He turned over the suspects in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he decided that it must surely be a member of the television company. And if it was a member of the television company, it must be someone prone to violence.
He finished his meal and decided to give up the search for Scan and return to the police station and see if he could hack into Blair’s reports once more.
But he drove slowly back, still looking to the right and left, hoping to see the tramp.
By the time he reached Lochdubh, the drizzle had thickened to a steady downpour and the waterfront was deserted and glistening in the rain.
He made himself a cup of tea and carried it through to the police office. He played back the answering machine, but there were no messages at all.
He switched on the computer and keyed in Blair’s password but this time could not get into the reports. He swore and switched off the machine and stared into space.
There was a knock at the kitchen door, and he went to answer it. Jimmy Anderson stood there. “Let me in, Hamish, I’m getting fair soaked.”
“The weather had to break sometime.”
“Aye,” said Jimmy, taking off his raincoat and hanging it up on a peg behind the door. “And folks say, “Can’t grumble, we needed the rain,” and it always irritates the hell out o’ me. It’d take a year o’ drought for the Highlands to dry up.”
He sat down at the kitchen table. “I’m sick o’ the Highlands, Hamish. I’m sick o’ Lovelace. I never thought I would want Blair back again. I’m thinking of getting a transfer to Glasgow. See a bit of life. Got that whisky?”
“Yes, and I hope you’ve some gossip for me.”
“Nothing much. Your friend Patricia still seems to have lost her memory.”
“What about
“Aye, and it’s a pity Patricia couldn’t see the changes. That Mary Hoyle is the sort of actress she’d love. No bare tits there.”
Hamish took down the bottle of malt whisky and poured two glasses. Then he lit the wood-burning stove in the kitchen to try to dispel some of the damp.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, stretching out his long legs and staring at his large boots, “that the most likely person with a motive would be one of the television company. You’ve surely been digging into their backgrounds.”
“Yes, every damn one o’ them.”
“What about Harry Frame?”
“The biggest scandal in his background is that he’s actually English. Gossip has it that he thought this Scottish independence lark was a good way to get an identity and get backing. He puts it about that he was educated in England but born in Glasgow. Actually he was born to respectable middle·class parents in Somerset. If, say, by some wild flight o’ the imagination, Penelope found that out, I hardly think he would kill her.”
“I wish it would turn out to be him,” said Hamish moodily. “Here, Jimmy, that’s good whisky, not water. You’re supposed to sip it.”
“If your whisky dries up, so does my gossip.”
Hamish refilled his glass.
“What about Giles Brown?” he asked.
“The director? Well, there’s a thing. You wouldn’t think that wee man could say boo to a goose, but he socked a copper.”
“When? Where?”
“It was in Florida a few years ago. He was filming for some television travel show about British tourists abroad. Some American copper tried to move him on, and Giles lost his rag and socked him. Got two nights in the pokey before the lawyers could get him out. But look at the time factor. He was giving the directions. He hardly had time to run off through the mist and tip her over, or, as she said, drag her over.”
“What if Penelope got it wrong?” mused Hamish. “She was dying when she told me. What if no one pulled her over, but she got one quick push from behind?”
“That would put that delicious wee blonde, Sheila Burford, in the frame.”
“Hardly. She heard her scream and ran towards the sound. What about Fiona King?”
“Done a couple of times for possession of drugs. Had a cat-fight with the woman she was living with, police called, shouting and screaming, lovers’ tiff, nothing much there.”
“What about Penelope’s past? Nothing there at all?”
“Nothing more than I’ve told you.”
Hamish leaned back in his chair and tilted the liquid in his glass. “You know, the murder of Penelope confuses things. Let’s get back to Jamie Gallagher. Angus Harris has a temper, Angus Harris finds his friend was cheated and Angus Harris stood to gain a good bit of money which he must have felt, as the legatee of Stuart’s will, he had been done out of. That would have been a good, solid motive. Where was he when Penelope was killed?”
“Touring about, but no alibi. But why would he kill Penelope?”
“Chust supposing,” said Hamish, becoming excited, “that he killed Jamie Gallagher, but that someone like Fiona, Harry or Giles killed Penelope.”
“Farfetched.”
“So let’s take another leap of the imagination. Where was Mary Hoyle on the day of Penelope’s murder?”
“Why her? No one checked. Why should they?”
“I haven’t seen her in anything for a while,” said Hamish slowly. “Look at it this way: The original idea of the script was to have sex and a stunner in the main part. What if Mary Hoyle got Harry’s ear and pointed out how much better she would be in the part?”
“And he says they’ve already got someone, so she bumps Penelope off? Come on, Hamish!”
“I haven’t met her. Is she at the hotel?”
“Aye, with the others. But you’d better not approach her or you’ll have Harry Frame running to Lovelace.”
“There’s nothing to stop me having dinner at the hotel this evening.”
“Except your wages.”
“I can afford it once in a blue moon. I’d chust like to meet her.”
“Suit yourself. More whisky?”
¦
That evening, Hamish changed into his one good suit. He would really need to buy a pair of shoes to go with it, he thought as he pulled on his boots. He drove to the hotel and went into the manager, Mr. Johnson’s, office.
“I would like to meet this Mary Hoyle,” he said.
“You might be in luck. The rest have gone down to the Napoli. She’s in the dining room, I think.”
“Any hope of a cheap dinner? Your prices are awfy steep.”
“All right, you moocher, but order the trout and nothing else. We’ve got more trout than we know what to do with. It’s Jenkins’s night off. Tell the waitress, Bessie, to give your bill to me.”
Hamish thanked him and went through to the dining room. He recognised Mary Hoyle, sitting at a corner table, reading a manuscript. As he approached, he saw from the title page that the manuscript was the television printed run-off of
“Excuse me, Miss Hoyle.” She was an attractive woman with dark hair and a clever face, not beautiful, but with a certain presence. Her eyes were striking, being large and green.
She looked up inquiringly. He sat down opposite her. “I am Hamish Macbeth, the policeman at Lochdubh. Don’t worry. I’m off duty and off the case. I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your acting.”
She smiled. “That is very kind of you.” Her voice was low and throaty.
The waitress came up. “I’ll have the trout, Bessie,” said Hamish. He looked around. “But I don’t want to be bothering Miss Hoyle…”
“Oh, stay where you are. I’m nearly finished.”
“And how are you getting on?” asked Hamish.
“Very well. It’s an easy part.”
