Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity

by M C Beaton

  “I came to ask you if he’s been bothering you lately.”

  She sat down on the edge of an armchair, red work-worn hands folded neatly in her lap. She had pale, indeterminate features and grey hair, cut short and permed. “No,” she said. “My friend Islay told me to take out an injunction and that I did. Used to come round and throw things at the windows. Drunk, of course.”

  “I’ll come out and ask you straight, would you consider him capable of murder?”

  “You’re thinking of them television lassies.” The fact that Felicity had committed the first murder had so far been kept out of the newspapers. “The one where the suicide was faked? Well, that would take a clear brain. Finlay would sock you on the head with a bottle when he was drunk, but planning something like that, he hasn’t got the brains, and what he’s got left are addled with drink or hangover.”

  “Why did you finally leave him?”

  “He tried to kill me,” she said.

  “What? There’s nothing in the reports about that.”

  “I didn’t report it at the time. I just wanted to get away.”

  “What did he do?”

  “It was one night after the shop was closed. He got all lovey-dovey, strange for him, and he says, let’s have a dram. Well, I was so relieved he was in a good mood that I agreed. He says, get some of thae cheese things to go with it. Now he hates those cheese things, what d’you call them?”

  “Straws?”

  “Aye, them. I looked through a crack in the kitchen door and I saw the wee scunner put something in my drink.

  “I got the straws and came back. Let’s drink it down in one go, he says. Right, says I, and walked to the window. I tipped it into the plant and then raised the empty glass to my lips. He kept watching me and watching me. I pretended to pass out. I watched him under my eyelids. He goes into the kitchen. I hear him lighting the gas and clattering something. Then he runs out the door and I can hear him rattling down the stairs. I ran for the kitchen. He’d set a chip pan on fire. I threw a damp dishcloth over it and managed to get the flames out. I was terrified. I packed my things and went down to the shop and took all the money out of the till. Then I called a cab and went all the way to Inverness to my mother. This is her house. She bought it from the council. She died last year and left it to me. That bugger tried to kill me.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hamish, scratching his head in bewilderment. “Was he sober when he did all this?”

  “He’d had a few but not much.”

  “But you said he couldn’t plan a murder and then you tell me that he tried to plan yours!”

  “I couldn’t think he really meant to go through with it,” she said, all mad reason. “I mean, he liked to give me a fright.”

  Hamish sighed. “You should have reported him. The police would have checked your empty glass and found traces of whatever it was he tried to drug you with. He would have been charged with attempted murder and put away.”

  “That’s what my friend Islay said. She’s such a strong woman. I’d never even have taken out an injunction against him if she hadn’t forced me into it. I even thought of going back.”

  “WHAT!”

  “I mean, he wasn’t that bad.”

  Hamish had interviewed battered wives before and had heard the same excuses, but never from one who had nearly been murdered.

  “I would advise you not to go near Cnothan or to have anything to do with such a man again.”

  “No, I won’t. Islay wouldn’t let me. Oh, that’s her now.”

  “Is she living with you?”

  “Yes, we’re great friends.”

  Islay came in. She was a squat, powerful woman with tattooed arms. She gave Ruby a kiss and said, “What now? That bastard been after you again?”

  “Oh, no dear. The constable was thinking maybe Finlay murdered those television lassies.”

  “Probably did. Did you tell him that Finlay tried to murder you?”

  “Yes, though mind you, I think he just meant to give me a fright.”

  “You listen here,” said Islay, folding her muscular arms. “He tried to murder you and you should have told the police at the time. Now run along and make me something to eat.”

  Changed one bully for another, thought Hamish. But I’d best go and see Finlay Swithers.

  As he drove back towards the west, he wished again that he could just go home and forget about policing. And yet, how could he do that when home was the police station? The gale had blown itself out, and great puffy clouds soared over the mountains on a wind that did not reach the ground. The mountains were blue that day and the air through the open window of the Land Rover seemed full of life and energy. A great day for taking a rod out on the river.

  But as he got closer to Cnothan, the sky clouded over and a smear of rain blurred the windscreen, to remind Hamish that the year was dying and soon the long winter nights would set in. It was like travelling in a train that was moving rapidly towards a long dark tunnel.

  He parked outside the fish and chip shop. He rang the bell at the side door. Finlay Swithers answered it and his face fell when he saw Hamish. “What is it now?” he demanded crossly.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” said Hamish. “I’m here to talk about an attempted murder.”

  “Nothing to do with me,” remarked Swithers, leading the way up the stairs. Hamish wrinkled his nose in disgust as the smell of the man wafted back towards him: a mixture of greasy oil, unwashed clothes, and last night’s booze.

  Once in the living room, Hamish looked immediately to the window, hoping suddenly that in all this mess, Swithers had kept that flower pot. But the window ledge was empty apart from dust and cobwebs.

  “Sit down,” ordered Hamish, taking out his notebook. “I have been to see your wife.”

  “What’s she got to say for herself? Usual lies?”

  “She says you tried to kill her and make it look like an accident, that you drugged her whisky and set light to a chip pan in the kitchen so that she would burn with the place.”

  “That what she told you? Well, it’s a load of rubbish. Where’s your proof?”

  “Long gone, I suppose.”

  “There you are. You’ve got nothing and neither has she. I’m telling you, man, ever since she hitched up with that dyke, she’s been poison. Used to be a nice quiet lassie.”

  “One who took a beating without complaint? I’m warning you. You go near her again and I’ll have you. I’ll be watching you from now on. Come to that, where were you when Felicity Pearson got shot down at the docks?”

  “I was here. I closed the shop up at eleven o’clock and went down to the Dandy Duck for a jar. Don’t remember much about getting home, but the locals will tell you I was there and when I left I was in no fit state to drive to Strathbane or anywhere else.”

  His reddened eyes held a triumphant gleam.

  “Cocky wee soul, aren’t you?” said Hamish bitterly. “But this is only the beginning. I’m going to dig into everything to do with you.”

  “This is harassment,” said Swithers. “I’ll report you.”

  “Do that,” said Hamish, “but I’ll be back.”

  He made his way back to Lochdubh after checking Swithers’s alibi at the local pub and typed a long report about everything Swithers had told him. The police would not like to think that anyone had got away with attempted murder. Swithers would be pulled in for questioning.

  He should really have asked Maisie Gough what she had been doing when Felicity was killed but was fearful that any visit from him might frighten her to death.

  He then set out again. It was time to talk to Barry McSween. For some reason he had been on Amy’s list. He decided to go to the Tommel Castle Hotel where the manager was a good source of gossip.

  The girl at reception told him she would find Mr. Johnston for him and to make himself comfortable in the office.

  Hamish helped himself to a cup of coffee from the machine in the corner of the office. He remembered when
the Tommel Castle Hotel had just been Tommel Castle, home of the Halburton-Smythes. When the colonel fell on hard times, it was Hamish who had suggested the hotel idea, a fact the colonel had conveniently forgotten, bragging to all that would listen that it had been his idea. The colonel had always lived in fear that his precious daughter would marry Hamish. No chance of that now, thought Hamish.

  Mr. Johnston came back. “So what can I do for you, Hamish?”

  “I’m after some gossip about Barry McSween,” said Hamish. “Now there’s this other murder. Do you know what the television people might have found out about him? He’d been humiliated on the crofting show, but they were trying to get him on the local scandals show.”

  “There was something a few years back. I think it was when you went on holiday to that health farm out on the island. He was up before the sheriff in Dornoch.”

  “What for?”

  “Dynamiting salmon.”

  “My, I thought only the Glasgow gangs did that.”

  “No, he was caught red-handed up at the Crumley estate with sticks of dynamite in his bag and the fish that had been blown up lying belly up in one of the pools and him in his waders hauling them out. The water bailiff caught him. Wee bit in the papers about it. Got a hefty fine but no prison sentence, as it was a first offence.”

  “I’d best go and see him.”

  “His wife’s left him.”

  “Jeannie? Why? When was this?”

  “Last week. One of the maids told me.”

  “And where’s she gone?”

  “Strathbane to stay with her sister, Elsie.”

  “Do you know where the sister lives?”

  “I’ll find out. Those maids know everything that goes on.”

  Hamish helped himself to another cup of coffee. He had a sudden sharp longing for a cigarette. The craving was so intense that he was amazed. He had given up a few years ago.

  Mr. Johnston came back. “I wrote it down. It’s Barry Road, near the docks, don’t know the number.”

  “Is it now?” said Hamish slowly. “Is it indeed?”

  He decided to go straight to Strathbane to see Jeannie McSween first and try to learn if Barry had been in Strathbane the night Felicity had been killed. He felt a little pang of guilt. He should really let Strathbane police take over. He was off his beat. But Carson would understand—he hoped.

  When he reached Strathbane and Barry Road, he wondered if he would ever find Jeannie, for Barry Road was lined on either side with depressing tower blocks. He should have asked the sister’s name and then he would have been able to check the voters’ roll. He phoned Mr. Johnston on his mobile. Mr. Johnston said he would try to find out, but when he returned it was to say that no one knew the sister’s second name.

  Here goes, thought Hamish wearily, climbing down from the Land Rover. He hoped Lugs wasn’t dining out at the kitchen door of the Italian restaurant. He had forgotten to warn Willie not to feed the dog. He had left the dog outside the police station, guessing that it might be a long day.

  He started knocking on doors. The people who lived in these tower blocks seemed to have given up on life: tired faces, druggy faces, despairing faces looked out of doorways at him to tell him they hadn’t a clue where he would find a woman called Elsie whose sister had just moved in with her. He was beginning to feel silly. If he had started with Barry, he would have had the address. He considered phoning Barry but did to want to alert the man.

  Jeannie McSween was a respectable housewife. What on earth was she doing living in surroundings like this? Perhaps it got more respectable towards the far end. He got back into the Land Rover and drove along, looking to right and left. Sure enough, towards the end, Barry Road curved away from the docks and towards the centre of the town. The tower blocks fell behind and the road ended in neat Victorian villas. He parked the Land Rover again and began to knock at doors.

  At the fourth try, he landed lucky. A housewife told him that there was an Elsie Simms living at number five. Hamish walked along and there it was, nearly at the end of the road.

  He knocked at the door. Jeannie McSween herself answered the door, her eyes widening at the sight of him. “Hamish. It’s yourself. What brings you?”

  “Can we go in?” asked Hamish. “Just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “Come in. I was just packing.”

  “Going away?”

  “As far as I can get. Sit yourself down. It’s not Barry, is it?”

  “I’m checking alibis for the night Felicity Pearson was murdered. Was your husband in Strathbane?”

  “Let me see, that would be sometime on the Monday night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He came round knocking at the door but I shouted through the letter box that if he didn’t go away, I would call the police. He shouted back that he would divorce me and I wouldn’t get a penny. That’s a laugh.”

  Hamish sat down and removed his hat. She sat down opposite. She looked very happy, and her brown hair had been styled.

  “And why is that a laugh? Have you found a job?”

  She leaned forward. “I’ll tell you, but you’re not to tell a soul, mind.”

  “I cannae promise that, Jeannie, if it’s anything to do with the murder.”

  “Nothing at all. I won the lottery.”

  “Neffer! What did you get? Millions?”

  “No, no, it was the second prize. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

  “Barry must have been right sore at you taking off with the money.”

  “He didn’t know! I always bought a lottery ticket when I visited Elsie in Strathbane. The minute I got the money, I left him. I’ve been wanting to leave him for years. I’m off to stay with my daughter in the States.”

  “Good for you. So when did Barry come round? What time would that be?”

  “It must have been about nine o’clock.”

  “Was he ever violent?”

  “Not with his fists, but he had a right nasty tongue on him. Picking on me from morning till night. I tell you, Hamish, the thought of never having to listen to that voice again makes me feel like a new woman.”

  Hamish left her and headed back to Lochdubh and then on to Barry McSween’s croft. He heard a frantic bleating from the field closest to the croft house as he climbed down from the Land Rover. He sprinted across the field and found a sheep on its back, and he hoisted the animal upright. Then he wiped his hands on his uniform and headed for the house.

  An unkempt and unshaven Barry McSween answered the door to him. “Barry, one of your beasts was out there up on its back,” admonished Hamish. “You should be out there, taking care of them.”

  “Is that why ye came?” demanded Barry truculently. “To tell me one o’ thae useless beasts was on its back?”

  “Let’s go inside,” said Hamish. “I’ve got more questions to ask you.”

  Barry shrugged and led the way in. “The wife’s left me,” he said, sinking down into an armchair.

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Hamish. “I’ve been down to see Jeannie, and she tells me that on the night Felicity Pearson was murdered, you were down in Strathbane, yelling outside her sister’s house.”

  “Was I?” said Barry wearily. “I cannae remember. To tell the truth, I had the drink taken. I ‘member driving back and then going into a ditch near Sean Fitzpatrick’s house. I wanted him to get his tractor and pull me out, but he made me sleep in an armchair.”

  “And what time would that be?” asked Hamish.

  “Ask him,” said Barry. “I cannae remember.”

  “I will. How did you feel when that television lassie, Amy Cornwall, got on to you about that old business when you were charged with dynamiting the salmon pool on the Crumley estate?”

  “How the hell do you think I felt, man? They’d already made a right fool o’ me. I told her I would wring her neck if she came round here again.”

  “I’ll need to take your guns, Barry.”

  “It wasnae m
e.”

  “Nonetheless, I need your guns. I’ll give you a receipt for them.”

  He rose wearily and took a key out of a drawer. “You’ll find the gun cabinet over there on the wall. Help yourself.”

  Hamish unlocked the gun cabinet, put on a pair of thin plastic gloves and took out two shotguns and a rifle. “Got a gun bag?”

  “On the floor, over to your left.”

  Hamish carefully lifted the guns into the gun bag and hoisted it on his shoulder. “I’ll take these over to headquarters.” He wrote out a receipt and handed it to Barry. “And I’ll be checking with Sean.”

  “Do that,” said Barry, sunk in gloom. “Why did she leave me, Hamish? I was a good husband.”

  “It might be a good idea to get cleaned up and go down there sober and ask her.”

  Hamish drove straight to Sean Fitzgerald’s cottage. “I heard him go into the ditch about ten o’clock,” said Sean. “I made him black coffee and told himself to make himself comfortable in the armchair and sleep it off.”

  “Have you heard anything else that might be of interest?” asked Hamish.

  “Nothing at all. They’re not scared in the village. They’re convinced it was one of those television people.”

  “I hope so,” said Hamish fervently. “I would hate it to be one of us.”

  He drove on to police headquarters in Strathbane and turned the guns over to be sent to the lab for analysis. Then he went into the detectives’ room and asked if he could use a computer.

  “Help yourself,” said Jimmy Anderson ungraciously. “Everything must be done to help Carson’s pet.”

  “I bet you’re wishing Blair were back to keep me in my place,” said Hamish amiably. He sat down and typed out his report on Barry McSween.

  When he had finished, Jimmy said, “That Finlay Swithers has been brought in for questioning, and his wife, too.”

  “They can’t make anything stick,” said Hamish. “They’ve only got her word against his. She even might cave in and deny everything.”

  “I doubt it. She turned up with a monster of a woman friend who seems determined to nail Swithers.”