M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

“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.

“You are in the hospital in Strathbane,” said Hamish.

“What happened?” she said weakly. “Did I have an accident?”

“No, you collapsed while you were being interviewed by Detective Chief Inspector Blair.”

“Who is he? Who are you?” demanded Patricia, her eyes frightened.

“It iss me,” said Hamish anxiously. “Hamish Macbeth.”

“I can’t remember,” she said weakly.

“The murder,” he said urgently.

“What murder? What are you talking about?” Her thin hands began to claw the sheet.

Hamish went out into the corridor. “You’d better get a doctor,” he said to the policewoman. “She’s in a fair state and cannae remember a thing.”

A doctor and a nurse were summoned and hurried into the room, firmly shutting Hamish outside.

Hamish and the policewoman waited in silence. Finally the doctor emerged. “I’ve given her another sedative, and the hospital psychiatrist will see her in the morning. She needs absolute quiet and rest. I’ve read in the newspapers about bullying police tactics and never believed them until now. It’s a disgrace!”

Hamish went off to police headquarters in Strathbane. He met Superintendent Peter Daviot as he was going into the building. “Well, Hamish?” said Daviot. “Any news?”

“I called at the hospital to see Miss Martyn-Broyd,” said Hamish. “She is in a bad state of shock and appears to have lost her memory.”

“This is dreadful.” Daviot turned and walked with Hamish back into the building. “Blair will need to be suspended, pending a full enquiry.”

“And who will take over the case, sir? Jimmy Anderson?”

“No, we need someone senior. I’ve already called Detective Chief Inspector Lovelace of Inverness to head the investigations.”

“And what’s he like?” asked Hamish, thinking that Lovelace sounded a friendly sort of name.

“He is a competent officer, and that is all you need to know, Macbeth.”

Hamish went into the CID room. Through the usual haze of smoke he could see Jimmy Anderson, sitting at his desk.

“Keeping that Scotch warm for me, Hamish?”

“Aye, it’s there for you when you want a dram. Blair’s been suspended. I’ve just seen Daviot.”

“Man, that’s great. My chance for glory.”

“Sorry, Jimmy. He’s putting some man, Lovelace, from Inverness in charge.”

Jimmy’s face darkened. “A new man will need to begin at the beginning. I don’t like Blair, but he’s the evil I know, if you get me.”

“I’ve just come from the hospital,” said Hamish. “Patricia’s in a right taking. Lost her memory.”

“How convenient,” sneered Jimmy.

“If she’s putting it on, she’s a better actress than I would ha’ guessed,” said Hamish. “I cannae help feeling we’re looking at all this the wrong way round. Now, just supposing Josh Gates didn’t murder Jamie Gallagher and the person who really murdered Jamie murdered Penelope, who would spring to mind?”

“Thon producer woman. Hard as nails. You could strike matches on her bum.”

“Apart from her.”

Jimmy scowled horribly. Then he said, “If they were both such a threat to the success of the TV thing, then there’s Harry Frame.”

“So there is. I might call on him.”

Jimmy looked up at the clock on the wall through the fog of cigarette smoke. “It’s eleven o’clock at night, man!”

“I bet they’re all still awake. I’ll take my chances.”

♦

Hamish found Harry Frame in the bar of the Tommel Castle Hotel. The big man was alone and slumped over a pint of beer.

“More police,” he said when he saw Hamish. “Haven’t you lot done enough? Poor old Patricia.”

“I thought you lot considered her a pain in the neck.”

“No one should suffer a breakdown because of police harassment,” said Harry truculently. “That man Blair!”

“Well, he’s off the case. What I am curious about is whether you believe that Josh Gates killed Jamie Gallagher.”

“For heaven’s sake, it’s nearly midnight and I am being kept up by the daft notions of the village bobby. I shouldn’t have to tell you your job. Josh was found with Jamie’s blood on his hands.”

“Aye, but to my reckoning, Josh could have found the body, raised the head to see of he was dead, got blood on his hands and ran away in a panic and got drunk for the last time. Jamie was sabotaging the series with his interference and his dull scripts. Yes, I bet they were dull, and I bet when Angus Harris turned up claiming Jamie had stolen the script of Football Fever , you believed him. And Penelope Gates was starting to act like a prima donna and wanted everyone fired.”

Harry Frame stood up and loomed over Hamish. “You lot are in deep shit. You’ve driven Patricia into a nervous breakdown. And now you, a village copper, are threatening me.”

“I never did.”

“Oh, yes, you are hinting with the subtlety of an ox that I murdered both Penelope and Jamie. Your superiors will hear about this.”

Harry stormed off. Hamish looked after him curiously and then gave a shrug.

The big man could complain all he wanted. All Hamish had done was have a chat with him. Nothing would come of it.

In this, Hamish Macbeth was wrong.

♦

The following morning, before Hamish had had time to change into his uniform and while he was repairing a broken plank on his henhouse, Detective Chief Inspector Lovelace arrived.

Flanked by Detectives Anderson and Macnab, he stood watching Hamish until Hamish, aware of his gaze, turned round.

Lovelace introduced himself and then said curtly, “May we go inside? Anderson and Macnab, wait here.”

They walked indoors to the police station. Lovelace sat behind Hamish’s desk and folded a pair of white, well-manicured hands on the desk in front of him. Hamish stood before him.

Lovelace was a small, neat man with well-brushed fair hair. He had neat features and a small, prissy mouth. He looked at a corner of the ceiling and began. Hamish was to learn that Lovelace never looked you in the eye, not out of shyness or furtiveness, but more as if he thought his august gaze was too valuable to waste on underlings.

“We will begin by asking why you are not in uniform.”

“I wass chust attending to a few chores.”

“To a few chores…what?”

“To a few chores, sir.”

“You are being paid to police Lochdubh and the surrounding area, not to repair henhouses. Why did you call on Patricia Martyn-Broyd at the hospital without telling your superiors what you were doing and why?”

“I know Miss Martyn-Broyd. I mean, I have known her since before the murders. We are by way of being friends,” lied Hamish. He did not want to tell Lovelace that Patricia had asked him to find out the identity of the murderer.