She went through to the kitchen. Hamish heard her talking rapidly on her mobile phone.
Heather came back. “They say there’s no sign of the note she typed, but why would she save it? Anyway, to humour you, I told them to get an expert to recover what he can from the hard drive.”
“And how long will that take, ma’am?”
“Forever and a day. It’s being sent down to Glasgow. That fire looks as if it’s going out.”
Hamish seized the poker and prodded the smouldering peat.
She stood up and edged him aside. “That’s not the way to do it. Here!” She picked up a newspaper from an old pile of them beside the fire and spread it tightly over the hearth. “See?” she said. “It’s catching already. Oh, hell!” The newspaper in her hands suddenly caught fire and she tossed it at the hearth, where the blazing page went right up the chimney.
“You’ve done it now,” groaned Hamish. “I’ll phone the fire brigade.”
“Don’t be silly, man.” She knelt down by the hearth. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
There was a roaring in the chimney, and then a great pile of soot fell onto the fire and sent a cloud of soot over her kneeling figure.
Hamish went into the office and phoned the fire brigade, which was staffed by local volunteers.
¦
“You’ve neffer seen the like,” said volunteer fireman and crofter Perry Sutherland. “There was Hamish’s boss, black all over. They’d been drinking, too.”
And the gossip flew from house to house. “He can’t leave the women alone, not even his own superior officer,” complained Mrs. Wellington on the phone to Angela Brodie. “They were getting drunk together and that’s how the fire started.”
“I don’t see – ”
“Mark my words, it’s the duty of this village to see that our policeman gets respectably married as soon as possible!”
¦
Hamish Macbeth was lucky in that the village women liked nothing better than to enter a bachelor’s home and give it a good scrub. The next morning, despite his protests, a squad headed by the Currie sisters descended on him with mops and pails, dusters and brushes, and proceeded to clean every bit of soot out of his living room.
He thanked them profusely even though they kept giving him lectures on the benefits of marriage. He wanted to point out to the Currie sisters that they themselves had managed very well without getting married, but he feared the remark would hurt.
He left them to it and went out to the waterfront, where filming was in progress.
They had a grand day for it, thought Hamish. It was cold but clear and the sea loch lay like glass under a pale blue sky with only little wisps of cloud.
He leaned on the sea wall. The action had moved to the shingly beach. The leading actress, Ann King, was being ‘raped’ by a bearded actor in jeans and a camel coat.
Hamish saw the director, Paul Gibson, running here and there, shouting instructions. The actor who was playing the rapist stopped and shouted, “Her clothes won’t rip.”
“They should rip,” said Paul. “The costume department were told to make them rippable. Here!”
He strode up to Ann and jerked at the front of her blouse, which tore, revealing two large breasts.
There was a hiss of shock from the village onlookers. Then the minister, Mr. Wellington, appeared on the beach.
“Stop,” he cried. “You will take your filthy, indecent antics elsewhere.”
Someone put a coat over Ann’s shoulders as Paul shouted, “Take a break.” Then he walked off with Mr. Wellington.
The actors, cameramen, and soundmen made their way up onto the waterfront and disappeared inside a large trailer which served as a cafeteria.
Hamish followed them. He hadn’t had breakfast and he felt the lure of free food. Angela Brodie came up to him with Lugs on a leash. “Take your dog, Hamish. I’ve got to go to Strathbane.”
Lugs grinned up at Hamish. “Come on, then,” said Hamish. “Maybe I’ll get you some breakfast as well.”
He entered and queued up at the counter. When it came his turn, he asked for sausage, bacon and eggs, coffee, and an extra plate of sausages.
Because Hamish was in uniform, the man behind the counter thought he was an actor and dished out his request without a murmur.
Hamish sat down at a table opposite Ann. She was a pretty woman with thick hair dyed as red as Hamish’s own. Her eyes looked green because of tinted contact lenses. Bits of her bosom showed through her open coat and torn blouse, but she seemed unaware of the exposure. She watched him with amusement as he blew on the plate of sausages to cool them and then put the plate on the floor for Lugs.
“I didn’t know we had a policeman in this scene,” she said.
“I am a policeman,” said Hamish. He held out his hand. “Hamish Macbeth. And you are Ann King.”
“Do you like the show?”
“Don’t really watch it,” said Hamish. “It’s not very representative of life in the Highlands. We don’t get that much rape. Are you working on John Heppel’s script?”
“Yes. Harry Tarrant says we should do it in his memory. Your food’s getting cold.”
Hamish shovelled in two large mouthfuls and then asked, “You knew John, of course. How did you get on with the great writer?”
“I hardly spoke to him. He was a pain in the neck. He was always walking into the scene and shouting that it wasn’t faithful to his script. Paul always had to take him away and soothe him down.”
“Did he have any friends on the cast?”
“Maybe you should speak to Patricia Wheeler. She plays the honest crofter’s wife. They went around together.”
“Is she here?”
“No, she’s not in this part.”
“Listen up, everybody!” Paul Gibson stood at the entrance. “We can do the rape scene somewhere else before the locals lynch us. We’ll do the walking bits. Ann, I want you back on the beach. The first shots weren’t any good. You’ve to walk along singing to yourself and looking carefree. Cameron, you’ll be lurking behind the rocks.”
“There aren’t any rocks,” complained the actor who played the rapist.
“Then find something. We’d better get something out of this. The place is crawling with police.”
Hamish feared for the villagers. Heather must have given orders that they were all to be interviewed again.
He finished his breakfast and took Lugs back to the police station, which smelled strongly of carbolic soap and furniture polish. The women had left. He poured Lugs a bowl of water, locked up the station, and went back to the waterfront.
How many times did Paul expect Ann to walk along the beach? It seemed as if he was never going to be satisfied. At last he called, “It’s a wrap. Take a break.”
Hamish moved to the top of the steps leading up from the beach and accosted Paul Gibson.
“I would like a word with you,” he said.
“I could do with a drink,” said Paul.
“There’s a pub along by the harbour.”
“Good. We’ll go there.”
When they were seated, Hamish said, “You’re spending a long time over John’s script.”
“Well, we had to put it on one side and do another one last week.”
“But doesn’t the storyline follow one episode after another?”
“Yes, but the Heppel script was to be a one-off.”
“Might I see a copy of the script?”
“Why?”
“Might give me a clue.”
“Sally!” called Paul. Sally Quinn, the script editor, who had been standing at the bar, came over to them.
