Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity

by M C Beaton

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s all too long ago.”

  “So what are you going to do next?”

  “Go and see the Harrisons, and I’m not looking forward to it. I don’t like her and I don’t like her sons. What about Mrs. McClellan’s body? When is it going to be released for burial?”

  “I think in a few days’ time.”

  “Give me a ring when you find out,” said Hamish. “The village wants to give her a big send-off.”

  “Fat lot o’ good that’ll do her now,” said Jimmy heartlessly. “Oh, by the way, policewoman Maggie’s right sore at you. Says you took her out to dinner and romanced her and you had a girlfriend all along.”

  “That’s rubbish,” said Hamish, turning red. “Where is she?”

  “Downstairs in the ops room.”

  Hamish clattered down the stairs and went into the ops room. Maggie was just taking off her headphones and saying to a colleague, “Thank goodness that shift’s over.” She stood up and turned round and saw Hamish.

  “A word with you, Maggie, in private,” said Hamish sternly.

  They walked out to the reception area. The desk sergeant looked at them curiously. “Outside,” ordered Hamish. “Just for a minute.”

  They walked outside and Hamish turned to face her. “What’s all this rubbish you’ve been telling folk about me romancing you? I asked you out to find out the details of Felicity Pearson’s murder, that’s all.”

  Maggie tossed her head defiantly. “You were sending out the vibes.”

  “Oh, I was, was I?” demanded Hamish. “I thought you were an attractive girl, yes, but it was purely business.”

  “So you say,” said Maggie.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “And is she your girlfriend?”

  Hamish saw the easy way out and took it. “Yes, we’re going to get married.”

  “I hope you’ll be very happy,” said Maggie stiffly, and she walked back into the police station.

  Women, thought Hamish. I cannae figure them out at all. You want them, they don’t want you, you don’t want them, they want you. I’m sick of the lot of them.

  He drove back through Lochdubh and out to Braikie and on to the Harrison boys’ croft.

  They were loading feed out of the back of a battered old van when Hamish arrived.

  Iain and Jamie Harrison turned to face him, their faces marred by identical scowls. “You been bothering Ma?” asked lain.

  “Not yet,” said Hamish. “Where were you on Monday night, the night Felicity Pearson was murdered?”

  They looked at each other and then Jamie said, “We were both down at Strathbane at the ten-pin bowling.”

  “Times?”

  “We got there about eight and left at eleven and came back here.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Ask at the ten-pin bowling alley. It was full. Lots of people saw us.”

  “I’ll do that. I’ll need your guns.”

  “Whit for?” asked Jamie.

  “I have to check they haven’t been fired. I’ll give you a receipt.”

  Once again Hamish had to stack guns in a gun bag, hand out a receipt, and head back to Strathbane. The light was fading and frost was beginning to glitter on the road.

  He handed over the guns and put in another report. But he did not go to the ten-pin bowling alley. Let Strathbane police check that out. He was weary and he still had to see Mrs. Harrison in the morning.

  He raced back to the police station, anxious now about Lugs being out in the cold. But when he got there, the dog’s feeding bowl was full and there was no sign of Lugs.

  He phoned the Italian restaurant but was told they hadn’t seen the dog. He walked along to Elspeth’s flat and rang the bell. “Have you come for Lugs?” she asked when she opened the door. “I went to the police station to speak to you. I found Lugs looking miserable and the night was getting cold, so I took him home.”

  “You might have left a note,” grumbled Hamish.

  “I did. I shoved one through the door. You probably walked over it with your great boots. Come in.”

  She was wearing a short skirt and black stockings with her usual boots, and a man’s shirt under a blue sweater. She led the way upstairs to her flat.

  Lugs rushed forward to greet his master. “Cosy here,” said Hamish, looking around. A fire was burning in an old Victorian tiled fireplace. The furniture looked shabby but comfortable. The bookcase was stuffed with paperbacks and the coffee table covered in magazines.

  “Sit down and tell me how you got on,” said Elspeth. “I was just about to eat. Want some?”

  Hamish’s stomach rumbled. He had not eaten since breakfast. “Aye, that would be grand. If you have enough, that is.”

  Elspeth smiled at him. She had no intention of telling him that she had been cooking since she got home from work. She set the dining table in the corner of the room and then carried in a casserole and opened a bottle of wine.

  “Come and sit down,” she said.

  “What is it?” asked Hamish.

  “Coq au vin. Lugs isn’t having any. He’s already had two pieces of liver and three large sausages.”

  “If this goes on, he’ll never touch dog food again.” Hamish shook out his napkin and tackled his food.

  Elspeth waited until he had cleared his plate and asked again. “How have you been getting on?”

  Hamish sighed. “Interviewing a lot of people and getting nowhere.”

  “Tell me about it?”

  “You’ll keep it to yourself?”

  “Haven’t I always?”

  “Here goes, then.”

  He told her about his interviews.

  She leaned her elbows on the table. “I wonder…” she said.

  “Wonder what?”

  “Well, you say that Finlay Swithers is a wife beater and a drunk. But he enjoyed beating his wife. A man like that wouldn’t want to kill her, unless…” She took a sip of wine.

  “Unless what?” demanded Hamish impatiently.

  “Unless he had her heavily insured.”

  TWELVE

  Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

  The silent stars go by.

  —Philips Brooks

  Hamish stared at her. “There’s a thought. If he had, it would be interesting to find out. I’ve got to see Mrs. Harrison tomorrow and then I’ve got to go to Bonar Bridge again.”

  “I’ll phone round the insurance companies for you. Tomorrow’s a quiet day,” said Elspeth.

  “That’s good of you. I must say, Elspeth, you’re a right brick the way you’ve kept everything I’ve told you out of print.”

  She laughed. “It’s easy. We’re a weekly family paper. People can get all the hard news from the nationals. What they want from us is the local stories—you know, school sports days, Highland Games, all with as many photographs as possible—and recipes and gossip. If I started to write what you’d told me, I would lose a good friend.”

  Her eyes were very large and silver in her gypsy face. He felt a tug at his heart immediately followed by a cold feeling of distaste. Where had involvements with women ever got him? Better to keep it light and friendly.

  He returned to the subject of Swithers. “Even if he did insure his wife heavily, we still can’t get him on it. Still, it would be nice to know. Because if he’s still got her heavily insured, he might be daft enough to try again. But hadn’t I better contact the insurance companies myself? They would tell a policeman but not you.”

  “I have useful friends.”

  “I’ll leave you to it and if you don’t get anywhere, I’ll take over.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, I’d best be going. Thanks for a grand meal. What about me taking you out to the Italian restaurant tomorrow night?”

  “Great. I’ll see you there at eight.”

  Hamish stood up. “Come on, Lugs. Time to go home.”

  She followed him to the door and then put her hand on his arm and looked up into his face
. He ducked his head in an embarrassed motion and said gruffly, “Aye, well, good night then,” and clattered down the stairs with Lugs pattering after him.

  The following morning he bearded Mrs. Harrison in her dingy shop. “Oh, you’re back,” she said sourly.

  “What were you doing on Monday night, the day Felicity Pearson was killed?”

  “I was at home at the croft. The boys were in Strathbane, as you know, at the bowling alley. I was watching the telly with my neighbour, Betty Murray. Go and ask her.”

  “I will,” said Hamish. “Address?”

  She gave it to him, her old eyes gleaming with mockery as if amused at his pursuit.

  He left and checked with Betty Murray, who confirmed that Mrs. Harrison had been with her up until nearly midnight and added that Mrs. Harrison could not drive.

  Hamish then drove across country to Bonar Bridge to see Jessie Gordon. But the house had a dead, empty look and no one answered the door. He was turning away when a woman next door called to him. “Are you looking for Jessie?”

  “Aye.”

  “She’s in hospital in Inverness. I found her lying in her garden and called the ambulance. I phoned the hospital. They said she might pull through. Bad case of alcohol poisoning.”

  “When was this?” asked Hamish.

  “I found her last Sunday morning. She must have been lying there all night, they said. It’s a wonder she’s still alive.”

  Hamish thanked her and walked back to the Land Rover. Lugs gave a bark of welcome from the front seat. Hamish had decided to take him along for company.

  When he got back to the police station, he sat at his desk and began to take notes. The Harrison boys’ alibi was not foolproof. They could have left the bowling alley, gone to the docks, and shot Felicity. He would need to wait for a report from the lab on the guns.

  The day dragged on. He made notes and then studied his reports on the computer. Perhaps there was something in there that might give him a clue.

  By evening, he was glad to leave his work and get dressed and go to meet Elspeth. Instead of his best suit, he put on a shirt and cords and an old and comfortable Harris tweed sports jacket. Elspeth had made him feel overdressed the last time.

  But when he entered the restaurant, he saw she was wearing the cherry red dress, black sheer tights, and high heels.

  “You’re looking very grand,” he said. “What was the occasion?”

  “This. I thought I’d dress up.”

  He wished she hadn’t. The dress revealed her excellent figure.

  “So how did you get on?” he asked, sitting down opposite her.

  “Got it first time.”

  “Good girl. What?”

  “The Strong Insurance Company in Inverness. A friend of mine told me that Finlay Swithers insured his wife’s life for one hundred thousand pounds.”

  Hamish’s eyes gleamed. “He did, did he? I’d better report it, and warn his wife.”

  “Sorry, he fell behind on the payments right after she left him, so the policy was cancelled.”

  “Well, it’s another dead end like all the dead ends I keep running into.”

  They ordered their food, each having the same, veal scallops with marsala sauce. “I suppose it’s wicked to eat veal,” said Elspeth.

  “Not here. It’s actually pork fillet beaten thin. Not thinking of becoming a vegetarian, are you?”

  “Sometimes. It’s all right in the city when you buy the meat at the supermarket in packages, but around here, you see it on the hoof.”

  “Usually it’s the other way round. It’s the townies who get sentimental about animals and go on about the darling foxes. Anyway, it’s been a dreary day. I keep going over and over my reports. I keep hoping there’s something concrete there but all I get are a lot of perhaps and maybes.”

  Hamish’s mobile phone rang. “I thought I’d switched this thing off,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket.

  It was Carson. “Just to let you know that Mrs. McClellan’s body is being released tomorrow. Mr. McClellan has been told. Let me know when the funeral is to be held.”

  “Will do.”

  “How have you been getting on?”

  “A lot of dead ends. I’ve gone round them all again. Only one thing. Finlay Swithers insured his wife for one hundred thousand pounds, but stopped paying after she left, so the policy was cancelled.”

  “I wish we could get that man on something. What’s that music in the background?”

  “I’m in the local Italian restaurant.”

  “Food good?”

  “Excellent.”

  “I wish I could join you.”

  “I’m with Elspeth Grant. We could wait for you, sir.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Carson cheerfully.

  “That’s the boss,” said Hamish to Elspeth. “I’ll tell Willie to hold our food. We could have a starter while we’re waiting.”

  “As you’ve already invited him,” said Elspeth coldly, “I can hardly object.”

  “Elspeth, he’s my boss and he’s lonely, I think.”

  “Tough.”

  Hamish went off to the kitchen. Willie followed him back, carrying menus.

  “Choose a starter, Elspeth,” begged Hamish, “and stop sitting there making me feel guilty.”

  She suddenly smiled at him. “You’re not very romantic, are you?”

  “No, he’s not,” said Willie. “Waste of space, if you ask me.”

  “No one asked you,” snapped Hamish. “For heaven’s sake, order something, Elspeth, so we can send him on his way.”

  They both ordered Parma ham and melon.

  Mrs. Wellington then came up to their table. “When is Mrs. McClellan’s body being released?”

  “I’ve just learned it’s tomorrow.”

  “Good. The sooner that poor woman has a Christian burial the better.” She pulled up a chair and sat down and pulled a capacious notebook out of her bag.

  “We thought that instead of sandwiches and canapes, we would have a buffet lunch after the funeral. Roast chicken. Potatoes. Salad. Green peas. Trifle as dessert. Now what will your contribution be?”

  “I’m doing the eulogy,” said Hamish.

  “But everyone is to help with the catering. Do you think we should have wine?”

  “Definitely not,” said Hamish. “Whisky is what will be expected.”

  “I’ll put you down for a couple of bottles. Miss Grant?”

  “I’ll give you a couple of roast chickens,” said Elspeth.

  “Good girl. I’ll make a note of that. Angela Brodie is doing a giant trifle.”

  “Is that wise?” asked Hamish. “Angela’s cooking is not of the best.”

  “You can’t make a mistake with trifle,” said Mrs. Wellington.

  They were then joined by the Currie sisters, and discussions of the arrangements went on right up until Carson arrived. So much for buying a new lipstick and French perfume and putting my best dress on, thought Elspeth gloomily, as Carson sat down when the others had left and immediately plunged into discussing the two murder cases with Hamish. To Elspeth’s relief, Carson only had one glass of wine and said he had to keep a clear head to drive back to Strathbane. Maybe Hamish would ask her back to the police station for a nightcap.

  But when they all stood outside the restaurant, Carson thanked Hamish for the meal and drove off.

  “That was a waste of time,” said Elspeth crossly. “You both went over and over everything and got nowhere.”

  “Well, that’s policing,” said Hamish vaguely. “Good night and thanks for finding out about that insurance policy for me.” He waved his hand and strolled off down the waterfront.

  That waiter was right, thought Elspeth angrily. He is a waste of space and if he wants any more help from me, he can beg for it.

  The day of Mrs. McClellan’s funeral dawned cold and still. Hamish put on his best suit and a black armban
d on his sleeve.

  He walked to the Church of Scotland and joined the other mourners who were streaming in the same direction. He was suddenly nervous. He hadn’t prepared anything for the eulogy, but surely a few words would do.

  He was stopped before the church by two American tourists. “Excuse me, sir,” said the man politely, “do you think it would be considered rude if me and the wife attended the service?”

  “No, not at all. Everyone welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am Brad Kirk and this here’s my lady, Jo Ellen. We are from Baton Rouge.” He was a serious-looking little man with thinning hair and gold-rimmed glasses. His wife was equally small, but plump and wearing a long blue fun fur.

  “What is the denomination of this church?” asked Mr. Kirk.

  “Church of Scotland.”

  “Ah, that should be inneresting. We are Southern Baptist ourselves. But Jo Ellen and me are innerested in all sorts of religions.”

  “I am Hamish Macbeth, the local policeman. Are you staying in Lochdubh?”

  “Yes, at the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

  “And what brings you so far north out of season?”

  “The weather never bothers us, sir. We like quiet places. We are by way of being Scottish ourselves. My great-grandfather, I believe, was Scottish, and that makes Jo Ellen Scottish by marriage.”

  “We’d best go in,” said Hamish, glancing at his watch. “The service will be about to start.”

  Mrs. Wellington rushed Hamish to the front of the church. The coffin stood before the altar table with a bunch of white heather on top of it.

  Mr. Wellington, the minister, started the service. Soon the church was filled by the sound of weeping. Hamish had quite forgotten he was to read the eulogy until Mr. Wellington called him up.

  “Mrs. McClellan was a good woman, a quiet woman, who enjoyed her garden,” began Hamish. “She wass verra much a part of our daily lives.” He saw the church door at the back open and Callum Bisset come in. Hamish felt a blinding surge of anger. He hung on to the brass eagle and stared down the aisle in the direction of the television managing director.

  “And Mrs. McClellan would still be part of our community had not Strathbane Television set out to ruin her life.”