Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity (2 page)

Half an hour later, there was a knock at the kitchen door. The locals never came round to the front of the police station. He opened it and recognised Elspeth Grant.

“Come in,” said Hamish. “What brings you? Stars foreboding something or other?”

“As a matter of fact they are,” said Elspeth calmly. It was early autumn and the nights were already frosty. She was wearing a tweed fishing hat and a man’s anorak. She removed her hat and put her coat over the back of a chair. She had a thick head of frizzy brown hair and sallow skin, gypsy skin, thought Hamish, but it was her eyes that were remarkable. They were light grey, almost silver, sometimes like clear water in a brook, sometimes like quartz, and emotions and thought flitted across those large eyes like cloud shadows over the hills on a summer’s day. Her soft voice had a Highland lilt. Hamish disapproved of her. He thought her astrological predictions were making clever fun of the readers.

“Coffee?” asked Hamish.

“Please.”

“It isn’t decaff.”

“That’s all right. Did you think I would mind?”

“Yes, I thought you were probably a vegetarian as well.”

She leaned her pointed chin on her hands and surveyed him. “Why?”

“Oh, astrology and all that.” He filled two mugs from the kettle that he kept simmering on top of the wood-burning stove.

“You are a very conventional man, I think.”

Hamish gave her a mug of coffee and sat down opposite her. “Did you come round here at this time o’ night to give me my character?”

“No. Did you see that programme?”

“The one with Crystal French?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about it?”

“Someone’s going to kill her,” said Elspeth calmly.

“Whit! Havers, lassie. Her nasty programme will run one series. Then there’ll be another and the novelty will hae worn off and she’ll either sink without a trace or go to London.”

“I don’t think so. I think she’ll be killed.”

“See it in the stars?” mocked Hamish.

“You could say that. It’s something about her. She’s
asking
to be killed.”

“And who’s going to do it?”

“Ah, if I knew that, maybe I could stop it.”

“I am afraid in the world of television, the wicked can flourish like the green bay tree,” said Hamish.

“Quoting the Bible, Hamish? You?”

“Why not? I am not the heathen. Let’s see, you have come here late at night to tell me you haff a feeling.” Hamish’s Highland accent always became more pronounced when he was upset. “And yet you seem a sensible girl. I don’t trust you. I think you came along here to have a private laugh at my expense.”

And although Elspeth’s face was calm, Hamish had a feeling that somewhere inside her was a private Elspeth who found him a bit of a joke.

She drank her coffee. Then she put on her hat and swung her anorak around her shoulders. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said.

He leaned back in his chair and looked up at her. “And just what wass I supposed to do about this warning? Phone up my superiors and say I have
a feeling
her life’s in danger?”

“You could say you had received anonymous calls from people threatening to kill her.”

“Oh, I should think those sort of calls are already arriving at Strathbane Television.”

She gave a little shrug. “Well, I tried.”

And then she was gone. She left so quickly and lightly that it seemed to Hamish that one minute she was there, and in the next, she had disappeared, leaving the door ajar.

He tried to dismiss the whole business from his head, but he felt uneasy.

Rory MacBain was basking in Crystal’s success. The first two programmes were to run on national TV followed by the subsequent ones. The switchboard had been jammed with angry calls. The mail bag was full of threatening letters. And that
was
success. Reaction was success. He was disappointed that Crystal kept rejecting his advances, but the praise he was receiving for having thought up the idea more than compensated for any disappointment.

There would be more money, much more money for the next series. This one had been thought up on the hoof, with less than a week from the idea to the filming. On Monday, the topic was decided. ‘Behind the Lace Curtains’ was to be an exposé of what really went on in Highland villages. Researchers burrowed through old cuttings, digging up scandals that people had hoped were long forgotten.

Crystal, who had little to do, as the research was all done for her and scripts written for her, although she preferred to put her own comments into them at the last minute, decided to head out from Strathbane and cruise round various villages. Her path was about to cross that of Hamish Macbeth and on the very day he felt his world had come to an end.

Yesterday morning, he had read his horoscope, Libra, in which Elspeth had written:

You will receive news on Monday which will make you feel your heart has been broken. But remember, no pain, no gain. This is not the end. This is the beginning of a whole new chapter.

“Rubbish,” muttered Hamish. He fed his dog, Lugs, and was just getting ready to go out when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife. “I don’t suppose you know,” she said. “Do you read the
Times?
”

“No,” said Hamish.

“I thought not. It was in the social column four days ago and it’s all round the village. I said someone’s got to tell Hamish, but then I decided that, as usual, it would have to be me.”

“Tell me what?” asked Hamish patiently.

“Priscilla Halburton-Smythe is getting married…Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“It was in the social column. She’s marrying someone called Peter Partridge.”

“Thank you.” Bleakly.

Hamish put down the receiver and sat staring blindly at the desk. Lugs whimpered and put a large paw on his knee. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the colonel who owned the Tommel Castle Hotel, had at one time been the love of his life. They had even been engaged. She might have told him. He told himself that he had got over her long ago, but he still felt sad and bereft.

He remembered his horoscope and suddenly got angry. Elspeth would have heard the gossip, Elspeth heard all the gossip. She must have found out the date of his birthday. She must have found it very amusing.

He patted Lugs on the head and said, “Stay, boy.” He would go out on his rounds as usual, he would work as usual. Life would go on.

He was just getting into his police Land Rover when a bright green BMW did a U-turn on the harbour and raced along the waterfront, well over the speed limit. He jumped in the Land Rover and with siren blaring and blue light flashing, and holding the speed camera gun that was fortunately on the front seat out of the window with one hand, trained on the fleeing car, he set off in pursuit.

The BMW stopped abruptly on the humpbacked bridge that led out of Lochdubh. Hamish stopped behind it and climbed down. He leaned down and looked into the BMW and Crystal French looked back.

For in the stems, clerer than is glas
,

Is written, God wool, whoso Koude it rede
,

The deeth of every man
.

—Geoffrey Chaucer

N
ow, Hamish had always despised policemen who took out the miseries of their personal life on members of the public, and chances were that, in his usual way, he might have given Crystal a stern caution, but her first words, delivered insolently, were, “Don’t you know who I am?”

“You are a motorist who has just been speeding at a dangerous rate. Papers, please.”

“Look, I haven’t got them with me…”

“Deliver them within a week to your nearest police station—that is, registration of ownership, MOT, and insurance. Driving licence, please.”

“I am Crystal French.”

“Thank you for that information, miss. Driving licence, please.”

She scrabbled in a large leather handbag and then held it out. “Shouldn’t you be out catching criminals, instead of harassing law-abiding citizens?”

“Speeding is breaking the law.” He checked her licence and handed it back. “Please step out of the car.”

“Why?”

“I am going to breathalyse you.”

“Don’t be so silly.” Crystal switched on the engine.

“If you drive off without taking a breathalyser test then you must follow me to Dr. Brodie’s and allow a blood sample to be taken.”

Crystal thrust open the door of the car with such violence that Hamish had to jump back to avoid his legs being hit. She glared up at the policeman with the flaming red hair and snapped, “Well, get on with it.”

He breathalysed her and found with some regret that she had not been drinking. “Wait here,” he said.

He went back to the Land Rover and checked the speed camera. Then he came back. “You already have six points on your licence for speeding,” he said. “The camera shows that you were driving at sixty-five miles per hour in a thirty-mile area.”

Crystal stared at him in dismay. She knew she would more than likely be banned from driving for three years. She changed tack and smiled at him. “Look, Officer…what is your name?”

“Hamish Macbeth.”

“I am sure we could find something better to do than stand here arguing.” She moistened her lips and put her hand on his arm.

He picked her hand off as if it were an insect. “You will hear shortly when you are to appear in court,” said Hamish evenly.

Crystal was beginning to feel desperate. The BMW was a new purchase and she adored driving around in it. She reached into the car and brought out her handbag. She opened it and took out her wallet, opened the wallet and riffled through the notes. “You can’t earn much as a village bobby,” she said, smiling slyly at him.

“Nonetheless, I do not take bribes and unless you want a further charge, I would advise you to put that wallet away.”

Crystal lost her temper. “I wasn’t trying to bribe you, you village idiot.”

And Hamish lost his temper as well. “Just because you are a television celebrity and go around making people’s lives a misery doesn’t mean you can risk the lives of the villagers of Lochdubh by reckless driving.” Women, damn them, thought Hamish as his voice rose. “Chust get the hell out o’ here.”

“What is going on?” asked a cool voice.

Hamish swung round. Elspeth was standing there. She was wearing a ragged T·shirt under a baggy cardigan, corduroy trousers, and sneakers. “I represent the
Highland Times
,” said Elspeth to Crystal. “You are the famous Crystal French. My, you are every bit as beautiful in real life as you are on television.”

Hamish surveyed them both with disgust. “See you in court,” he said to Crystal. He climbed into the Land Rover and drove off to the police station where he sent a report to Strathbane.

Then he resisted driving up to Tommel Castle Hotel to find out more news about Priscilla. It was over. It was done.

He put Lugs on his leash instead and went to visit Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife.

“Come in,” said Angela, her thin face lighting up with pleasure. “Will Lugs bother my cats?”

“He’s too lazy,” said Hamish, and sure enough Lugs padded into the kitchen, ignored the cats, and slumped down in a corner and closed his eyes, his odd large ears spread out like wings.

“So what’s new?” asked Angela.

Only to Angela would Hamish talk about Priscilla. “Mrs. Wellington phoned me with the news about Priscilla’s engagement,” he said.

“I should have told you myself,” said Angela sadly. “It was all round the village. Then I heard Mrs. Wellington say to Elspeth Grant that she was going to tell you herself in a few days’ time if no one else did and Elspeth asked when your birthday was.”

“I thought that was the reason for my horoscope,” said Hamish.

“So how do you feel? Devastated?”

“I was hurt and upset. Right now, I don’t know what I feel. She might have told me herself. Anyway, I went and lost my temper with that awful woman Crystal French.” He told her the story of Crystal’s speeding.

“Bet you’re asked to drop it,” said Angela.

“Why?”

“Callum Bissett is a Freemason. He’s the managing director of Strathbane Television.”

“So?”

“Well, so is Peter Daviot, your boss.”

“Come on, now. They wouldn’t dare.”

“They might try when Strathbane Television’s lawyers get on to them.”

Sure enough, Hamish got a call from Peter Daviot that afternoon. “I wish you had just let her go,” said Daviot. “I’ve had Callum Bissett on the phone asking me to drop the case. You say you recorded her on a speed camera?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, well, you’ll have to go through with it. But this is bad, very bad.”

“It’s a straightforward case of speeding through a built-up area.”

“It’s not just that. Crystal French is to do an in-depth report on policing in the Highlands, finishing with an interview with you.”

“I do not need to agree.”

“Oh, yes you do,” snapped Daviot. “And that’s an order. We must show we have nothing to hide.”

“Very well,” said Hamish reluctantly. He had been demoted twice from sergeant and he knew that Crystal’s researchers would dig up every detail they could to use against him.

“The interview is to take place at two o’clock next Monday afternoon.”

“Must I?”

“Must I, what?”

“I mean do I have to,
sir!
”

“Yes.”

“Do you know, she attempted to come on to me and when that didnae work, she attempted to bribe me?”

“Any witnesses?”

“No.”

“Well, there you are. Just get on with it.”

After he had rung off, Hamish sat staring at the phone. Maybe Elspeth had witnessed something. How long had she been standing there? He picked up the phone and dialled the number of the
Highland Times
and asked to speak to Elspeth, only to be told by Sam that Elspeth was covering the Highland Games at Braikie.

Hamish put Lugs in the Land Rover and set off for Braikie. He was due there on duty in the afternoon anyway.

The Highland Games at Braikie was a small affair, not like the big ones at Drumnadrochit or Balmoral. But an Indian summer was holding well and mellow sunlight shone down on the events and sideshows.