Hamish Macbeth 18 (2002) - Death of a Celebrity (4 page)

Hamish reported briefly how he had found the car with the engine still running.

“Thank goodness it seems a straightforward case of suicide,” said Carson.

“As to that,” said Hamish cautiously, “she’s got a lump on the back of her head.”

Carson had a long face, a long, thin nose and drooping eyelids over pale eyes. Those eyes raked Hamish up and down. “Are you a qualified medical examiner?”

“No, sir. But…”

“But nothing. You will say nothing about this until the experts have done their job. Go back to your station, type out your report, and then question the people in the village to see if there are any witnesses to her arrival, see if anyone saw anything.”

Hamish saw Detective Jimmy Anderson eyeing him sympathetically. As Hamish walked past him, he whispered, “Get the whisky ready. I’ll try to drop in later.”

When he got back to the police station, the phone was ringing. He picked up the receiver. Daviot’s voice came down the line, sharp and anxious. “What’s happening?”

Hamish described how he had found Crystal. “It’s a blessing in a way,” said Daviot. “Nice, neat little suicide. Wraps it up. No fuss, no scandal.”

“There is one thing, sir,” said Hamish. “She’s got a lump on the back of her head. Someone could have socked her and then faked the suicide.”

“You must be mistaken. A lot of people have bumpy heads—naturally, I mean. These television people are often prone to depression. It’s the life they lead. What does Carson say?”

“At the moment, he is of the opinion it’s suicide, but to my mind that’s wishful thinking.”

“Carson is a good man and a highly experienced officer. Anyway, if it were murder, guess who would be the first suspect?”

“Who?”

“You,” said Daviot nastily and slammed down the phone.

Now, I could look at it this way, thought Hamish, sitting down in front of his computer. I could go along with it and do a report and not mention that bump. If I mention it, they’ll need to do something about it. They all want it to be suicide. She was investigating the methods of the Highland police, finishing with me. On the other hand, this is my parish and there’s a murderer out there. I’m sure of it. Someone as vain and egocentric as Crystal French would never commit suicide, but on the other hand, a lot of people must have wanted her dead.

He began to type. He wrote about how he had found the car with the engine still running, and that from the colour of Crystal’s face, she had died of carbon monoxide poisoning. But he had felt the back of her head and found that lump, and in his opinion, she could have been stunned and a suicide faked.

He worked steadily and then sent the report off to Strathbane. Now, he thought, I’d better have a word with our astrologer.

He walked along to the
Highland Times
. There was no receptionist. The street door led straight into the editorial room. Sam Wills looked up as he entered. “Grand story, Hamish,” he said. “Pity it hadn’t happened later in the week. It’ll be old news by the time the paper comes out next Monday.”

“Pity that,” said Hamish sarcastically. “Your astrologer about?”

“Elspeth’s still out. Great girl that. Can turn her hand to anything.”

“What about murder?” asked Hamish and walked out leaving Sam staring after him.

He saw Elspeth walking towards him along the waterfront. When she came up to him, he said, “I want you to come with me to the police station. There are a few questions I want you to answer.”

Once at the station, he led her into the office and said curtly, “Sit down.”

“What are those television lamps and cables doing here?” asked Elspeth.

“I was supposed to give Crystal an interview. Now, I read your horoscopes this morning…”

“Another fan?”

“Be serious. You knew Crystal was a Scorpio. I think all that stuff about not going outdoors was directed at her. And Libra? Death was going to solve my problems?”

Elspeth looked guilty. “I thought it was worth a try. I thought I was doing you a favour.”

“How?”

“Well, Crystal was fascinated to find out I was an astrologer. She believes all that stuff. She said she would get the paper today. I thought she might stay home and let you off the hook.”

“Why should you do that for me? You don’t even know me.”

“I was sick of that trouble-making bitch. I just wanted to give her a fright.”

“Someone did more than that.”

Elspeth’s eyes widened. “You mean it isn’t suicide?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you said…”

“Forget it.”

There came a tentative knock at the kitchen door and then Harry, Tom, John, and Felicity came into the office. “We’ll just pack this stuff up,” said Harry, “and be out of your way.”

“I would like to ask you a few questions,” said Hamish. “That will be all, Miss Grant. I’ll be speaking to you again.”

He waited until she had left and then he said, “Was Miss French depressed in any way?”

“Not that I could see,” said Harry. “What about you, Tom?”

The director shrugged. “She has a new director each week. I’ve been brought up from Manchester. I didn’t even speak to her. The producer would know more about it.”

“Who is the producer?”

“Alistair Campbell.”

“And he doesn’t come out with you?”

“No,” said Tom, “that’s the job of the director. I take the film back and the producer looks at the rushes and does the editing. He picks the directors as well.”

Hamish turned to Felicity. “Would you say she was depressed?”

“Well…she was very edgy lately. She’d been getting a lot of nasty letters. I think they were getting her down. No one wants to be that hated.”

“Had she been married?”

“No,” said Felicity. Her pale, weak features seemed to tighten. “Although rumour has it she was having an affair with the head of features and that she’d moved into the bed of the managing director.”

“Names?”

“Callum Bissett’s the managing director and Rory MacBain is the head of features.”

“And are both men married?”

“Yes,” said Felicity. “You mean, that might have made her depressed? Only being able to attract married men?”

“No, I didn’t mean that at all. Are you her usual researcher?”

“I’m really a producer,” said Felicity. “I’m between shows. Just helping out. I did the village shop one, but Amy Cornwall did the crofter thing.”

“If you could all leave your extension numbers at Strathbane Television, I would like to speak to you all again.” He passed over a notepad and they all wrote their numbers on it.

“Where did Crystal French come from?”

“Edinburgh,” said Tom.

“And what did she produce there?”

“She was only a researcher,” said Harry. “It was Rory who brought her up and promoted her to presenter. At first we could see his point. She was a real stunner, and we don’t have any of those around Strathbane Television. But what a bitch! The minute the show went national, she demanded a bottle of champagne to be put in her dressing room every day. She queened it around the place. I don’t think there was one person she was nice to.”

“If she was having affairs with these two men, she must have been nice to them.”

“Oh, she was nice to anyone she thought could be useful,” said Harry.

They packed up their gear and left.

Hamish sat down at the computer again. He typed out all the gossip they had given him about Crystal and sent it off. Then he set off around the village, looking for witnesses, but no one seemed able to help him until Mrs. Wellington volunteered the information that Willie Lamont, formerly a policeman and now working at the Italian restaurant, often walked his dog along the back road. Hamish headed for the restaurant.

Willie was there, scrubbing the floor. The delight of Willie’s life was cleaning.

“It’s yourself, Hamish,” he said, throwing the scrubbing brush into a pail of soapy water.

“Have you heard about Crystal French’s death?”

“Aye, a bad business. I mean, no one’ll miss her, but it’s bad she had to choose Lochdubh to commit suicide in.”

“I’m told you usually walk your dog up the back road. Did you see anything or anybody?”

“Fact is, I didnae take the beast a walk this morning. Just let it out into the garden.”

“Why was that?”

Willie looked uncomfortable. Then he said sheepishly, “I’m a Scorpio.”

“You mean that rubbish about not going out of the house?”

“There could have been something in it.”

“I’m surprised you even turned up for work!”

“Lucia made me go.” Lucia was his Italian wife and a relative of the owner. “She said it was a lot of rubbish. But I’ll bet thon Crystal was Scorpio.”

“Let me know if you hear anything, Willie. I’m going back up there.”

“Blair handling the case?”

“No. Thank God the scunner is away, although I think his replacement is going to be every bit as nasty.”

That evening, Detective Chief Inspector Carson was studying Hamish’s reports. He sent for Jimmy Anderson. “Tell me about this Hamish Macbeth,” he said, tapping the reports.

“Oh, he’s a clever one is Hamish,” said Jimmy. “Matter of fact, I was just about to go over to see him. He picks up things the ordinary copper misses.”

“I want to think this was suicide,” said Carson. “But Macbeth said she had a lump on the back of her head. He seems to think someone stunned her unconscious and then faked the suicide.”

“Aye, that’s Hamish for you. Always pointing out something no one wants to believe, and it always turns out to be right.”

“I haven’t had the pathologist’s report yet.” Carson sat frowning. “Did Macbeth get on well with Blair?”

“Not always. Hamish’s methods are a bit unorthodox.”

“I’ve a feeling we might need an unorthodox mind on this one. Go over and have a chat with him and find out what else he knows.”

“It might have been someone she knew,” said Hamish that evening, pouring Jimmy a generous measure of whisky.

“How d’ye figure that out?”

“Of course someone could have hidden in the backseat of her car, waiting for the right moment. But it’s more likely she gave a lift to someone.”

“But if she was slugged on the back of the head, it would need to be someone behind her. I mean, if she gave a lift to someone, then that someone would surely sit in the passenger seat.”

“True. But wait a bit. I wish we had that pathologist’s report. She could have been socked on the head somewhere else and driven to a quiet spot, like that back road.”

“She left Strathbane Television in the morning, so it wasn’t done in the dark,” said Jimmy. “I mean, it’s taking an awfy risk, to set up a suicide in broad daylight. Anyone might have come along.”

“Willie Lament often walks his dog there, but he was too feart to go out.”

Jimmy’s foxy face was a study. “Why?”

“He read his horoscope in the newspapers, warning Scorpios not to go out.”

Hamish bit his lip and wished he had said nothing about the horoscope. Elspeth had tried to do him a favour.

But Jimmy’s blue eyes were surveying him. “I don’t suppose our Crystal was a Scorpio?”

“As a matter of fact she was.”

“Now, there’s a thing. Got that horoscope?”

Hamish wanted to say he had thrown the paper away, but Jimmy would simply go and buy one. The damage had been done.

He reached a long arm behind him and handed the newspaper to Jimmy.

The detective flipped through the newspaper and then read aloud.

All the trouble you have caused will come back to haunt you and violently, too. Don’t leave home on Monday. Lock the doors and close the curtains and do not even answer the phone. If you go out, then something terrible will happen to you.

Jimmy put down the newspaper. “Who wrote this?”

“Lassie called Elspeth Grant.”

“Did you ask her why she wrote this? There was nothing in your report.”

“Look, don’t tell Carson. She was trying to help me.”

“You mean get you out of the interview?”

“Aye. She knew Crystal was a Scorpio and she knew Crystal believed in horoscopes. Forget about her for the moment, Jimmy. Did Crystal tread on any toes at Strathbane Television?”

“A lot, I should think. But for the moment, they’re all saying what a darling she was, including Felicity Pearson.”

“Why do you mention her?”

“She was producer of the
Countryside
programme. It was bumped to make way for Crystal’s show and she was reduced to researching for Crystal.”

“There’s also the husbands,” said Hamish.

“Husbands?”

“I put that in the report.”

“I just skimmed over it.”

“Crystal was having affairs with Callum Bissett, managing director, and head of features, Rory MacBain, and both men are married.”

“Could be true. Could be spite.”

“I don’t think so. Felicity was badly shaken. I suppose she and the cameraman, the director, and the sound man have been interviewed as to their movements.”

“Harry Jury and Tom Betts, camera and director, John Leslie, sound. Well, Felicity came on her own. She was supposed to go around looking for a villager who would criticise you and she couldn’t find one. Sound, camera, and director all came over in time for two o’clock in the television van.”

“And where was Felicity just before two o’clock?”

“There’s a whole list of villagers she visited. I’ve got it back at the station. At twelve noon, she finished talking to Mary Hendry. Who’s she?”

“Widow. Keeps a craft shop. Highland stuff. Tommel Castle is not pleased. They feel she’s taking trade away from their gift shop.”

“Newcomer to the village?”

“No, she’s been in the village for as long as I can remember. She just started up the business last year. Her husband died two years ago. He’d been tight with money. Crofter and ghillie. But he must have scrimped and saved all his life, for he left her a good bit of money.”

“How did her husband die?”

“Fell in the river, drunk. Went over the waterfall and was bashed to pieces on the rocks. Anyway, she confirms Felicity was with her until noon. Then Felicity went to the Italian restaurant, ate and read a book right up until two o’clock. But I’m telling you this, Hamish, I’ve a feeling we’ll have too many suspects. There’s that crofter, Barry McSween, for starters. He isn’t popular.”