¦
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 Wal-ton 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 hardbitten, 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 Ander-son.
“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.
? Death of a Scriptwriter ?
7
—Dr. Samuel Johnson
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.
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.
