Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity (19 page)

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 armband 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.”

“That iss the truth!” shouted someone.

“She had committed a small transgression away in the past due to a minor mental illness. She had received treatment for it. But the television people decided to muckrake. Having no sense of common decency themselves, they did not know what effect such exposure would have on a God-fearing woman. They were going to expose her on national television, hold her up to ridicule, and so she took her own life.”

Hamish pointed down the church at Callum Bissett. “I wonder you dare show your face in here, for you killed that woman as surely as if you had poisoned her.”

Callum Bissett shot to his feet and hurried out.

“But I suggest we remember the charming lady we knew,” said Hamish, “and remember her in our prayers.”

He regained his seat.

Carson shifted uneasily in his pew. He wondered if Hamish Maebeth were a trifle mad. But round about him, villagers were murmuring their approval of his eulogy.

At the end of the service, the coffin was raised on the shoulders of six villagers. A piper led the way, playing a lament.

And then behind the coffin, the congregation walked out of the church and along the waterfront and over the humpbacked bridge to the cemetery. Hamish saw Elspeth a little way in front of him. He felt he had behaved badly last night, walking off like that. He could at least have given her a kiss on the cheek. But the wail of the pipe lament was being echoed back by the mountains and he felt a great sadness.

They huddled around the graveside while the minister committed the body to the ground. Then he read the famous passage from Corinthians, “A time to love and a time to die.”

Villagers were weeping openly as Mr. McClellan threw the first handful of earth on the coffin.

Then they all walked to the church hall, sniffling and drying their eyes.

He found the Americans beside him. “That was very affecting,” said Mr. Kirk.

“You’d best come along to the church hall,” said Hamish. “There’s going to be hot food.”

“I am by way of being in the same business as yourself, sir,” said Mr. Kirk.

“Police?”

“No, insurance investigator.”

“Ah, same sort of work.”

“Sometimes it can be very frustrating,” said Mr. Kirk. “There was a case in New Orleans. I was sure the husband had killed his wife but I couldn’t prove it and neither could the police.”

“Why was that?”

“This man had been out rowing with his wife. The boat capsized, she couldn’t swim and drowned. He said he made heroic efforts to save her. Trouble was, he had insured her life heavily. It had been a calm day. He said she was fooling around and had stood up in the boat and that’s what made it capsize. I checked around and found she wasn’t the sort of lady to fool around, she had never gone out with her husband before in the boat, and everyone including her husband knew she couldn’t swim. That was a mighty powerful speech you made in the church.”

They were nearly at the church hall. Elspeth hovered for a moment by the entrance but Hamish was now engrossed in describing the murders to Mr. Kirk. She gave a slight shrug and walked into the hall.

At first it was all very decorous and sad. People collected plates of food and sat at long tables talking in hushed whispers. At last, Dr. Brodie said something to Mr. McClellan and led him out of the hall.

Whisky bottles were passed around. The talk became livelier. “How long does this go on?” asked Mr. Kirk, who was sitting next to Hamish.

“It’ll go on until late. Ways have changed up here. Not so long ago, it would have gone on all week.”

By evening, people were singing ballads and people were reciting poems. Mr. Kirk took out a large notebook and began to make notes as if reporting of some weird aboriginal tribe.

Hamish noticed with surprise that his boss was still there, his tie loosened, chatting to the villagers.

At last, when he saw an empty seat beside Elspeth, he rose and went to join her.

“Everyone’s here,” he said. “Met your murderer yet?”

“I told you, I was just joking, Hamish. I’ve got to leave shortly and write this up.”

Her manner was cold, her silver eyes veiled.

“I haven’t been reading my horoscope,” said Hamish. “Any more messages for me?”

Elspeth got to her feet. “Not worth the effort, Hamish,” she said, and walked away.

Elspeth went back to the office. “I took a load of photos,” said Sam Wills. “I’ll have them shortly and then you can do the captions. You know everyone in the village now, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Sitting down at her computer, Elspeth began to write her report slowly and carefully, for she had drunk too much whisky and Angela’s trifle had been swimming in sherry.

Sam appeared with the photographs. She drank strong black coffee, numbered the photographs, and then began to write the captions. At one point she frowned. They couldn’t use all the photographs in the newspaper, so she discarded a pile of them after looking at them. There was one face missing, she was sure of it. She picked up the photographs again and studied them and then shook her head. She must have been mistaken.

By midnight, she had finished.

She switched off the computer and went out onto the waterfront. The lights were still blazing from the church hall. But what was the point in going back?

Elspeth went home to her flat, glad she didn’t have to bother cooking, for she had eaten a lot at the reception.

She washed and went to bed, and just before she closed her eyes, she vowed never to think of Hamish Macbeth again.

“Yes, you can have my bed again, sir,” Hamish was saying patiently as he supported a very drunk Carson back to the police station.

“I could live here,” said Carson, waving a drunken arm in the direction of the loch.

“You might find it a bit boring,” said Hamish soothingly.

He got his boss to bed and then took Lugs for a walk. “I’ll need to buy a good mattress and a duvet for that cell, Lugs,” said Hamish, “for I think I might be using it a lot.”

He returned to the police station and wearily undressed and washed and got into the hard bed in the cell. Loud snores were coming from the bedroom. I feel just like a married man who’s had a tiff with the wife, thought Hamish.