M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

“Liz Turnbull,” said a voice after a wait.

“Miss Turnbull,” said Hamish, “I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth of Lochdubh in Sutherland. You served Josh Gates with an ordnance survey map?”

“The man who killed that scriptwriter. Yes. He was in a right taking.”

“Now outside on the street, two policemen heard him subsequently say, “I’ll kill him.””

There was a silence, and then Liz Turnbull said, “Her. He said ‘her.’”

“How do you know?”

“One of the assistants was coming back from his break. He told me.”

“Could I speak to him?”

“Sure, hold on.”

Hamish waited. From the other end of the phone came the noisy sounds of a busy bookshop. Then a man’s voice said, “Yes?”

“This is P.C. Hamish Macbeth. And you are…?”

“Hugh Roy.”

“Mr. Roy, I gather that you overheard Josh Gates out in the street saying, “I’ll kill her.””

“Yes, I was just coming back from my break.”

“But I wass told he said ‘him’. “I’ll kill him.””

“No, it was definitely ‘her.’ He was shouting.”

Hamish phoned Strathbane police headquarters and asked if he could speak to one of the policemen who had been in St. Vincent Street that day. He was in luck. One of the policemen was in the canteen, and Hamish waited patiently while he was brought to the phone.

“Aye, I ‘member it well,” said the policeman. “It’s in the report I filed.”

“Did Josh Gates say, “I’ll kill her,” or ‘I’ll kill him’?”

“‘I’ll kill her.””

Hamish thanked him. He turned to Sheila. “Josh shouted, “I’ll kill her.” Why should Jimmy Anderson say otherwise?”

“Maybe Glasgow police made a mistake on the report.”

“I doubt it. It iss beginning to look to me as if Blair were too anxious to wrap it all up. If anyone iss looking for me, tell them I’ve been called back to Lochdubh.”

Hamish loped off at a fast trot, leaving Sheila to make her way more slowly back to the castle.

Once in the police station at Lochdubh, he sat down in front of his computer and stared at it. On a previous case, someone had broken into Blair’s records at Strathbane by guessing his password. Blair would have changed the password since then. Hamish ran through every swear word he could think of, without success. How could he get the right password?

He phoned Drim Castle and asked to speak to Detective Jimmy Anderson. He was told the detective was in the interviewing room but he said he had new and important information.

Jimmy at last came to the phone. “This had better be good, Hamish.”

“I’m getting a bottle of the best malt whisky in for you.”

“I’ll be there to drink it as soon as I can. So what do I have to do for it?”

“Give me Blair’s password.”

“Come on, man. How would I know it, anyway?”

“Because he’s a blabbermouth when he’s drunk. Come on, Jimmy.”

“Why do you want it?”

“I’m on to something. Think of this. I haff solved the cases afore and let that fat slob take the credit. What if I wass to solve this one and let you have all the glory?”

There was a long silence. Then Jimmy whispered, “Okay. It’s balls.”

“That wass the one oath I didnae try. Thanks, Jimmy.”

“I’ll be down later to see what you’re on to.”

Hamish sat down at the computer again. Once into Blair’s reports, he flipped them rapidly down the screen until he came to the Glasgow policemen’s report. He leaned back. It was quite clear. Josh had definitely said, “I’ll kill her.” He leaned forward and ran the report on. Then he stopped and stared at the screen. On his road north, Josh had stopped at a bed-and-breakfast called Costa Brava outside Perth. At breakfast he had been heard to shout, “He’ll have me to reckon with!”

Hamish sat back again. So Josh had last been heard threatening a man.

He was disappointed. He was wasting time. What if Josh had been first heard threatening a woman? Penelope was murdered after he himself had died. Time to get back to the present murder.

Blair had not sent through all the reports yet. Hamish would just need to wait and hope that, unlike last time, Blair would not know that his reports had been broken into.

He went into his living room and crouched in front of the bookshelves. The bottom shelf contained a series of ordnance survey maps. He opened the one covering the Drim area and spread it out on the floor. Was there any other way up that mountain? Was there any way other than the path he had used himself?

He frowned. Angus Macdonald, the seer, was once a famous climber.

Angus claimed to be able to foretell the future. Hamish did not believe in his powers, judging that any successful predictions were the result of shrewdness and listening to gossip. But there was the very superstitious Highland side of Hamish which made him uneasy around the old man.

Angus expected everyone who visited to bring him some sort of present. Hamish scowled. He already had to buy a bottle of good malt for Jimmy. He went into Patel’s. There was a display of Dundee cake, “great reduction.” Hamish bought one and set out for the seer’s cottage.

“There’s aye a cheap streak in you, Hamish Macbeth,” said Angus sourly as he accepted the cake. Hamish realised the seer probably knew it had been on sale at a reduced price.

He followed Angus into his old·fashioned cottage, where a peat fire smouldered in the hearth.

Angus, looking more like one of the minor prophets than ever with his grey beard and thick, long grey hair, said, “I suppose ye’ve come to find out who murdered the lassie.”

“And I suppose you know?”

“Oh, aye, I ken fine.” Angus half closed his eyes. “I see a wumman wi’ short hair and big boots.”

“A young woman?” asked Hamish, thinking of Sheila. “Blond hair?”

“No, she is about forty, dark hair, takes drugs.”

Fiona, thought Hamish.

“How d’you know she takes drugs?”

“I see it here,” said Angus, tapping his forehead and reminding Hamish of a Tenniel illustration of the eagle in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland .

Hamish was wise to the ways of the seer. When he had been sniffing for pot, one of the Drim gamekeepers had been hanging around the castle hall. Everyone told Angus everything.

“And why should she kill the lassie?” asked Hamish, humouring him.

“Because she iss ambitious and thon Penelope was out to ruin her career.”

“Come on, Angus,” said Hamish. “Why are you so definite? I mean, it’s not like you to name names. You usually hint…‘I see a dark woman,’ that kind of thing.”

“Och, no, Hamish, you haff always doubted the power.”

“Forget about your powers for the moment, Angus. What I really came about was to find if you knew of another path up that mountain, maybe from the back. You know we usually use that path which runs up between thon two cliffs.”

Angus looked huffy. “I think you will need to be doing better than a piece of old Dundee cake if you want mair information.”

“Now, look here, Angus,” said Hamish sharply. “I could have you up for obstructing the police in their enquiries.”

The seer sat in stubborn silence. Hamish sighed.

“Look, Angus, I’ve got some fine trout in the freezer, six of them. You can have them if you come off it and tell me about any path up that mountain.”

Angus rose to his feet and ferreted in a box in the corner. He came back with some sheets of paper and then placed them on the table and took out a pen.

“Come here, Hamish,” he said. He started to make a rough sketch. “There’s a wee path here. Not many people know about it. It starts here on the lower slopes and twists and turns like a rabbit track, but it gives you even easier access than the other one.”