Death of a Scriptwriter (17 page)

He pulled up a chair and sat down by the bed and looked around. It was the usual sterile hospital room. No flowers or cards, of course. Poor Patricia.

She stirred and mumbled in her sleep. Hamish leaned forward. He felt he should let her sleep on but on the other hand did not want to return to Lochdubh without having found something out.

‘Patricia!’ he said urgently.

She mumbled again, and then her eyes opened. She looked around in a dazed way.

‘You are in the hospital in Strathbane,’ said Hamish.

‘What happened?’ she said weakly. ‘Did I have an accident?’

‘No, you collapsed while you were being interviewed by Detective Chief Inspector Blair.’

‘Who is he? Who are you?’ demanded Patricia, her eyes frightened.

‘It iss me,’ said Hamish anxiously. ‘Hamish Macbeth.’

‘I can’t remember,’ she said weakly.

‘The murder,’ he said urgently.

‘What murder? What are you talking about?’ Her thin hands began to claw the sheet.

Hamish went out into the corridor. ‘You’d better get a doctor,’ he said to the policewoman. ‘She’s in a fair state and cannae remember a thing.’

A doctor and a nurse were summoned and hurried into the room, firmly shutting Hamish outside.

Hamish and the policewoman waited in silence. Finally the doctor emerged. ‘I’ve given her another sedative, and the hospital psychiatrist will see her in the morning. She needs
absolute quiet and rest. I’ve read in the newspapers about bullying police tactics and never believed them until now. It’s a disgrace!’

Hamish went off to police headquarters in Strathbane. He met Superintendent Peter Daviot as he was going into the building. ‘Well, Hamish?’ said Daviot. ‘Any news?’

‘I called at the hospital to see Miss Martyn-Broyd,’ said Hamish. ‘She is in a bad state of shock and appears to have lost her memory.’

‘This is dreadful.’ Daviot turned and walked with Hamish back into the building. ‘Blair will need to be suspended, pending a full enquiry.’

‘And who will take over the case, sir? Jimmy Anderson?’

‘No, we need someone senior. I’ve already called Detective Chief Inspector Lovelace of Inverness to head the investigations.’

‘And what’s he like?’ asked Hamish, thinking that Lovelace sounded a friendly sort of name.

‘He is a competent officer, and that is all you need to know, Macbeth.’

Hamish went into the CID room. Through the usual haze of smoke he could see Jimmy Anderson, sitting at his desk.

‘Keeping that Scotch warm for me, Hamish?’

‘Aye, it’s there for you when you want a dram. Blair’s been suspended. I’ve just seen Daviot.’

‘Man, that’s great. My chance for glory.’

‘Sorry, Jimmy. He’s putting some man, Lovelace, from Inverness, in charge.’

Jimmy’s face darkened. ‘A new man will need to begin at the beginning. I don’t like Blair, but he’s the evil I know, if you get me.’

‘I’ve just come from the hospital,’ said Hamish. ‘Patricia’s in a right taking. Lost her memory.’

‘How convenient,’ sneered Jimmy.

‘If she’s putting it on, she’s a better actress than I would ha’ guessed,’ said Hamish. ‘I cannae help feeling we’re looking at all this the wrong way
round. Now, just supposing Josh Gates didn’t murder Jamie Gallagher and the person who really murdered Jamie murdered Penelope, who would spring to mind?’

‘Thon producer woman. Hard as nails. You could strike matches on her bum.’

‘Apart from her.’

Jimmy scowled horribly. Then he said, ‘If they were both such a threat to the success of the TV thing, then there’s Harry Frame.’

‘So there is. I might call on him.’

Jimmy looked up at the clock on the wall through the fog of cigarette smoke. ‘It’s eleven o’clock at night, man!’

‘I bet they’re all still awake. I’ll take my chances.’

Hamish found Harry Frame in the bar of the Tommel Castle Hotel. The big man was alone and slumped over a pint of beer.

‘More police,’ he said when he saw Hamish. ‘Haven’t you lot done enough? Poor old Patricia.’

‘I thought you lot considered her a pain in the neck.’

‘No one should suffer a breakdown because of police harassment,’ said Harry truculently. ‘That man Blair!’

‘Well, he’s off the case. What I am curious about is whether you believe that Josh Gates killed Jamie Gallagher.’

‘For heaven’s sake, it’s nearly midnight and I am being kept up by the daft notions of the village bobby. I shouldn’t have to tell you your job. Josh was found with
Jamie’s blood on his hands.’

‘Aye, but to my reckoning, Josh could have found the body, raised the head to see if he was dead, got blood on his hands and ran away in a panic and got drunk for the last time. Jamie was
sabotaging the series with his interference and his dull scripts. Yes, I bet they were dull, and I bet when Angus Harris turned up claiming Jamie had stolen the script of
Football Fever
, you
believed him. And Penelope Gates was starting to act like a prima donna and wanted everyone fired.’

Harry Frame stood up and loomed over Hamish. ‘You lot are in deep shit. You’ve driven Patricia into a nervous breakdown. And now you, a village copper, are threatening me.’

‘I never did.’

‘Oh, yes, you are hinting with the subtlety of an ox that I murdered both Penelope and Jamie. Your superiors will hear about this.’

Harry stormed off. Hamish looked after him curiously and then gave a shrug.

The big man could complain all he wanted. All Hamish had done was have a chat with him. Nothing would come of it.

In this, Hamish Macbeth was wrong.

The following morning, before Hamish had had time to change into his uniform and while he was repairing a broken plank on his henhouse, Detective Chief Inspector Lovelace
arrived.

Flanked by Detectives Anderson and Macnab, he stood watching Hamish until Hamish, aware of his gaze, turned round.

Lovelace introduced himself and then said curtly, ‘May we go inside? Anderson and Macnab, wait here.’

They walked indoors to the police station. Lovelace sat behind Hamish’s desk and folded a pair of white, well-manicured hands on the desk in front of him. Hamish stood before him.

Lovelace was a small, neat man with well-brushed fair hair. He had neat features and a small, prissy mouth. He looked at a corner of the ceiling and began. Hamish was to learn that Lovelace
never looked you in the eye, not out of shyness or furtiveness, but more as if he thought his august gaze was too valuable to waste on underlings.

‘We will begin by asking why you are not in uniform.’

‘I wass chust attending to a few chores.’

‘To a few chores . . . what?’

‘To a few chores, sir.’

‘You are being paid to police Lochdubh and the surrounding area, not to repair henhouses. Why did you call on Patricia Martyn-Broyd at the hospital without telling your superiors what you
were doing and why?’

‘I know Miss Martyn-Broyd. I mean, I have known her since before the murders. We are by way of being friends,’ lied Hamish. He did not want to tell Lovelace that Patricia had asked
him to find out the identity of the murderer.

‘Nonetheless, it was your duty to inform your superiors of your movements. To the even more serious matter. You bullied and harassed Mr Harry Frame last night and accused him of being a
double murderer.’

‘I did not . . . sir. I was merely interested in discussing my views with him.’

Lovelace’s gaze shifted to the window. There was a long silence.

A child shrieked, ‘Gie that back, Hughie!’ somewhere out on the waterfront, a dog barked and a wind sighed down the loch.

‘I have heard of your way of doing things,’ said Lovelace at last. ‘This is not the Wild West and you are not an American sheriff. You will not step out of line again, and in
order to make sure that you do not, I am giving you these orders. You will confine yourself to your duties as a village constable. I am now in charge of the murder inquiry. There are enough people
working under me to deal with it. Do not approach anyone concerned with the case.’

He stood up and walked to the door. Then he swung round. ‘And get your uniform on!’

After he had heard him drive off, Hamish slumped down behind his desk. He was, he thought miserably, not suited for the police force. He enjoyed his job until he ran up against the pecking order
of the British police force. Except during a major case like this, he was usually left to his own devices.

Now he could not dare go near Drim, or see Sheila, and right at that moment, he would have liked to see Sheila. She was not only pretty, there was an endearing warmth about her.

Gloomily judging that he would not have to sustain another visit that day from Lovelace, he went back to repairing the henhouse and when that job was finished, he got the trout out of the
freezer and strolled along the waterfront and up the hill to the seer’s cottage.

‘Took your time,’ said Angus by way of greeting. ‘So they’ve driven that poor woman mad, have they?’

‘How did you find out so quickly?’

Angus tapped his forehead and winked, and Hamish looked at him impatiently. ‘I wish I had your network of gossip, Angus, because I’m off the case.’

‘What’s the new man like?’

‘So you even know there’s a new man? Oh, don’t tap your forehead again. He’s a pompous little fart,’ said Hamish bitterly. ‘He called on me this
morning.’

‘And you not even in uniform. My, my.’

Hamish’s eyes fell on an expensive basket of fruit on the table. He jerked a thumb at it. ‘What’s that for? Going hospital visiting?’

‘That iss the present from a grateful client. They are not all as mean as Hamish Macbeth.’

‘Any of the TV people come to see you?’

‘That would be telling. I neffer betray the confidences of my clients.’

‘Then I won’t waste any more time with you,’ said Hamish, going to the door.

Angus followed him. ‘I warned you not to get your hopes up about that wee blonde lassie.’

‘I don’t see much hope of that,’ retorted Hamish. ‘I’ve been told to keep clear, so I probably won’t see her again.’

‘Not unless you hurry.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Herself has chust driven up to the police station.’

Hamish stared down the hillside. A car had driven up outside the police station, and he could see the glint of blonde hair as the driver got out.

He muttered an exclamation and began to run off down the hill, his long legs going like pistons.

As he arrived at the police station, Sheila was just driving off. He waved and shouted, and she screeched to a halt and then turned the car and headed back in his direction.

‘Hello, Hamish,’ she said, getting out of the car again. She was wearing a shirt blouse, shorts and sandals. Her legs were muscular but well shaped, smooth and tanned.

‘Come in and have a coffee,’ panted Hamish.

‘Where did you come from?’ Sheila asked.

‘I wass up seeing Angus Macdonald, the seer.’

‘I’ve heard of him. Any good?’

‘Nothing but an old gossip,’ said Hamish, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’ He plugged in the electric kettle.

‘That would be nice,’ said Sheila. ‘I didn’t know you had gone modern.’

‘What?’

‘The electric kettle. I thought you had to light that stove every time you wanted a cup of tea.’

‘Och, no, I only use it for cooking. Milk and sugar?’

She nodded.

‘So what brings you?’

‘I’ve got a break. There’s to be no filming today. The lawyers are locked in battle with the police. But the police have a statement from the people in Drim that Patricia had
already gone potty, so they might not get very far. I thought you’d be over with them.’

‘I’ve been taken off the case by the new man.’

‘Do you find that hard?’

‘Yes, I do. These murders took place on my beat. I know all the locals. I should not have been left out. How are things in Drim?’

‘Seething. It’s a funny place. When we first arrived, I thought it was lovely, a sort of Brigadoon, leisurely and kind. But after a bit, I got to know some of the locals that are
being used as extras. They can be quite spiteful about each other. Edie Aubrey, that thin woman who does the exercise classes, got one line to say, that was all, and the other women ganged up and
said unless they had something to say themselves, they wouldn’t appear. Fiona told them that the whole thing would go on without them and they backed down, but none of them are speaking to
Edie, and someone threw a brick through her living room window.’

‘That’s Drim for you.’

‘And Alice, the hairdresser, she also had a line to say. Now, she had an extra bathroom put in upstairs two years ago, and she never bothered getting planning permission for it, and
suddenly someone reports the existence of that bathroom to the council and she’s in trouble. And yet they all seemed like such friends.’

‘It’s a closed-down sort of place, cut off by the mountains and the loch,’ said Hamish, ‘and the winters up here are long and dark. They’ve nothing else to do but
study each other.’

‘I thought watching television would have given them a broader outlook.’

‘It narrowed it. They watch the soaps, you see, and that turns them into drama queens. One of the women confided in me last year that she had low self-esteem because her mother never said
she loved her. A Scottish mother, for heaven’s sake, does not go about telling her children she loves them. It is just something up here that’s expected to be understood. Then those
American chat shows are a curse. I ’member when a few of the biddies decided they had been sexually abused in their youth.’

‘I thought there might be a lot of incest in these villages.’

‘Not with the church being so strong. They’d be affeard that God would strike them dead. Anyway, it seems as if no one is ever going to find out what happened to Penelope. Do you
know that Harry Frame reported me to my superiors for harassment?’

‘Yes, he was fuming about that this morning. Do you think he did it? Come on, Hamish! Harry!’

‘Chust a thought,’ said Hamish huffily, because he was privately wishing he had never approached Harry Frame.