Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity (8 page)

“It would all come out again. The shame. The fright. Even if people knew I was innocent, they’d think I was mad, not even remembering I’d given the money to Mrs. Queen.”

“But it’s over. The woman’s dead. There won’t be any show.”

She gave a pathetic little hiccup. “I thought they’d send someone else.”

Hamish looked at her elderly crumpled figure, the hands crippled with arthritis, the tear-stained wrinkled face, and thought in that moment, if Crystal had been alive, he could cheerfully have killed her himself. “Is Mrs. Queen your friend?” he asked.

“Yes, we’re very close.”

“Would you have her phone number?”

“It’s there, on a pad over the phone. I forget things these days.”

“One of the problems of getting old,” said Hamish. He phoned Mrs. Queen and talked rapidly, then put the phone down. “She’ll be right round. You need someone with you.”

He waited until Mrs. Queen arrived. She was a heavyset matron with a round, kindly face. “You leave Maisie to me,” she said.

I didn’t ask her what she was doing on Monday, thought Hamish. He drew Mrs. Queen out into the narrow passage that ran from the front door to the back, off which the rooms led. He wondered if it was still called the lobby in Scotland. A song his mother used to sing to him, a relic of the Second World War when sausages were filled with all sorts of junk, came back to him and rang in his head:

I love a sausage, a bonny Highland sausage,

I put one in the oven for ma tea,

I went into the lobby, to fetch ma Uncle Bobby,

And the sausage came after me.

“I didn’t ask Miss Gough what she was doing on Monday,” he whispered, “and I didn’t want to upset her further by asking her now. Do you know?”

“She was with me all morning. We were cleaning the church. Oh, why didn’t the poor soul say anything about her worries?”

“Never mind. Look after her. But keep telling her it’s all over. Nothing to worry about anymore.”

It was hard on the older generation, thought Hamish as he walked away and eyed a group of youths lounging by the waterfront: white, pinched faces, gelled hair, dead eyes. Respectability was all. They’d kept themselves decent all their lives and done their bit for the church. The generations that came after couldn’t give a toss. He sighed and made his way to the fish and chip shop. It was closed. He looked at the opening hours. Didn’t open until five in the afternoon. He saw there was a flat above the shop and a door beside the plate glass window, which probably led to the upper premises. He rang the bell and waited. Then he heard footsteps clattering down the stairs. The door opened. A thin little man stood there, his face a mass of bad-tempered wrinkles and broken veins. “Mr. Swithers?” asked Hamish.

“Aye, what d’ye want?”

“I’m making enquiries into the death of Crystal French.”

“What’s that to do with me?”

“Can we go inside?”

“I suppose. Place is a mess, mind.”

He scampered up the stairs and Hamish followed him. A door at the top of the stairs led into a living room that made the word ‘mess’ seem like a euphemism. Overflowing ashtrays lay about, empty bottles, dirty clothes, greasy plates. Hamish lifted a pile of smelly clothes off a chair, sat down, and pulled out a notebook.

“Where were you on Monday?” he asked.

“Here. Why?”

“Crystal French’s researcher contacted you with a view to doing a piece on you.”

“So she did. I told her to get stuffed and slammed the phone down.”

“Was it because you were charged with wife beating?”

“That was years ago and Ruby, the wife, dropped the charges.”

“And where is your wife?”

“Left me right after. Silly cow. Down in Inverness with her mother.”

“So where were you on Monday?”

“Like I said, here.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None. I slept late. Got up about noon and started getting things ready for the evening trade. More work these days. Not happy with just the fish and chips anymore. Deep-fried pizza and chips, Mars Bars and chips. I’m telling you, changed days.”

“So no one can give you an alibi?”

“Why would I need an alibi? I wasn’t going to have anything to do with those TV people anyway. But you can ask the locals. I’ve lost my driving licence and the only way for me to get to Lochdubh is on the bus and the bus doesn’t run on Mondays.”

Hamish drove slowly back to Lochdubh. His thoughts turned to Felicity Pearson. He would ask Jimmy Anderson if it was possible for him to interview her.

Jimmy was waiting for him at the police station. A mobile police unit had been set up outside the village on the back road where Crystal’s body had been found, and Hamish could see uniformed policemen going from house to house.

Jimmy followed Hamish into the police station and held out a chocolate biscuit to Lugs, who turned his head away. “What’s up wi’ your dog?”

“If he eats chocolate he gets his teeth cleaned, and he doesnae like getting his teeth cleaned. So what’s new, Jimmy? What about that hose that was in the car? They trace it?”

“They are trying. It was ordinary garden hose. Could have come from anywhere.”

“I’ve been thinking, Jimmy, am I still in Carson’s favour?”

“As far as I know. I mean, I don’t think he approves of you, but he’s sharp enough to want to pick your brains. Why?”

“I would like permission to interview Felicity Pearson.”

“Why her? And didn’t you interview her already, when you sat in on Carson’s interview?”

“I’ve a funny feeling about her. I’d like to know more about her.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Did you get anywhere with the people on the list?”

“Och, not a hope.”

“You’d better send over your report.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Just a wee word of advice. You’ve got your mind so set on Felicity Pearson, it could stop you looking hard enough at other suspects.”

Hamish looked at him haughtily. “I do not haff the closed mind. When did I effer haff the closed mind?”

Jimmy knew by the sudden sibilance of Hamish’s accent that he was seriously annoyed. Jimmy, who knew about Priscilla’s engagement, thought that the news of that was turning Hamish’s mind away from its usual clear logic.

“Tell me about the others,” he said.

Hamish went over what they had all said, leaving out only the attempted suicide of Maisie Gough. If Sergeant Macgregor leaned of that, it would be all over Cnothan.

“Those two sons of the Harrison woman,” said Jimmy, “Iain and Jamie, now they’re a bad lot. They’ve been in trouble a couple of times for drunk and disorderly.”

“So have an awful lot of people in the Highlands.”

“But you must admit, they’re brutal and devoted to their mother. Did you have a word with them?”

“No.”

“Why not, Hamish?”

“Because I feel the further we get away from the television people, the further we get away from solving the murder.”

“Hamish Macbeth, you forget you are supposed to be the village bobby, conscientious and plodding. Before you put your report in, I would suggest you go and see them.”

“Is that an order?”

“I’m just covering your back for you, man.”

Hamish sighed. “I’ll go now.”

As he drove to Braikie, he turned over what Jimmy had said, and his common sense told him that he was in danger of letting things slip. The Harrisons’ croft lay out on the far side of Braikie. As he was driving along the main street, Ian Chisholm darted out in front of the Land Rover and waved to Hamish to stop. Ian Chisholm ran the garage in Lochdubh but had recently opened up a laundrette in Braikie.

Hamish stopped and opened the window. “It’s them gypsies,” panted Ian. “Look over there.” He pointed to the laundrette. Spray painted in red on the window was the legend:
THE MACHINES IN THIS LAUNDRETTE ARE ALL BROKEN DOWN LIKE THE SILLY OLD FART WHO OWNS THEM
.

Hamish bit back a smile. “Are you sure it’s the gypsies?”

“Who else? I caught them fiddling with the dials with a screwdriver, trying to get free washes.”

“Why didn’t you report it?”

“You take on one gypsy and you take on the lot.”

“I’ve got to see someone first and then I’ll have a word with them.”

Iain and Jamie Harrison were both sitting in the kitchen of their croft house when Hamish drove up. They went out to meet him. They were both squat burly men, both bachelors, both truculent.

Hamish climbed down from the Land Rover and faced them. “I would like to know where you pair were last Monday.”

“Why?” demanded lain.

“A woman was murdered, or didn’t you hear?”

“Oh, the television lassie. Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Jamie. “What’s it got to do with us?”

“Your mother had a hard time at her hands. You both had a reason to hate her. So where were you?”

“Mending dry stone walls. Sheep knocked down a length over the back field.”

“I’ll have a look.”

Hamish strode off, his regulation boots squelching in the soggy grass. Trails of misty rain were drifting over the mountains and a curlew set up its mournful call from the heather. The air was balmy and sweet with the smells of wild thyme and heather. He came to the wall. Sure enough, a long stretch of it showed signs of repair, but who could say they had done it on Monday?

He returned to where they were still waiting. “Any witnesses to the fact that you were working on that wall on Monday?”

“Matt Soutar ower the next croft came by for a crack and to ask us if we’d do one o’ his walls. He was with us most of the morning.”

Hamish left them and called on the next croft, where Matt Soutar confirmed the Harrisons’ story. Hamish studied the crofter’s face as he talked, knowing that Highlanders could be accomplished liars, but Soutar seemed honest enough.

Now for the gypsies, he thought.

Go, and catch a falling star
,

Get with child a mandrake root
,

Tell me where all past years are
,

Or who cleft the Devil’s foot
.

—John Donne

T
he gypsies had loaded up their sideshows and rides. There was bustle everywhere. They were preparing to move on.

Hamish had dealt with them many times before, complaining about squint sights on the rifles at the shooting gallery, coconuts glued down at the coconut shy, and blocks of wood under the prizes at the hoopla stand that were just that clever fraction too big, to ensure that no hoop would fall cleanly over the prize. The senior member of the gypsies was John Grey. Hamish headed for his trailer.

John opened the door to him. “I wisnae there,” he said immediately, “and I’ve got twenty witnesses to the fact.”

“I’m sure you have,” retorted Hamish wearily. “But I’m sure we can both save a lot of time. You do what I tell you, and then I don’t need to turn this camp over for a can of red spray paint or haul you into the police station for questioning. You will go to the laundrette and wash that paint off the window.”

“It wisnae me.”

“It was one of you. There’s a lot of police in Lochdubh because of this murder. I can get them over here to turn every single place over.”

They stared at each other. John Grey’s eyes, Hamish noticed for the first time, were an odd silvery colour. They reminded him of Elspeth’s eyes. What had she said? We have these feelings sometimes. We? He had never asked Elspeth where she came from.

John Grey nodded. It was enough. Hamish knew that headquarters would have been furious if he had taken their manpower away. He turned away and then turned back. “Know anyone called Elspeth Grant?”

A sort of cloud veiled John Grey’s eyes—a sure sign, Hamish knew of old, that the man was about to lie. “Cannae say I’ve heard of her.”

Hamish walked away. He would ask Elspeth where she came from.

As he drove back to Lochdubh, he noticed the nights were beginning to get dark early. Soon there would only be a little light during the day as the long northern winter set in. The stars were blazing overhead. His stomach rumbled. He had forgotten to get anything to eat.

Back at the police station, he fed Lugs and himself and then phoned Jimmy Anderson. “Did you ask whether I could interview Felicity Pearson?” he asked.

“Aye, and I’ve set up an interview for you. She’ll see you at her place in the morning.”

“Where’s that?”

“Thon flats on the Inverness road, number twenty-five, flat two A.”

“What time?”

“Nine o’clock. She’s due at work at ten.”

“Grand, Jimmy. One thing. That hat and glasses that Sean Fitzpatrick saw the driver of the BMW wearing. Any places been searched?”

“Everyone’s home has been searched, including the managing director.”

“And what about the video camera at the garage? Get any film of her leaving?”

“Yes. Getting in her car, but no hat and glasses and with her hair up.”

“So she wasn’t attacked at home. Thanks for the chance of the interview.”

“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Hamish. She’s just a faded wee thing. I don’t think she could swot a fly.”

“I’ll let you know how I get on.”

“You’ll do more than that. You’ll come round here afterwards and type out a report.”

“Aye, I’ll do that.”

As Hamish put down the receiver there was a knock at the kitchen door. When he opened it, Elspeth was standing there. Instead of her usual rag bag of thrift shop clothes, she was wearing a cherry red dress under a smart black coat. Hamish wondered if she had dressed up for him. “You’re looking smart,” he said, ushering her into the kitchen.

“I’ve just got back from a charity fashion show in Inverness.” She swung off her coat. I might have known, thought Hamish. No woman’s going to go to the trouble of dressing up for me. The red dress clung to her, revealing that she had an excellent high-breasted figure.

“So what brings you?” asked Hamish.

“Friendly call. How’s it going?”

“Dead ends everywhere.”

“I’ve been thinking. I can’t believe Crystal would wear a large hat and glasses. She liked everyone to recognise her.”

“Well, they think she was stunned outside the car. So there’s a good chance the murderer was the one in the hat and glasses. Where are you from, Elspeth?”