Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity

by M C Beaton

  She looked beyond him down the long street and saw Carson’s official car turning the corner. “I can’t now,” she whispered. “I’ll drive over to Lochdubh this evening and tell you.”

  “Grand. What’s your name?”

  “Maggie. Maggie Fleming. And you’re the infamous Hamish Macbeth. Get along with you.”

  “Eight o’clock,” said Hamish hurriedly. “At the Italian restaurant. Dinner’s on me.”

  “I’ll get away when I can. Off with you. Here they come.”

  Hamish sped off.

  His mind was full of questions. He hoped that when he got back to the police station Jimmy would phone, but thought it unlikely. He knew he had put Jimmy’s nose out of joint before with the hairpin business.

  All he could do was wait anxiously for the evening and hope to learn as much as he could from Maggie Fleming.

  Hamish had not really looked at Maggie properly and was surprised to see how attractive she really was.

  She was not in uniform and was wearing a soft creamy satin blouse with a short skirt and high heels. She had a mop of glossy black curls, bright blue eyes, and a generous mouth.

  “This is very good of you,” said Hamish.

  “I get tired of being treated like some secretary,” said Maggie. “Just because I’m a woman, I get to make the coffee, or, as you noticed, arrange the chairs.”

  “Strathbane is a chauvinist part of the world. Let’s order first and then you can tell me about it.”

  Willie Lamont took their order. “Here again?” he said to Hamish. “You’re getting to be a right caravanserai.”

  “Casanova, Willie.”

  “Aye, that’s the man.”

  “Willie, do me a favour, take our orders and crawl off.”

  “It’s all murder and mayhem,” said Willie, shaking his head. “Someone’s running about the Highlands, going bare sark.”

  “Berserk, Willie. Just please…”

  But Willie’s eyes had fallen on a silver bracelet that Maggie was wearing. “That bracelet of yours is getting a bit dim, miss,” he said. “Now, there is nothing like old·fashioned rouge and a toothbrush for—”

  “Willie,” Hamish roared.

  “Oh, all right,” said Willie sulkily. He took their orders and departed.

  “You’d never think that man used to be a policeman,” said Hamish.

  “So why’s he working in a restaurant?”

  “He married a relative of the owner and fell in love with cleaning at the same time. Never mind him. What about this murder?”

  “She was found on the dock this morning,” said Maggie. “She had been killed by a close-range shotgun blast to the chest. A preliminary investigation suggests that she had been killed sometime during the night. She didn’t tell anyone she was going down there. She was all excited because they were resuscitating Highland Life and she was to be a presenter, in front of the cameras this time instead of behind.”

  “I gather she was going to start with that behind-the-lace-curtains programme, digging up old scandals?”

  “Yes.”

  Hamish thought about the bank manager’s wife and that poor woman over in Cnothan.

  “You know,” said Hamish, “I can’t figure out why I became so convinced that it was Felicity who murdered Crystal, despite her alibi.”

  “Funnily enough,” said Maggie, “I was thinking along the same lines. Good heavens, there’s an odd-looking dog with big ears staring in the window at us.”

  Willie had placed them at a window table, and sure enough, there was Lugs, standing upon his hind legs, paws resting on the windowsill, glaring at them accusingly.

  “Ignore him,” said Hamish. “It’s my dog.”

  “But how did he get out?”

  “I got tired walking him. He always wants to go out. I figured this is a quiet village, he doesn’t bite anyone or chase sheep, so I left the door open.”

  “Your computer could be stolen.”

  “Not in this village, and Lugs is a good watchdog.”

  “Is that his name? Lugs? Scottish for ‘ears.’ But how can he be a good watchdog if he’s wandering about the place?”

  Hamish looked back at the window, but Lugs had gone. “Never mind my dog. Tell me about Felicity.”

  “I went into her background before, after Crystal’s murder. She’s from Glasgow. Respectable middle·class background. No scandals. No lovers. Parents dead. Only child. Went to Glasgow University and then began work at the BBC in Glasgow as a researcher. Applied for a job on Strathbane Television. Rory MacBain originally thought…Hamish, do you think this window table a good idea? Now there’s some odd girl in a fishing hat staring at us.”

  Elspeth Grant looked in the window at Hamish and then slowly moved away.

  Hamish found himself blushing with embarrassment while telling himself furiously that he had nothing to be embarrassed about. “Go on, what were you saying?”

  “Oh, about Rory MacBain. Yes, he liked the idea of a Gaelic show. Give the station a bit of tone. At first it went quite well. People were all saying it was a shame the Gaelic language should be allowed to die, and then gradually the novelty wore off and ratings slumped. It was well known Crystal gave Felicity a hard time. That other researcher, Amy Cornwall, she’s tougher, and she said she felt Crystal wouldn’t last, but she told me that one day she found Felicity in tears.”

  “I would like to talk to Amy Cornwall,” said Hamish. “But if Carson found out, I’d be in more trouble than I am already. He blames me for Felicity’s death.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “He feels that my reports suggesting she did it took the focus away from the real killer.”

  “But they haven’t a clue who the real killer is!”

  “Still, I can see his point.”

  Their food arrived and throughout the meal they talked over the various points of the case.

  Then Maggie said reluctantly that she had better be getting home. Hamish walked her outside. A thin rain was beginning to fall. Raindrops sparkled in her black hair.

  She smiled up at him.

  Then Elspeth appeared to materialise from nowhere and linked her arm in Hamish’s. “I’ll walk you home, darling,” she said. “I’ve got news for you.”

  Maggie’s face took on a closed look. “Good night, Hamish,” she said abruptly.

  When she had driven off, Hamish said angrily, “What was all that ‘darling’ business about?”

  “Don’t you want to hear my news?”

  “All right,” said Hamish, but he was still angry with her. Lugs came panting up and walked on his other side. Hamish felt he was being firmly escorted by two jailers.

  In the police station kitchen, he slammed a mug of coffee down in front of her.

  He sat down opposite and stared at her, his hazel eyes hard. “So what?”

  “Amy Cornwall,” she said.

  “What about her?”

  “1 talked to her. She said they hadn’t got around yet to contacting people about the lace-curtains programme. I asked her if, on the one that Crystal was supposed to present. Felicity had been working on any of it. She said no.”

  “I knew that already,” snapped Hamish, still angry with her.

  “Wait. She said, however, that Felicity crawled to Crystal quite dreadfully and was always trying to please her, and Felicity put expenses in for a trip to Bonar Bridge.”

  “Why there?”

  “I checked back to see if there were any scandals associated with Bonar Bridge. There was one. Might have been it. A woman called Jessie Gordon had two babies that died of cot death. After the second one died, there was a big investigation.”

  “I’ll look into it. Thanks. I’ll need to go over the others again, too.”

  “Did you know that the bank manager’s wife was once done for shoplifting?”

  “Yes, and I wish to God it could be kept quiet. She was a kleptomaniac and hasn’t been in trouble since. If it all flares up again, it might ruin
her marriage.”

  “So how do you keep it quiet?”

  “People round here don’t know about it, so keep your mouth shut. If only I could find the murderer, that would be an end of her troubles.”

  “Who was that girl you were with?” asked Elspeth.

  “Just a friend and none of your business,” said Hamish stonily.

  She looked at him thoughtfully. Lugs came up to her and rested his front paws on her knees, and Elspeth scratched his rough head. Hamish was suddenly reminded of his previous dog, Towser, of how when Priscilla had sat in this very kitchen discussing some case or other the dog would place his paws on her knees, just as Lugs was doing to Elspeth. A stab of pain shot through him.

  “Oh, I see,” said Elspeth quietly.

  “See what?”

  “See that I must be on my way,” said Elspeth sadly. “Good night, Officer.”

  The following day was fine and unusually mild for the time of year. Hamish put Lugs’s bowl of food and bowl of water out in the garden. “I’ll leave you to look after yourself,” he said. “Come to think of it, I’d better lock up the police station in case some stranger pinches my computer.”

  Lugs watched Hamish get into the Land Rover. For the first time, the dog did not whine or bark.

  Getting used to the new arrangement, thought Hamish. I should have let him out on his own before.

  He drove over to Bonar Bridge and checked at the police station, where he learned that Jessie Gordon still lived in the town, on the council estate. Armed with the address, he went to her home.

  A powerful-looking slattern of a woman answered the door. “Mrs. Gordon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I be having a word with you?”

  “Come ben.”

  He followed her into a messy living room. The homes of the poor, thought Hamish, always seemed to be damp and redolent of the smell of baked beans and urine. A three·piece suite, battered and stained, sagged in front of the television set, which was showing a commercial. The sound was off. The ornaments on the mantelpiece, dolls and cheap figurines, were dusty and dirty. One of the windowpanes was cracked and had been clumsily repaired with brown masking tape.

  “So what’s this about?” said Jessie.

  “Did you have a visit from Felicity Pearson of Strathbane Television?”

  She shrugged. “No point in denying it. All the neighbours could tell you. I threw her out, and I mean, I threw her out.”

  “Was it about the death of your children?”

  “Aye.” She sat down. Hamish removed his hat and sat down opposite her.

  She pushed a lank lock of hair away from her forehead.

  “Tell me about it,” said Hamish.

  “She was going to rake up the whole business again. I couldnae believe it. It waud all come back, the gossip, the stares. I couldnae even mourn my ain bairns because o’ the whispers and scandal.” Her accent thickened in her distress. “My husband left me because o’ it.”

  Hamish caught a whiff of stale booze coming from her. Her eyes were red and bloodshot. “I told her I was having naethin’ to do with it. She said they would stand outside the house and do a commentary anyway. I was that upset, I was crying.”

  “Did you attack her?”

  “I said I’d kill her. It was then I saw she was enjoying hersel’ and her wee bit o’ power and I snapped. I got her by the scruff o’ the neck and marched her out the door and shoved her on her face in the garden.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Do I have children?” she screeched. “Man, I couldnae bear to go through that again and got a hysterectomy. Now she’s dead and I’m not one wee bit surprised. Muckraking, nasty bitch!”

  “I think you’ll understand when I ask you where you were on Sunday night.”

  “I was right here with the telly on. I’m getting a bit deaf so it’s loud. The walls are thin. The neighbours would have heard it.”

  “But did anyone see you?”

  “Them down at the grocery store. I went down to buy whisky at nine o’clock.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Do I hell.”

  “That will be all,” said Hamish. He rose.

  She rose, too, and grabbed his arm. Her grip was powerful. “Will it all come out again?”

  “I hope to God it doesn’t,” said Hamish.

  He left her and checked with the neighbours. They had heard her television set blaring. They said they had complained several times to her about the noise.

  He then checked at the grocery store, where they confirmed that Mrs. Gordon had bought a bottle of whisky. Hamish reflected that it was amazing how folks could buy drink around the clock in Scotland these days. The woman in the grocery store added that Jessie had been so drunk it was a wonder she could stand.

  He was just driving out of Bonar Bridge when he saw an elderly figure in shorts and hiking boots striding out along the road. He recognised Professor Tully from Felicity’s Gaelic programme and pulled to the side of the road and got down.

  “Professor Tully!” he called.

  The professor walked up to meet him. “Bad business about that Pearson woman,” he said.

  “You were on that programme she produced,” said Hamish. “What was your impression of her?”

  “Didn’t much notice,” said the professor. “I mean, all these television people seem alike to me. I miss the show. I thought we were doing well. There was me and Grace Witherington and Henry Thomson. We’re all fine Gaelic speakers and all we had to do was to chat about things in the Highlands—sheep farming, about a plan to teach Gaelic in schools, stuff like that. I used to forget there was a camera on me. We were all friends and we would chat away as if we were at our own fireside.”

  “Have you an address for Grace Witherington?”

  “She lives in Strathbane. Let me see, it’s one of those house conversions on the Inverness road.”

  “Not the old manse where Felicity lived?”

  “Come to think of it, that’s the one.”

  “I’ll try her.”

  “If there’s any news of the show going back on the air, will you let me know?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I got some good shirts out of that show.”

  “Shirts?”

  “Well, one time, I’d got egg on my shirt collar and they said I could have a shirt from the wardrobe department, and then they said I was to keep it. So after that, a few times, I’d deliberately spill something on my shirt so I could get a new one.”

  Hamish waved goodbye. He decided to check on Lugs before going on to Strathbane. That was the trouble with dogs. They were like children. Cats you could leave to look after themselves.

  When he got back to the police station, Lugs was asleep. His food bowl had not been touched.

  He roused himself sleepily and stared at Hamish with a glazed look. “I know it’s dog food,” said Hamish. “But you’ve got to eat it. I can’t be cooking for you all the time.”

  Lugs licked his hand and wagged his tail. Hamish looked at him doubtfully. But the animal looked healthy enough. Probably tired himself out chasing rabbits, thought Hamish.

  He changed out of his police uniform and drove to Strathbane, but parked some distance from the Inverness road and started to walk. As he turned the corner into the road, he could see a mobile police van set up outside the house. If he were spotted, then Carson would hear about it and Carson would wonder what he was doing in Strathbane.

  He knew from television what Grace Witherington looked like. He decided to lurk at the end of the road and see if he could spot her.

  After an hour of diving behind a pillar box when he saw a police car driving past, he was about to give up when he saw Grace approaching, carrying a shopping bag. Like the professor, she was elderly, white-haired, and looked bright and intelligent.

  He introduced himself and showed her his identification. “I just wanted to have a word with you about Felicity Pearson.”

 
“Come to the house and we’ll have some coffee.”

  “I can’t do that. I’ll be honest with you. Strathbane is not on my beat, and I might be in trouble with my boss if I’m spotted, but I got talking to Professor Tully over at Bonar Bridge. He really didn’t notice Felicity at all, but I thought a lady like yourself would have a sharper eye.”

  She studied him for a moment and then said, “There’s a little café around the corner. We can go there.”

  They walked together into the café. Hamish ordered coffees and found them a quiet table in a corner. “You see,” he began, “living in the same flats, you must have seen more of her than most.”

  “I did at one time. She seemed a harmless, humourless girl. Then when the show was axed, she took to calling on me at all hours, whimpering and complaining. At first I was sorry for her, and sorry for myself, too, for the extra money had come in handy, although I get a bit from teaching Gaelic at night classes. But I value my privacy, and I got tired of her turning up on my doorstep. She was completely self-absorbed and there was a mean and spiteful streak in her. Until she was murdered, I was sure she had killed that French woman.”

  “Any proof?”

  “No, I would have gone to the police right away if there had been. It was just a feeling. I thought she was paranoiac on the subject of Crystal.”

  “Did you see any of the television people visiting her?”

  “Rory MacBain used to call on her a few times.”

  Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “At night?”

  She looked amused. “I see what you’re getting at. Mostly in the evenings, and he would stay for a couple of hours.”

  “Did she say anything about having an affair with him?”

  “I asked her. She said pompously that she was still an important figure and that Rory liked to discuss ideas with her.”

  “And did you tell the police this?”

  “No, they didn’t ask. I didn’t volunteer the information. The reason I saw him was he was quite often arriving when I was leaving for my classes and leaving when I got back. I felt that to suggest to the police that they might have been having an affair might make me seem like an old gossip.”

  “I think I should tell them this,” said Hamish.