Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity (14 page)

“I’ll go and look, but since they’ve been returned, they should be here somewhere.”

Carson drew a thin pair of gloves out of his pocket. “Put these on,” he ordered. “Lift them very carefully and bring them to us.”

They stood there impatiently, waiting.

Then Derry came back, carefully carrying a large floppy hat with a wide brim and a pair of dark glasses.

“Put them on the desk. Turn the hat up,” said Hamish. “I want to look inside.”

Derry’s gloved hands gently lifted the hat over. To his amusement, Hamish pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket and studied the inside of the brim.

“You look like Sherlock Holmes,” said Derry, but Hamish was letting out his breath in a long hiss of excitement. He handed the glass to Carson. “Look there, sir. A hair. A brown hair. How soon can we get it compared to Felicity Pearson’s hair?”

“As fast as I can arrange it. Got one of those envelopes?”

Hamish produced a cellophane envelope.

“Tweezers?”

“Forceps, scalpel?” said Derry cheekily, and Carson gave him a withering look.

Hamish found a pair of tweezers. Carson gently lifted the hair and put it in an envelope.

“How soon can we find out if that hair is Felicity’s?” asked Hamish.

“I’ll make them rush it,” said Carson. He turned to Derry. “Is there some sort of plastic bag we can put the hat and glasses in?”

Derry went off and came back with a plastic shopping bag. “Come with me,” said Carson to Hamish. “We’re going back to police headquarters.”

When they arrived and walked up to Carson’s office, Jimmy Anderson was coming down the stairs, and he stared in surprise at Hamish.

“Do you know what this means?” demanded Carson. “If that hair should prove to have belonged to Felicity Pearson, then it’s ten to one she murdered Crystal. So that will leave us with the unsolved murder of Felicity herself.”

“With your permission, sir,” said Hamish, “I’d like to have a word with that researcher, Amy Cornwall.”

“Later. Wait until I get this stuff over to the lab.”

When he had finished making the arrangements, Carson called his secretary and asked her to send Jimmy Anderson in.

When Jimmy entered his eyes darted suspiciously to Hamish. With Blair around, there had been little chance of Hamish rising in the ranks, but with Carson, it was another matter.

“I want you to take a uniformed officer,” said Carson, “and go over to Strathbane Television and bring Rory MacBain back here for questioning, and I don’t care how busy he is.”

“Something new come up?” asked Jimmy eagerly.

“I’ll fill you in later. Now get MacBain. We’ll be using interview room number three.”

When Jimmy had gone, Carson said to Hamish, “I’ll be interviewing MacBain myself. Like to sit in on it?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Carson sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Yes, thank you,
sir
.”

Half an hour later, Rory MacBain, looking flustered and anxious, faced Carson and Hamish in the interviewing room. Policewoman Maggie was manning the tape recorder. She gave Hamish a chilly little smile.

Asked if he wanted a lawyer, Rory said, “Why on earth should I want a lawyer? I haven’t done anything. Just get on with it. It’s a busy day.”

“We believe you were having an affair with Felicity Pearson,” said Carson.

Rory had not been expecting that, thought Hamish.

“Who says?” Rory tugged at his tie to loosen it.

“You were seen visiting her regularly at her flat.”

“Of course I did. And of course the neighbours saw me. I’m her boss. Television never stops. I called on her some evenings to discuss shows.”

“And yet you made her a researcher?”

Hamish gave an apologetic little cough.

“What is it, Macbeth?” demanded Carson.

“It can easily be cleared up,” said Hamish. “All Mr. MacBain has to do is give us a DNA sample.”

Rory hung his head. Then he raised it and gave a man·to·man beam. “I may as well come clean. We had a bit of a fling.”

“For how long?” demanded Carson.

“Oh, can’t remember. It was off and on. For a few years.”

“A few years!” explained Carson. “And yet you didn’t tell us?”

“I didn’t want the wife to know.”

“Have you any idea who she was going to meet down at the docks when she was killed?”

“No, I hadn’t seen her for a week or two. I mean, I saw her in the office, of course, but I hadn’t visited her at her flat. Things had got a bit out of hand. She’d become a bit clinging and possessive.”

“She must have hated Crystal French,” said Hamish.

“She had no reason to. I mean she didn’t know about the fling I’d had with Crystal in Edinburgh.”

“I think Crystal, from what I’ve learned of her,” Hamish went on, “would be just the person to tell Felicity. She seemed to like upsetting and humiliating people. Besides, from Felicity’s point of view, Crystal had pushed her out of a job.”

“But that’s ridiculous. Crystal was brought in as a presenter of a new show. Felicity was the producer of a show with falling ratings.”

“And yet you were going to make Felicity a presenter,” said Hamish. “And when it came to looks, Felicity was not in the same league as Crystal. She had never presented a programme before, as far as I know. Did Felicity threaten to tell your wife? Did she blackmail you?”

“I want a lawyer,” said Rory sullenly.

“And that pretty much put an end to the things for the moment,” said Hamish to Elspeth Grant that evening. “The lawyer came, Rory clammed up, the lawyer said if we weren’t charging him with anything we should allow him to leave.”

Elspeth had knocked at the kitchen door half an hour after he had got home.

“Do you never use your living room?” she asked. “I would like a comfortable chair.”

“Planning on staying, are you?” asked Hamish. “I’m tired.”

“Just for a little.”

Hamish and Elspeth went into Hamish’s living room. He raked out the fire and lit it while Elspeth settled in an easy chair.

“So the hat,” said Elspeth. “If it turns out to be worn by Felicity, then that makes her the murderer, and that leaves you with another murderer. Any ideas on that?”

“I think it had to do with stuff she was digging up for Crystal’s programme, the behind-the-lace-curtains one. The other researcher, Amy Cornwall, was working on it, but I think Felicity found something out. I’ll need to check all the alibis of those that Amy interviewed all over again.”

“Do you think it could be that someone saw Felicity, and that someone was blackmailing her? That someone asked her to meet them at the docks or he or she would tell what they saw?”

Hamish sighed. “It could be. I’ve an interview with Amy Cornwall tomorrow. I might get something out of it.”

The phone rang in the police office and then the answering machine took over. “I couldn’t make out what that said.” Elspeth looked at him, her eyes suddenly dark. “I’ve got a bad feeling, Hamish. I think you should go and listen to that.”

Hamish shook his head. “There’s a boundary dispute between two crofters going on. Probably one of them. I cannae be coping with them this evening.”

Elspeth crossed her legs. She had very long legs in seven-denier black tights. They might as well be two fence posts, she thought, for all the attention Hamish Macbeth was giving them.

“Aren’t you going to offer me anything to drink?” she asked.

“Shh!” Hamish held up a hand. “Listen!”

In the distance came the faint wail of a siren.

They looked at each other in alarm and then Hamish jumped to his feet. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

He rushed out of the police station with Elspeth following and looked up and down the waterfront. Then he saw Dr. Brodie with his black bag running towards the bank manager’s house.

“Oh, my God, no,” said Hamish.

He ran along the waterfront to intercept the doctor. “Out of my way, Hamish,” panted Dr. Brodie. “Suicide.”

Hamish followed him into the bank manager’s house. Mr. McClellan was there, his face ashen. “Upstairs,” he said. “Bedroom.”

Dr. Brodie sprinted up the stairs, followed by Hamish. Mrs. McClellan lay still and cold in the middle of a double bed. An empty bottle of paracetamol tablets lay on its side on the bedside table. Dr. Brodie felt for a pulse and found none. Hamish waited and prayed. “No life,” he said sadly, straightening up from the body. “I would say she’d been dead a few hours.”

I hate those television people, thought Hamish. The bastards murdered her just as if they’d stuck a knife in her back.

The ambulance men arrived, and the body was carried out past a silent throng of villagers.

Elspeth was waiting with them. “Hamish?”

“Not now,” he said.

He turned and went back into the house where Dr. Brodie was sitting with Mr. McClellan. “I won’t be bothering you now,” said Hamish. “But I’ll need a word with you tomorrow.”

The bank manager looked at Hamish with dazed eyes. “Why?” he said. “We were happy here.”

Jimmy Anderson came in. “A word with you outside, Jimmy,” said Hamish.

They walked out. “Suicide?” asked Jimmy.

“Yes, she took an overdose. It was that business about shoplifting that must have been preying on her mind. She’d been done for shoplifting years ago and got treatment. Those television bastards had been after her for their damned programme. It was dropped after Crystal’s death, but Felicity was starting the whole business up again.”

“And now Felicity’s dead. Think she did it?”

“No. Not in a hundred years. She was a grand lady. This should never have happened. Such a petty little offence, and so many years ago. Those whoring scum over in Strathbane don’t know the meaning of decency and respectability. The very idea of putting a bank manager’s wife on the rack in front of the cameras must have given them a thrill.”

“Aye, well, I’d best make arrangements to take the husband over to the procurator fiscal tomorrow,” said Jimmy. “Get a statement?”

“I’ll leave it to the morning. Thiss iss a bad business.”

“It is that.”

Hamish sighed. “One more thing. We’d best go back in and see if she left a note. I wass that upset, I didn’t ask.”

Jimmy judged from the thickening of Hamish’s accent that he was very disturbed indeed. That was the trouble with village policing, thought Jimmy. You got too close to people.

They walked back in. “Mr. McClellan,” said Hamish gently, “did your wife leave a note?”

His eyes filled with tears and he dug into his pocket and drew out a crumpled sheet of paper and silently handed it over.

Hamish and Jimmy moved a little away and read it. “Dear John,” it said. “The old scandal’s started again and I can’t bear it. I can’t take it anymore. Please forgive me. All my love, Fiona.”

The paper was blotched with tears. Jimmy took out an envelope and carefully placed the pathetic little note inside.

“I think you should leave things for the moment,” said Dr. Brodie. “I’ll give Mr. McClellan a sedative.”

Jimmy and Hamish went back outside. The cold and merciless stars shone down on them.

“I’ll see you,” said Hamish, and walked back to the police station. He heard the patter of feet, running to catch up with him, and turned round.

“Was it suicide?” asked Elspeth.

Hamish was suddenly consumed with a blinding hatred for the whole of the media.

“Get lost,” he snarled.

Elspeth took a step back as if he had struck her.

Hamish went on to the police station. The dark figure of Mr. Patel, the Indian who owned the general stores, detached itself from the shadows.

“I have to talk to ye, Hamish, about poor Mrs. McClellan. I feel that guilty.”

Mr. Patel had come to Scotland years ago, peddling goods in a suitcase from door to door, saving every penny until he was able to buy a shop. Hamish was always mildly surprised to hear a Scottish accent emerging from his Indian face.

They went into the kitchen. Lugs gave Mr. Patel a rapturous welcome, seeing in him a giver of dog biscuits.

“So what’s this about?” asked Hamish.

“It wass herself, poor Mrs. McClellan. I could not believe my eyes. I have that mirror behind the counter that reflects what’s going on in the shop. And then I saw herself sliding things into her shopping basket. I didn’t mind. I thought a respectable lady like that would pay for them at the counter. But when she only put one packet of cornflakes on the counter, I told her to come into the back shop.

“I took the stuff she had pinched out of her shopping basket and laid it down. I said. “What’s this about?” She began to cry sore and said she meant to pay for it and forgot. It told her I would not be reporting her to the police this time, but I would have a word with her husband. She began to cry harder and said I must not tell her husband. I said I would think about it. And now the poor lady’s dead.”

“You weren’t to know,” said Hamish heavily. “She’d been done years ago for shoplifting and got treatment for kleptomania. Somehow those TV people got hold of her past. There was a bit in the Strathbane paper at the time. It came up before. That village dustman, him that was murdered, he ferreted it out and was blackmailing her, and she was so afraid of her husband learning that the old scandal had surfaced that she paid him. I kept it quiet then. You see, she told me that after the scandal, her husband had given up a good job as bank manager in Strathbane and moved here to start a new life. The worry must have brought her old illness up again. Oh, God, what a waste. She wass the fine woman.”

“She wass that,” said Mr. Patel, his dark eyes swimming with tears.

“I’ll put in my report,” said Hamish, “and I’ll beg them to keep it away from the press.”

When Mr. Patel had left, Hamish typed up his report and sent it over to Strathbane. Then he went to bed with Lugs curled against his side. Before he went to sleep, he had a sudden memory of Elspeth’s stricken face. He had told her a lot and yet she had not betrayed him by printing one word. He would need to apologise to her. Then he thought of Priscilla. She seemed very distant now. And yet there had been a time when he had imagined her living here with him as his wife, imagined an idyllic married life. He drifted off to sleep.