Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity (13 page)

“Professor Tully!” he called.

The professor walked up to meet him. “Bad business about that Pearson woman,” he said.

“You were on that programme she produced,” said Hamish. “What was your impression of her?”

“Didn’t much notice,” said the professor. “I mean, all these television people seem alike to me. I miss the show. I thought we were doing well. There was me and Grace Witherington and Henry Thomson. We’re all fine Gaelic speakers and all we had to do was to chat about things in the Highlands—sheep farming, about a plan to teach Gaelic in schools, stuff like that. I used to forget there was a camera on me. We were all friends and we would chat away as if we were at our own fireside.”

“Have you an address for Grace Witherington?”

“She lives in Strathbane. Let me see, it’s one of those house conversions on the Inverness road.”

“Not the old manse where Felicity lived?”

“Come to think of it, that’s the one.”

“I’ll try her.”

“If there’s any news of the show going back on the air, will you let me know?”

“Certainly.”

“I got some good shirts out of that show.”

“Shirts?”

“Well, one time, I’d got egg on my shirt collar and they said I could have a shirt from the wardrobe department, and then they said I was to keep it. So after that, a few times, I’d deliberately spill something on my shirt so I could get a new one.”

Hamish waved goodbye. He decided to check on Lugs before going on to Strathbane. That was the trouble with dogs. They were like children. Cats you could leave to look after themselves.

When he got back to the police station, Lugs was asleep. His food bowl had not been touched.

He roused himself sleepily and stared at Hamish with a glazed look. “I know it’s dog food,” said Hamish. “But you’ve got to eat it. I can’t be cooking for you all the time.”

Lugs licked his hand and wagged his tail. Hamish looked at him doubtfully. But the animal looked healthy enough. Probably tired himself out chasing rabbits, thought Hamish.

He changed out of his police uniform and drove to Strathbane, but parked some distance from the Inverness road and started to walk. As he turned the corner into the road, he could see a mobile police van set up outside the house. If he were spotted, then Carson would hear about it and Carson would wonder what he was doing in Strathbane.

He knew from television what Grace Witherington looked like. He decided to lurk at the end of the road and see if he could spot her.

After an hour of diving behind a pillar box when he saw a police car driving past, he was about to give up when he saw Grace approaching, carrying a shopping bag. Like the professor, she was elderly, white-haired, and looked bright and intelligent.

He introduced himself and showed her his identification. “I just wanted to have a word with you about Felicity Pearson.”

“Come to the house and we’ll have some coffee.”

“I can’t do that. I’ll be honest with you. Strathbane is not on my beat, and I might be in trouble with my boss if I’m spotted, but I got talking to Professor Tully over at Bonar Bridge. He really didn’t notice Felicity at all, but I thought a lady like yourself would have a sharper eye.”

She studied him for a moment and then said, “There’s a little café around the corner. We can go there.”

They walked together into the café. Hamish ordered coffees and found them a quiet table in a corner. “You see,” he began, “living in the same flats, you must have seen more of her than most.”

“I did at one time. She seemed a harmless, humourless girl. Then when the show was axed, she took to calling on me at all hours, whimpering and complaining. At first I was sorry for her, and sorry for myself, too, for the extra money had come in handy, although I get a bit from teaching Gaelic at night classes. But I value my privacy, and I got tired of her turning up on my doorstep. She was completely self-absorbed and there was a mean and spiteful streak in her. Until she was murdered, I was sure she had killed that French woman.”

“Any proof?”

“No, I would have gone to the police right away if there had been. It was just a feeling. I thought she was paranoiac on the subject of Crystal.”

“Did you see any of the television people visiting her?”

“Rory MacBain used to call on her a few times.”

Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “At night?”

She looked amused. “I see what you’re getting at. Mostly in the evenings, and he would stay for a couple of hours.”

“Did she say anything about having an affair with him?”

“I asked her. She said pompously that she was still an important figure and that Rory liked to discuss ideas with her.”

“And did you tell the police this?”

“No, they didn’t ask. I didn’t volunteer the information. The reason I saw him was he was quite often arriving when I was leaving for my classes and leaving when I got back. I felt that to suggest to the police that they might have been having an affair might make me seem like an old gossip.”

“I think I should tell them this,” said Hamish.

“Do what you like, but how are you going to tell them if you’re not supposed to be in Strathbane?”

Hamish looked at her in dismay.

“Look, tell them you met the professor by chance and phoned me. That should cover it.”

Hamish thanked her and drove back to Lochdubh. Lugs was still lying asleep beside his untouched food bowl.

That’s it, he thought. The report can wait. Lugs is going to the vet. He loaded the sleepy, grumbling dog into the Land Rover and drove to the vet’s house.

“I’m finished for the day,” said the vet crossly.

“Please,” said Hamish. “I’m right busy with a case just now. I’m worried about Lugs. He sleeps the whole time and won’t touch his food.”

“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” said the vet with a smile. “That there dog is stuffed.”

“Stuffed?”

“A severe case of pasta, ham, and mozzarella cheese.”

“What?”

“It’s the talk of the village. He’s spent all day strolling along to the back door of the Italian restaurant where your friend Willie feeds him large plates of food. You’d better stop the animal or he’ll die of obesity.”

“Thanks,” said Hamish, feeling foolish. He carried Lugs back to the Land Rover. “I’ll deal with Willie later,” he said. “But first, I’d better do that report.”

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night
.

I will make a palace fit for you and me

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea
.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room
,

Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom
.

—R. L. Stevenson

C
arson read Hamish’s report with great irritation. He had put Hamish down as some fool whose previous exploits in police work had been much exaggerated. But once again the village constable had come up with something important that they had missed.

He decided it was time he had a face-to-face talk with Hamish.

Unfortunately for Hamish, he was strolling back to the station in an old shirt and stained trousers, swinging an empty feed pail, when Carson arrived.

“Not in uniform, Officer?” demanded Carson.

“Well, no,” said Hamish with a blinding smile, a sure sign he was about to lie. “It is my day off.”

“In the middle of an investigation of two murders, all leave has been cancelled.”

“Is that a fact?” Hamish put the pail down. “And here’s me thinking I had orders to stay off the case.”

Carson looked at him with irritation. Hamish was tall with a friendly face and hazel eyes fringed with thick eyelashes. His red hair gleamed like a beacon. Carson thought, illogically, that no decent policeman should have hair that fiery colour.

“I got your report, Macbeth,” said Carson. “I would like to discuss it with you.”

“I’ve got some coffee keeping warm on the stove, sir,” said Hamish. “We’ll go in.”

Carson followed him into the kitchen. He sat down and looked about him. There was a smell of damp dog and woodsmoke. The table was covered with a red and white checked cloth. White painted shelves held glasses and crockery. There was a wood-burning stove sending out a pleasant heat. An old round clock tick-tocked on the wall near the door. Through the window, he could see sheep cropping the grass on a field at the back.

“Your sheep?” he asked.

“Aye,” said Hamish.

“Won’t be bringing you anything these days.”

“That’s the pity o’ it.” Hamish filled two mugs with coffee and placed them on the table. Then he took a bottle of milk out of the fridge, emptied some of it into a jug, and then placed the jug along with a bowl of sugar on the table.

“The longer I keep those sheep,” said Hamish, “the more they take on individual personalities. I am afraid they will stay out there until they die of old age.”

“You do not strike me as a sentimental man.”

“I’m a practical one, sir. No use slaughtering the beasts for a few pennies.”

Hamish sat down opposite Carson. Carson frowned. He should have asked permission to sit down, but then it was the man’s own house, and Carson had come for a friendly chat.

“Can you tell me,” he began, “why Grace Witherington, with a mobile police van outside her house, should choose to phone you with this information?”

“I had been chatting to Professor Tully. He was on that Gaelic programme with her. She said she felt more comfortable talking to me about it, because the police hadn’t asked her, and she felt a bit uncomfortable relating gossip.”

“MacBain should have told us if he was having an affair with the girl.”

“What is Mrs. MacBain like?” asked Hamish curiously.

“I went to see her myself. Hard, blonde, thin, forty-ish. I didn’t mention his affair with Crystal, or rather his one·night stand. She said she had phoned him at the television station on the day of Crystal’s murder and they had a chat. There certainly is a record of that call on their phone bill, but then she could just have spoken to the switchboard. The girl who was on duty can’t remember anything.”

“I thought all these television people had direct lines these days,” said Hamish.

“Not in Strathbane, they don’t. Now, I would like to go over the first case with you from the beginning. I was angry with you for fixing your mind, it appeared, solely on Felicity Pearson. I was inclined to dismiss you as a fool. What made you so sure it was her?”

“It seemed so likely,” said Hamish. He stood up and opened the lid of the stove, shoveled in some peat, and sat down again. The clock ticked lazily, the coffee was delicious, and from outside the window came the faint bleating of sheep and cackle of hens. Carson began to have an idea why this odd policeman had either shunned promotion or sabotaged promotion. “She had lost so much that was dear to her,” said Hamish. “Rory would be running after Crystal. If he was having an affair with Felicity then that must have made her even more bitter.”

“But you did not know he was having an affair with her when you put in your initial reports.”

“True. Then it was because I sensed she was furious over losing her show. I was in her flat. All those photographs. A sort of shrine to Felicity Pearson. People always assume it’s the beautiful who are vain.”

Suddenly in Hamish’s head, he heard Professor Tully mourning the loss of his television job because it would mean no more free shirts.

Carson looked in sudden irritation at Hamish. The man was sitting as if he had been struck by lightning. His eyes were glazed and his mouth was open. Inbreeding, thought Carson sourly. Must be a lot of it in these villages.

“Wardrobe,” said Hamish faintly.

“What?” Carson half-rose to leave. Hamish Macbeth was obviously subject to mental seizures of some kind. Better humour him.

“I’m sure you do have a wardrobe. We all have a wardrobe.”

“No, no.” Hamish’s eyes were sharp and clear again. “The television station wardrobe.”

“What about it?”

“The hat and glasses that the person driving the BMW was wearing. Did anyone check the station’s wardrobe department?”

“No,” said Carson. He looked at him in amazement. Then he said, “Let’s go. Now!”

“Aye,” said Hamish, heading for the door.

“Put on your uniform first. You look a disgrace.”

Hamish meekly went off to the bedroom to put on his uniform. Carson helped himself to another mug of coffee. How was it that this village policeman could hit on things that the whole force had missed? A blinding flash of the obvious, he thought sourly. He should have thought of it himself.

A small, neat man called Derry Hunt was in charge of the wardrobe department. “Yes,” he said. “We’ve always got stuff on hand, even suits. Now Professor Tully, he turned up in a suit that strobed dreadfully, so we had to supply him with one. He wanted to keep it, but I said an odd shirt or two was all right, but a suit, no.”

“What we’re looking for,” said Carson, “is a floppy brown hat and dark glasses.”

“I might have those among the odds and ends.”

“Do you do all the wardrobe work yourself?” asked Hamish.

“No, I’ve got a wee girl who works for me. Does the ironing and mending, things like that.”

“Do you just hand over the stuff?” asked Hamish. “Or is it logged somewhere?”

“Of course it’s logged.”

“Can we see the records?” asked Carson.

Derry produced a large ledger. “No computer for me,” he said. “I wouldn’t know how to operate one. Let me see, what day are you looking for?”

“The day Crystal French was murdered. Monday, twenty-eighth August.”

“Or the day before,” put in Hamish.

He ran a long forefinger down the page. “Here we are. Brown hat, black glasses.”

“Who took them out?” asked Carson.

Hamish found he was holding his breath.

“Felicity Pearson.”

“You’re sure?” snapped Carson.

“Yes.”

“And did she return them?” asked Hamish.

“Yes, took them out on the twenty-seventh, back on the twenty-eighth.”

“Have you got them?” asked Hamish.