.”

  She stared at them, stricken. Callum had called her in an hour ago and promised her the Countryside show back again. He had said that he relied on her loyalty to him and everyone else in the station.

  Carson turned his attention to Tom Betts. Felicity’s heart sank.

  Tom confirmed that what Hamish had reported them all saying, including Felicity, was correct. He stated that he hadn’t started work with Crystal yet and didn’t know her.

  Carson asked more and more questions. When he had finished, Hamish spoke up. “Miss Pearson, you were doing research for Miss French. As she was about to interview me, I am sure you were told to go about the village and try to find something against me.”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t get anything. I wish we had done the village one first, you know, what goes on behind the lace curtains. But Crystal was furious about her speeding case and meant to get even with the police.”

  “Who was doing the research on the village one?” asked Hamish.

  “Amy Cornwall.”

  Hamish said to Carson, “I think we should see her.”

  “Why?”

  “There may be someone somewhere in the Highlands who didn’t want an old scandal raked up again.”

  “Good point,” said Carson. He looked at the policewoman. “Get this Amy Cornwall in here.”

  “And I would keep these people here until she arrives,” said Hamish.

  Carson looked at him with a flash of irritation. He knew Hamish meant that Felicity would tip off Amy as to what to say, but he didn’t like the way Hamish was taking over the course of the interview.

  “Very well,” he said.

  They waited in silence for Amy Cornwall. When she arrived, the others were told to leave. Amy sat down and smiled saucily all around. She was a contrast to Felicity. She was in her twenties and had a mop of golden curls over a cheeky face.

  “I gather your job was to dig up some dirt on villagers for Miss French’s show,” said Carson.

  “Yes, that’s right. I hated doing it, but success is all that counts in the television business.”

  “And how did you go about it?”

  “Newspaper cuttings. Old scandals.”

  “Like what?”

  “I hadn’t got around to many people. Just made a few phone calls, setting up interviews.”

  “I’ll need a list of the people you were going to see.”

  “Right.”

  “How soon?”

  “Have it right here.” She opened her handbag and produced a grubby list. Carson eyed it with disfavour. “What happened to computerised reports?”

  “I have it on my computer. You can have my written notes for now.”

  “Now, my detectives have already taken statements from some of the television people about where they were on the day of Miss French’s death.” He didn’t ask, thought Hamish, and then realised that Jimmy Anderson and others would have already done preliminary interviews. “Where were you on Monday?”

  “I was doing research for the motor show. Nice easy stuff. I was down in Inverness at the Rover dealer arranging for our presenter to test drive the new car. I left early in the morning and didn’t get back till six in the evening.”

  “A long day to set up one interview.”

  “Well, I went shopping. I was in no mood to hurry back. You see, I didn’t know of Crystal’s death.”

  “Meaning you didn’t like her,” said Hamish suddenly.

  “Exactly. I thought if I came back early and showed my face in the office, she would find work for me to do, and I hated working for her.”

  “Why?”

  “She was thoroughly nasty, that’s why. Always complaining and bullying. Very spiteful woman. I’m surprised she took her own life. Couldn’t believe it.”

  “There is a chance it could be murder and that the suicide was faked.”

  “That figures,” said Amy cheerfully. “I could have killed her myself.” She laughed. “Just as well I have an alibi.”

  “I am surprised at your lighthearted approach to this unfortunate death,” said Carson reprovingly.

  “I never was a hypocrite and I don’t intend to start now,” said Amy.

  “That will be all,” said Carson.

  When she had left, Hamish asked, “Who’s on that list?”

  “Who’s on that list what?”

  “Who’s on that list, sir?”

  Carson was tempted to refuse. He thought Hamish Macbeth was not showing him due respect, but he passed it over.

  Hamish raised his eyebrows as he saw that the first name on the list was that of Barry McSween, the crofter. Then there was Mrs. McClellan, the bank manager’s wife who lived in Lochdubh; Mrs. Harrison, she whose shop in Braikie Crystal had trashed; Finlay Swithers, who owned a fish and chip shop in Cnochan; and Maisie Gough, also of Cnochan.

  “Why them?” asked Carson.


  “There was something way back about Barry McSween,” said Hamish slowly. “Mrs. McClellan at one time was a kleptomaniac and was charged with shoplifting, two people once brought a charge of food poisoning against Mrs. Harrison, Finlay Swithers was once charged with wife beating, and Maisie Gough is new to me. Amy must have phoned or approached these people with a view to interviewing them.”

  “I don’t think any of them would have granted an interview,” pointed out Carson, “particularly McSween and Harrison. They would feel they had suffered enough from television.”

  “She probably meant to arrive unheralded on their doorsteps and get some really nasty confrontations with frightened people,” said Hamish.

  “Go and see all these people anyway,” said Carson, “and find out where they all were on the day of the murder. So many people and not one obvious motive.”

  “There’s adultery,” said Jimmy.

  “Yes, so there is, but having seen the two gentlemen, I feel their respective flings with Crystal were probably by no means their first.”

  “I think Felicity Pearson had the best motive,” put in Hamish.

  “Why?” demanded Carson, wishing at the same time that this village constable would remember his place.

  “Until Crystal came, she had a show of her own, she was producer of that show. Because of Crystal, her show was axed and she was demoted to researcher for Crystal, and Crystal no doubt made her life a misery.”

  Carson shuffled through his papers. “But we have here reports that cover her activities for Monday.”

  “There may be a loophole,” said Hamish. “It’s impossible to pinpoint the exact time of death.”

  The phone rang. Carson picked it up. He listened carefully and then replaced the receiver. “That was the pathologist. He says that yes, the lump on the back of the head was caused by a severe blow, a blow hard enough to stun. So it seems, gentlemen, we have a case of murder.”

  Jimmy and Hamish left the television station in the late afternoon. Carson had interviewed everyone all over again. The only difference was that the fiction that Crystal had been depressed had been dropped. “I’m starving,” said Jimmy. “You’d think he might ha’ stopped for lunch.”

  “I thought you only had a liquid lunch,” said Hamish.

  “Oh, I’ve been known to eat. There’s a café over there. We can get a sandwich or a pie.”

  “Right.”

  They walked together into the café. Hamish ordered ham sandwiches and tea, and Jimmy a mutton pie and chips. “What made you say you thought it was Felicity?” asked Jimmy.

  “Just a hunch.”

  “I think it was a man. You were out at the toilet when Carson let fall another gem from the pathologist and from the forensic report.”

  “What was that?”

  “They think that Crystal was killed just after breakfast. Her bacon and eggs were barely digested. They think she was stunned somewhere else and brought to Lochdubh. Also her hair had been brushed straight out of its style—when she was seen leaving in the morning, she had it pinned up—but there were some little bits o’ heather in it as if she’d been laid somewhere in the heather before being put in the car.”

  “Odd, that,” commented Hamish.

  “Aye, that it is. So can you see a lassie like Felicity bashing someone and having the strength to arrange that person in the car?”

  “Yes, I can, somehow. Don’t ask me why.”

  “You’d best forget about her for the moment. You’ve got Barry McSween and the others to check up on. Going to start this evening?”

  Hamish shook his head. “No, I’ll have a go at them all tomorrow.”

  When Hamish finally got back to the station, he got a rapturous welcome from Lugs. Hamish had phoned Angela earlier to beg her to feed and walk Lugs. The dog then rattled his food bowl.

  “Don’t kid me,” said Hamish. “I know Angela would feed you well.”

  Lugs whimpered and banged the bowl even harder.

  Hamish sighed. “I’m not cooking anything for you. It’s dog food or nothing.” He filled the bowl with hard dog food, which Lugs stared at and then turned away from, but somehow in the dog’s mind, some sort of code of honour had been satisfied and he lay down on the floor and soon he was asleep.

  There was a knock at the door. Hamish opened it. Elspeth stood there. “I wanted to know how the case was going,” she said.

  The evening was chilly, and Elspeth’s clothes seemed to be a lumpy mixture of odd grey and brown garments.

  “If you want anything for the newspaper,” said Hamish, “you’ll need to phone police headquarters.”

  “I’ve done that,” said Elspeth. “Can I come in?”

  “Don’t be long. I’m tired.”

  “I could be of help to you,” she said. She leant against the stove. “This stove is cold.”

  “Of course it is. I just got back. Move aside, lassie, and sit at the table. I’ll light it.” Hamish raked it out and put in paper, wood, firelighter, and peat and lit it. Then he joined her at the table.

  “Why did you say someone was going to kill her?”

  “Just a feeling. She was causing so much trouble.”

  “But you were so emphatic about it.”

  “We have these feelings sometimes.”

  Hamish gave her a cynical look. “I thought you’d dropped the all-seeing astrologer act with me. Anyway, how could you help me?”

  “I’m good at finding out things.”

  “I wish you could find out if anyone saw Crystal yesterday morning at any time at all.”

  “I’ll try. What about Sean Fitzpatrick?”

  Hamish looked at her in surprise. “I’d forgotten about him.” Sean was a recluse who lived out on the Glenanstey road. Although he seemed to have no friends or to converse much, he had an amazing knack of observing things and picking up gossip. “I’ll go and see him now.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Elspeth.

  “I cannot be taking you in a police vehicle.”

  “Meaning you don’t want me. I’ve seen you giving people lifts before, copper. But I’ve got my own car outside and I can follow you.”

  “As you wish,” said Hamish grumpily. “But don’t be writing anything without asking me first!”

  Although they could see a light in Sean’s cottage, they waited and waited after Hamish had knocked, wondering if the recluse was going to answer the door or not.

  Just when Hamish was raising his hand to knock again, the door opened. Sean looked at them wearily. Sean Fitzpatrick was stooped and old, but with intelligent blue eyes in a tanned and seamed face. “What is it?” he demanded. “I was just going to bed.”

  “It’s about the death of Crystal French. Did you see anything of her? I mean, before she died. She was driving a green BMW.”

  “Come in.”

  They followed him into his book-lined living room. “Sit down,” he ordered. “I’m not going to offer you anything. I want to make this short. Yes, I saw a green BMW.”

  “Where? When?” asked Hamish eagerly.

  “It would be about nine-thirty. It stopped a little while on the road out to Glenanstey. I had been stooped over in my front garden, but when I heard the car and then heard it stop, I straightened up. I thought someone might not be sure of their way. I opened my gate to walk towards the car. It did a U-turn and roared past me in the direction of Lochdubh.”

  “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.�
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  “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.