Death of a Scriptwriter (21 page)

‘Something’s been puzzling me,’ said Sheila.

‘What?’ said Mary absently.

‘I think I saw you in Drim on the day of Penelope’s murder.’

Mary threw a soiled tissue into the wastepaper basket and turned round. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Sheila Burford.’

‘I wish Harry would employ sensible, intelligent girls instead of little tarts who are all bust and no brains. You are mistaken. I was not in Drim on the day of the murder.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Do you know who you are speaking to? Get out of here and find something to do. That is, unless you are expected to do anything other than allow Harry and the other men to gawp down your
cleavage.’

Sheila, who was wearing a low-necked blouse, turned and left the caravan. Damn them all. If only she could sell that film of Eileen’s.

She took out her mobile phone and called Hamish Macbeth.

‘Thanks, Sheila,’ said Hamish when she reported the conversation.

Sheila remembered how nice Hamish was compared to the people she was working with. ‘I’m really sorry I stood you up, Hamish. I tell you what, I’ll take you for dinner on
Wednesday evening at the Napoli. It’s a firm date.’

‘Grand,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll be there.’

He rang off and stared into space while his mind raced. If only he could get down to Glasgow and start ferreting into Mary Hoyle’s movements on the day of the murder. Perhaps he could
phone in sick. Perhaps –

There was a knock at the door.

Hamish opened it.

The sun was shining once more. A tramp squinted up at him. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

Hamish beamed.

‘Come in, Sean Fitz,’ he said. ‘You’re chust the man I want to see.’

‘This is verra good of you, Officer,’ said Sean, eating biscuits and drinking tea.

He was an old bearded man with young-looking, light grey eyes in a tanned and wrinkled face. His clothes smelled of peat smoke and heather, but nothing more sinister. Sean was a clean tramp.

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking for you,’ said Hamish.

‘It wisnae me that took Mrs Hegarty’s knickers off the washing line, whateffer she might say,’ said the tramp, looking frightened.

‘Relax, Sean,’ said Hamish, ‘Nothing criminal. Now, have you heard about the murders?’

‘Over at Drim. Aye.’

‘There’s one thing I want to know. There’s a writer called Patricia Martyn-Broyd. You probably don’t know her …’

‘I know everyone,’ said the tramp. His eyes ranged round the kitchen. ‘I’m still a wee bit hungry.’

Hamish went to the freezer and took out a plastic bag of stew. ‘I’ll heat this up for you.’

‘Verra kind, I’m sure.’

‘Now, Sean, while the stew’s heating up, tell me how you know Patricia, the writer woman.’

‘I called at her cottage … oh, maybe a few months back.’

‘I didnae know you had been up here that long. Where were you before that?’

‘Down south, but it iss not the same as the Highlands.’

‘So tell me what happened when you called at the cottage.’

‘I asked her for a cup of tea and a bite and said I could do some odd jobs for her in return. Herself looked down her nose and said, “Be off with you or I’ll call the
police.”’

‘So you know what she looks like,’ said Hamish eagerly. ‘This is what I want to know. On the day of the murder of that actress, Patricia said she was in a state and chust
driving about. She has a white Metro. Did you see her anywhere?’

‘White Metro, no. That stew smells rare, Hamish.’

‘Bide your time, Sean. It won’t even be thawed out yet. What do you mean, “white Metro, no”?’

‘Chust that. I couldnae be sure, mind. I wass between here and Drim and … Here, you’re not trying to pin the murder on me!’

‘No, no, Sean,’ said Hamish soothingly. ‘What did you see?’

‘It wass misty, all swirling about, coming and going. The car wass going that slowly, I had to step out o’ the road. Herself had the dark glasses on and I ’member thinking, how
could she see on a misty day in those things, and she had a headscarf on, dark blue.’

‘So how could you tell it was her?’

‘I thought when I first saw her she looked like a witch. It wass herself all right.’

‘But the car. She wasn’t driving a white Metro?’

‘I’m no good at cars, Hamish. It wass small and black.’

‘But you are really sure it was her?’

‘Aye.’

‘And it was between here and Drim. What time of day?’

‘I’d been sleeping in the heather and had not long got up. It must haff been about six in the morning.’

Hamish stared at him for a long moment. ‘Wait here, Sean,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something to do.’

He went through to the bedroom and picked up the spilled pages of manuscript and began searching through them feverishly until he had found what he wanted. Then he went through to the police
office and phoned Jimmy Anderson.

‘I think I might be on to something, Jimmy,’ he said.

‘Hurry up, man. Thon Martyn-Broyd woman’s got her memory back and is about to be discharged and we’re all going up there with Lovelace to grovel and apologize.’

‘Is there a car firm in Strathbane where you can rent a car, a place that would be open all night?’

‘In Strathbane? Man, everything closes down as tight as a drum at six o’clock in the evening.’

‘Thanks.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Phone me later and I’ll let you know.’

Hamish had to fret and wait until he had fed the tramp and given him a few pounds. Then he took a statement from him and told him there would be more food and money for him if he reported to the
police station the following day.

Then he set out for Cnothan.

Sheila Burford’s mobile phone rang. The actors stopped acting, the camera stopped rolling and Harry Frame shouted, ‘I told everyone to switch their phones
off.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sheila, taking the ringing mobile phone out of her bag. ‘I’m expecting an important call.’

‘You’re fired,’ shouted Harry, but Sheila was already walking away, the phone to her ear.

Fiona King, watching Sheila, saw the sudden look of radiant joy on the girl’s face as she tucked the phone back into her bag.

Sheila hurried away from the filming and towards the manse.

The minister answered the door and reluctantly let her in, damning her as another of those friends who had so altered his hitherto submissive wife’s personality for the worse.

‘What is it, Sheila?’ asked Eileen, who was rolling pastry in the kitchen.

The minister went into his study and slammed the door. ‘Come outside a moment,’ whispered Sheila. ‘Great news.’

Eileen went out to the garden with her.

Sheila swung round to face her. ‘We’re a success! Scottish Television want us both in Glasgow as soon as possible. They’re buying your film!’

‘Oh, my,’ said Eileen, dazed. ‘Do I have to tell Colin? He’ll start ranting and raging again. I thought I had something on him, I thought he was having an affair with a
woman down in Inverness, but he says he was comforting a poor widow, and it’s all in my dirty mind, and he’s suddenly stopped going away on trips.’

‘Is he out today?’

‘Yes, he’s got to go to Lochdubh to see Mr Wellington, the minister over there, about something.’

‘What time?’

‘About two o’clock.’

‘I’ve got to pack up, and so have you. I’ll call round for you. You can leave him a note.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Eileen. ‘I was going to leave him anyway.’

Ailsa Kennedy came up the garden towards them. ‘Not a word,’ hissed Sheila. ‘I don’t want anyone to know until the contract’s signed.’

Sheila ran off. ‘What was all that about?’ asked Ailsa.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Eileen, feeling disloyal, but desperately improvising. ‘She just wanted to know if I would be in a crowd scene.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said Colin wouldn’t approve.’

Ailsa snorted. ‘He can’t say anything about anything after the way he’s been going on.’

‘That’s just the trouble. He says nothing has been going on and I have no proof.’

‘That’s daft. Ignore him. Come and join us. We’re all on in a few moments.’

‘No … I’ll stay here.’ Eileen held up her floury hands. ‘I’m baking.’

‘Your husband’s got you in a right state. I’ve a good mind to go in there and give him a piece of my mind, minister or no minister.’

‘I’ll see you later, Ailsa. I promise. I’ve got to get on.’

Eileen served her husband lunch and then waited impatiently until at last he got in the car and drove off. She hurried to her bedroom – she and Colin had had separate bedrooms for some
years now – and began to feverishly pack up her belongings.

When she heard a car drive up, she nearly fainted with fright, but soon she heard Sheila’s voice calling her.

She lugged two heavy suitcases down the stairs. The manse door had been open, and Sheila was standing in the hall.

‘I’d better leave a note for him,’ said Eileen. She left the cases and went into Colin’s clinically neat study.

She seized a piece of paper and wrote, ‘I’m fed up with you. I want a divorce. I’ve left you. Eileen.’

Then she slammed the study door behind her and went out to where Sheila was loading her suitcases into the boot of the car.

‘Off we go,’ said Sheila as the minister’s wife climbed in beside her. ‘Goodbye, Drim!’

‘Goodbye,’ echoed Eileen with a happy smile. She thought briefly of her husband and then shrugged. She felt she had finally become unchained from a maniac.

‘I hate this place. God, how I hate this place,’ muttered Hamish Macbeth as he started his investigations again in and around Cnothan.

The standard and cold reply to his questions was, ‘We aye mind our own business around here, Macbeth’ – from a village, reflected Hamish, as notorious as Salem during the
witch-hunts for minding everyone else’s business but their own.

By the time he stopped in at the Tudor Restaurant – fake beams, fake horse brasses, dried flowers, and what was a restaurant called Tudor doing in the Highlands? – he was feeling as
sour as the residents. As the waitress slammed down a plate of ‘Henry the Eighth Chicken Salad – throw the bones over your shoulder to the dogs!’ in front of him, he had more or
less decided to give the whole thing up.

He ate his cold dry chicken flanked by limp lettuce and wished he were Henry VIII and could have whoever in the back prepared this muck put in the stocks. He finished his dreadful meal with a
cup of coffee of a brand publicized by a well-known British transvestite, and the coffee was as much coffee as the publicist was a woman. He fished in his pocket for his wallet to pull out a note,
and as he did so a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe’s London number.

He paid for his meal and went to the nearest phone box. The graffiti inside reflected the bitterness of the inhabitants. As he dialled Priscilla’s number, he saw that someone had scrawled
across the board holding the phone instructions ‘She doesn’t love you. Go fuck yourself.’ Malice, thought Hamish, inserting a phone card and dialling the number, gives the
graffiti writer a certain vicious insight into what might hurt most.

He had become so used to rejection that day that he was almost amazed when Priscilla answered the phone after the first ring.

After the preliminary pleasantries, Hamish explained why he was in Cnothan.

‘Doesn’t this woman have any friends?’ asked Priscilla.

‘Not a one.’

‘Does she go to church?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then if she wanted to ask a favour like borrowing a car, she might go to the manse. Have you asked there?’

‘No, I didnae even think of it.’

‘You’re slipping,’ said Priscilla cheerfully.

‘This damn place is enough to make anyone’s brain slip a few cogs. Are you coming up here soon?’

‘In about two weeks’ time.’

Hamish said goodbye and rang off. Two weeks! She would be home again in only two weeks. He felt so excited that he had to calm down by forcibly reminding himself that he did not love her any
more.

At the manse he was greeted by the minister’s wife, Mrs Struthers. ‘What is it, Officer?’ she demanded sharply. ‘I am busy.’

He masked his irritation and said, ‘Did Miss Martyn-Broyd at any time ask you for the loan of a car?’

‘We don’t lend anyone our car,’ she said sharply. ‘Our insurance doesn’t cover anyone else driving it.’

He thanked her and touched his cap and was turning away when he swung back. ‘But did she ask you?’

‘Well, yes, and so late at night, too. I told her she could not have it.’

‘Did you suggest anyone who might lend her one?’

‘I said she could try old Mr Ludlow.’

‘And where does Mr Ludlow live?’

‘He is not very well, and I would not like to think of him being troubled.’

‘I am a police officer, and you are obstructing me in my enquiries. Ludlow’s address, please!’

‘Mr Ludlow to you, Officer. Oh, very well. He lives at Five, The Glebe, down at the loch.’

Hamish walked down to where the grey waters of the loch lay sullen under a low grey sky. The great ugly dam soared above the loch. He stopped and stared at it, imagining it cracking, then
bursting, then the deluge crashing through to drown the whole of Cnothan and everyone in it.

He found Mr Ludlow’s cottage. There was a garage next to the cottage.

He knocked at the door and waited.

There was a shuffling sound inside, like that of some hibernating animal turning in its sleep. The shuffling noises grew nearer, and the door was opened a crack and a rheumy eye stared at
Hamish.

‘Mr Ludlow?’

‘I havenae done anything. Go away.’

‘Nobody said you had,’ said Hamish patiently. ‘I just want a wee word with you.’

The door opened wider. Mr Ludlow was an old man on whose face a lifetime of bitterness and discontent was mapped out in the deep, dismal wrinkles on a face as grey as elephant’s skin.