Death of a Scriptwriter (16 page)

‘Whit!’ Ailsa shrieked.

‘Keep your voice down,’ whispered Eileen urgently. ‘Colin is over there near the bar, holding hands with a blonde woman.’

‘It could be some parishioner that he is consoling.’

‘You didn’t see the look on his face.’

‘Crivens!’ said Ailsa. ‘That wee man. I’d never have believed it. Did he see your hair?’

Eileen shook her head. ‘He was too wrapped up in that woman.’

‘Are you going over there to confront him?’

There was a silence while Eileen looked down at her hands. Then she said, ‘No, I’m not.’

‘But you’ll speak to him this evening?’

‘Maybe not.’

Ailsa looked at her curiously. ‘You look a bit shocked, but not furious or distressed.’

Eileen gave a small smile. ‘Maybe I’m in shock.’

Ailsa took a meditative sip of a blue cocktail called Highland Wind, tilting her head so that the little tartan umbrella sticking out of the top of the concoction did not get in her eye.

‘It’s a rare piece of gossip.’

‘You’re not to talk about it,’ said Eileen fiercely, ‘not to Jock, not to anyone.’

‘All right.’

‘Promise?’

‘Cross my heart.’

‘We’d best take our time until Colin leaves,’ said Eileen. ‘Do you know what amazes me?’

‘What? I thought the whole business of Colin being maybe unfaithful to you would be enough puzzlement.’

‘That woman is wearing a ton of make-up and dyed hair, yet if I put on so much as lipstick, he shouts at me that it is not fitting for the wife of a minister.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t puzzle me at all,’ said Ailsa. ‘Men were aye the same. The minute they’ve got you, they start to try to get rid of all the things about you that
attracted them to you in the first place.’

And despite her bewilderment at her husband’s behaviour, Eileen felt once more enfolded in the world of women, a world banded together against the peculiar alien world of men.

It took Hamish Macbeth some time to find Angus’s path. At last he located it and found his way up the mountain, searching all the while for clues. But by the time he had
nearly reached the top, an easier climb than the other path, he found to his surprise, he had found nothing at all. The path looked as if no one had used it for years but rabbits and deer.

Still, anyone using the path could have easily reached the bit under that outcrop of rock. But how would anyone know Penelope was to stand there? Was it in the script?

He thought after some reflection that the murder had not been premeditated. Either Fiona or Gervase or Harry had seen the opportunity to get rid of her and had taken it. Right under the outcrop
was a flat, sheltered bit where someone could have stood. Harry could have easily slid down there, reached up and pulled Penelope’s ankle to overbalance her. Fiona could have run off in the
mist and done the same, or Gervase. And where had Patricia really been that day, and was her plea to him for help merely a blind?

Could the seer really think that Fiona had done it? If so, who had supplied him with that information? Angus rarely went out these days, but picked up gossip from his visitors. From time to time
there were articles in the newspapers on ‘the seer of the Highlands’, and he had been on television several times.

He noticed how clearly he could hear all the voices of the men still searching the heathery plateau above.

Anyone lurking down here could have heard the instructions to Penelope.

He made his way back down the mountain and headed for Drim Castle to learn that Patricia had been taken off to Strathbane for further questioning. The information was supplied by Fiona.

‘So what happens now?’ asked Hamish.

‘To Patricia?’

‘No, to the TV show.’

‘We go on. Mary Hoyle is flying up today. She’s a competent actress.’

‘I’ve seen her in some things. Hardly a blonde bombshell.’

‘It’ll take a few alterations to the script, but we’ll manage.’

Hamish studied her for a few moments and then asked, ‘Do you think Patricia did it?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Fiona, puffing on a cigarette which Hamish was pleased to note was ordinary tobacco.

‘Why?’

Fiona put down her cigarette and ran her hands through her short-cropped hair. ‘None of us could have done it. I’ve worked with all these people before. It’s not in them. But
writers! Take it from me, they’re all mad with vanity. They don’t understand how television works, and they expect us to dramatize every dreary word they’ve written.’

‘It could be argued that murder is not in Patricia, either. She is very conscious of being a lady.’

‘“God bless the squire and his relations, and keep them in their proper stations”,’ quoted Fiona.

‘Aye, something like that. Is Sheila around?’

‘She’s been taken to Strathbane for questioning as well. She was heard shouting to Penelope, “I hope you break your neck.”’

‘Have they taken in Gervase Hart?’

‘No, not him.’

‘I wonder why. He was overheard telling Penelope he’d kill her.’

‘Who told you that?’ demanded Fiona sharply.

‘Meaning you’ve told them all to shut up, except when it comes to Sheila.’

‘That’s not the case at all.’

Hamish sighed. ‘Lies, lies and more lies. Don’t go around trying to hide things from the police. All it means is that a lot of innocent people get grilled by Blair when the murderer
could be running around loose.’

He decided to spend what was left of the day trying to find out if anyone had seen Patricia on the morning of the murder. He drove over to Golspie and learned that the police had already
questioned the waitresses at the Sutherland Arms Hotel and had found that Patricia did indeed have lunch there. No one had noticed that her manner was anything out of the way. She had, for example,
not been muttering and talking to herself as she had been on the day that Dr Brodie had found her. But although he diligently checked around Golspie – calling first on Hugh Johnston, the
owner of Golspie Motors, the main garage – no one had seen Patricia or her car. It was a white Metro. Perhaps she had stopped somewhere for petrol. He drove miles, checking at petrol stations
without success.

* * *

Colin Jessop, the minister, arrived back at the manse and called, ‘Eileen!’ No one answered. He went through to the kitchen. There was a note on the kitchen counter.
It read, ‘Gone to Inverness with Ailsa. If I am not back, there is a casserole of stew in the fridge. Just heat it for your dinner.’

He glared at the note and then crumpled it into a ball. It was this silly film business of Eileen’s that was making her forget her duties as a wife. Well, as soon as she got back, he would
put a stop to it.

He ate his solitary dinner, looking all the time at the kitchen clock. At nine o’clock he heard a car drive up.

He got to his feet.

His wife came in. He stared at her in outrage, at her make-up and at her dyed hair.

‘You look a disgrace,’ he shouted, the veins standing out on his forehead. ‘You will go and wash that muck off your face, and tomorrow you will get your hair put back to
normal, and then you will stop this film business which is leading you into the paths of sin.’

Eileen looked at him coolly. ‘At least my hair is not bleached blonde. I was in that new restaurant in Inverness today. What’s it called? I know. Harry’s. That’s the
place. You see some interesting sights in there. I wonder what your parishioners would say if I described one of the sights I saw. But I’ll say no more about it, Colin. The hair stays, the
make-up stays and the filming goes on.’

He sank down slowly into his chair. Eileen gave him a gentle smile and went out, quietly closing the kitchen door behind her.

Hamish sat in front of the computer that evening. He tried Blair’s password again, fully expecting to find it had been changed; but unlike before, for some reason, his
hacking had not yet been discovered.

He studied the reports.

Fiona King said she had backed off a little because she wanted a cigarette and Giles Brown, the director, couldn’t bear the smell of cigarette smoke. Gervase Hart said that he was bored
and had strolled off a bit, looking for somewhere to sit down. Sheila said she had shown Penelope where to stand and then had gone back to join the others. Giles Brown confirmed that Sheila had
been beside him when Penelope had screamed, so she could not possibly have done it. Harry Frame said he had gone off to find a quiet place in the mist for a pee. Patricia kept to her story about
driving mindlessly around. No, she had not stopped for petrol. She had had a full tank when she set out.

Hamish ploughed on through all the reports from various members of the television company, from the estate staff at Drim Castle, from

the villagers of Drim.

He sat back, bewildered.

Who on earth could have murdered Penelope?

The clue to it must lie somewhere in her background, and that background lay in Glasgow.

He picked up the phone and called Detective Sergeant Bill Walton of the Glasgow police, an old friend. He was told Walton was off duty that day, so he called his home number.

‘So it’s you, Hamish,’ said Bill cheerfully. ‘My, you do have exotic murders up there. All we’ve got here is pedestrian jobs like slashings, muggings and drugs. No
beautiful actresses.’

‘It’s this Penelope Gates, Bill,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s a mess.’ He outlined the suspects. ‘You see what I mean?’ he said finally. ‘Any of them
could have done it. It was a simple murder where someone saw an opportunity of getting rid of her. I don’t think it was planned. So I was wondering if you had been on the case, if there was
anything in Penelope’s background.’

‘I’ve been working on it a bit,’ said Bill, ‘and yes, I’ve been digging into Penelope’s background. She comes from a pretty slummy home in
Parkhead.’

‘And how did she manage to get to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art?’

‘That was the mother. Saw her daughter as a modern Shirley Temple, always putting her into children’s competitions, all curls and frilly dresses. Got the money out of a doting uncle
who keeps a newsagent’s in Cumbernauld. Violent, bullying father, minor offences, drunk and disorderly mostly.’

‘Any boyfriends in the past?’

‘I gather mother kept her under wraps and was furious when she married Josh. Would guess our Penelope was a virgin until she married Josh, unless that uncle she hated meddled with her. He
was suspected at one time of child abuse, but nothing was ever proved.’

‘Could be that uncle. She could have threatened to expose him.’

‘Uncle was on holiday in Tenerife when the murder happened. I saw that writer woman on television. My money’s on her.’

‘Why?’

‘She came across as arrogant as sin and as cold as hell.’

‘She’s quite vulnerable,’ said Hamish slowly. ‘In fact, she offered to pay me to find out who really did it.’

‘Could have done that to throw you off the scent.’

‘Don’t think so,’ said Hamish with a flash of arrogance. ‘I do haff the reputation up here.’

‘Okay, Sherlock, but I don’t think I can help you.’

‘There’s another thing. That death of Jamie Gallagher. I’ve got a feeling in my bones that Josh didn’t do it.’

‘So just suppose for a minute you’re right. Who would want to get rid of both Jamie and Penelope?’

‘Fiona King,’ said Hamish. ‘The producer. She’s a hard-bitten, pot-smoking woman, and her job was under threat from both of them.’

‘Could she have killed Penelope? She was on the wrong side of the camera, if you know what I mean.’

‘She could have sprinted off through the mist. The mist and the heather block out sound.’ He described the outcrop and the little space underneath.

‘But no matter how thick the mist, Penelope would have seen her or at least heard her.’

‘I thought of that, but she could have muttered something like “Just checking”, slid over the edge and waited.’

‘You’re making my head ache, Hamish, but if anything comes up, I’ll let you know.’

Hamish said goodbye and rang off.

Almost immediately the phone rang. It was Jimmy Anderson.

‘Just thought you would like to know,’ he said, ‘Patricia Martyn-Broyd collapsed under Blair’s grilling and was taken off to hospital in Strathbane. Posse of lawyers from
the TV company moved in. Police harassment and all that. Blair is in deep shit.’

‘I’ll go and see her. Aren’t you coming for your whisky?’

‘Can’t get away.’

‘I’ll drop in and see you after I’ve seen Patricia.’

‘Patricia, is it. Quite matey, are you?’

‘Love her to death,’ said Hamish.

He said goodbye to Jimmy and went out and got into the police Land Rover. As he drove along the waterfront, he saw with a sort of amazement that Lochdubh, tranquil in the evening light, looked
the same. The fishing boats were chugging out down the sea loch from the harbour, children played on the shingly beach, the mountains soared up into the clear air and people were coming and going
from Patel’s shop, which stayed open late.

He reached the hump-backed bridge which spanned the road leading out of Lochdubh and then put his foot down on the accelerator and sped towards Strathbane.

It was only when he was halfway there that he remembered he had not delivered the fish to Angus. The Highland part of him hoped the seer would not zap him with something bad, but the commonsense
side told himself severely that such a fear was ridiculous.

A woman police constable was on duty outside Patricia’s hospital room. ‘She’s sleeping,’ she told Hamish when he arrived. ‘They gave her a
sedative.’

‘What was she like when she was brought in?’ asked Hamish.

‘Weeping and mumbling.’

‘I’ll go in and sit with her for a bit.’

The policewoman sat down again and flipped open the magazine she had been reading. ‘Suit yourself. But I don’t think she’ll wake up for ages.’

Hamish went in. Patricia Martyn-Broyd looked very small and frail under the bedclothes. Her face had a waxen pallor. Damn Blair, thought Hamish, he’s gone too far this time.