Hamish Macbeth 20 (2004) - Death of a Poison Pen (13 page)

Hamish listened patiently to Dr. Brodie’s lecture and then said cynically, “Did you check your prescription pad?”

“No, why?”

“A healthy young man like Pat Mallone claims to have a bad back. Then a healthy young woman has a fainting fit, which means you have to run out, leaving Pat alone. Didn’t that make you suspicious?”

“I’d better go back and check.”

“I’ll come with you.”

They walked together to the surgery. Once there, Dr. Brodie checked his prescription pad. “Nothing missing,” he said.

“And everything looks the same?” asked Hamish. “Nothing’s been moved?”

“Not that I can see.”

A doctor’s line to say she was sick, thought Hamish. He opened his mouth to say something and then decided to remain quiet. He had a feeling that such as Jenny might find out something if she stayed, and he was willing to turn a blind eye to a small crime in the hope of solving the bigger ones.

Hamish returned to the police station to find a grey-haired woman waiting outside. “Constable Macbeth?” she asked doubtfully, looking up at Hamish and then down to the peculiar-looking dog at his heels.

“The same. And you are?”

“Mrs. Dinwiddie. Miss Beattie’s sister.”

“Come into the station,” said Hamish.

In the kitchen, she sat down primly on the edge of a chair and crossed her ankles. She wore her grey hair in an old·fashioned bun. Her face looked tight and her mouth was a thin line. Hamish wondered briefly if it had got that way after years of clamping down on emotions. Then he reminded himself that her sister had recently been murdered and she may have just been holding grief at bay.

He made two mugs of tea and then said gently, “How can I help you?”

“I heard about you,” she said, “from Amy, my sister. She always said you were so clever. I’ve had enough of that Detective Blair. I want to know if you are any further forward in finding out who killed Amy.”

“At the moment, no,” said Hamish. “But I will,” he added, with a confidence he did not feel. “Depend on that. Tell me about your sister. Why did she leave home?”

“It happened when I was away at the university in Edinburgh,” said Mrs. Dinwiddie. “She wrote to me and said she couldn’t stand living at home any longer. Our parents were very religious, very strict. It was easier for me because they were proud of me getting to university. Anyway, I wasn’t a rebel like Amy. Amy wanted to wear make·up; and go out with the boys, and they kept locking her in her room. Then they would get members of the congregation round to read the Bible to her and lecture her. One day, she just took off. Father said her name was never to be mentioned again.”

“What did she work at before she came up to Braikie?”

“She worked in a supermarket as a checkout girl. Actually, she was pretty bright at school, but fell to pieces just before the final exams. I think Father was harder on her than he ever was on me. I used to worry that she might have a breakdown. I wrote to her about their deaths, but she didn’t bother to come to the funerals.”

“What about boyfriends?”

“She would be allowed those but only if it was some fellow from the church. She was seen out with a bunch of bikers and locked in her room for two weeks after that. I never knew if there was anyone special. She didn’t tell me.”

Perth, thought Hamish. Perhaps the secret lies somewhere in her past.

“Did the police give you her papers? Old photographs? Things like that?” he asked.

“Not yet. They are going to release them to me soon.”

“I would like to see them. You see, Mrs. Dinwiddie, sometimes if I can form a picture of a person and their background, I can get an idea of why they might have been killed.”

“I’ll send them to you.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow, in Perth. I’ve made the arrangements.”

“I would be grateful if you could let me have your address. You live in Perth, don’t you?”

“Yes, here’s the address.” She produced a card from her handbag.

“I might call on you soon.”

“Let me know when. Because if I have any photos or papers that might interest you, I’ll keep them instead of sending them up here.”

Hamish thanked her and saw her out.

He returned to the kitchen and fed Lugs, forgetting in his preoccupation with the case that the animal had already been fed.

He sat down at the table and stared into space. “The problem is, Lugs,” he said to the dog’s uncaring head, which was buried in his food bowl, “there’s too many damn suspects. Was it one of the parents? Or the school-teachers? That might account for Miss McAndrew’s murder but not Miss Beattie’s. Are there two murderers here? Maybe I’ll pick up something at the old folks’ film show.”

Lugs ambled away from his now empty food bowl, keeled over, and fell asleep.

Early that evening, Hamish put a selection of videos in a bag and went out with Elspeth to her car. There were still too many police in Braikie and he did not want to be spotted giving a civilian a lift in a police car. He was almost relieved to see Elspeth wearing one of her usual grunge outfits: old anorak, jeans, and tweed fishing hat. There was always something unsettlingly attractive about Elspeth when she dressed up. He was wearing a suit, collar, and tie and maliciously hoped he was making Elspeth feel inferior.

“Why are you all dressed up?” asked Elspeth as she drove out of Lochdubh under a black and windy sky.

“As a courtesy to old Mrs. Harris. I see you haven’t bothered.”

“Wasn’t time,” said Elspeth cheerfully. “I was out reporting. A wee boy got stuck up on the top of the falls.”

“Which one?”

“Diarmuid Patel. He was standing in the middle of the top of the falls, too scared to move one way or the other.”

“Not much of a story.”

“Not compared to murder and mayhem, but you forget, we’re a local Highland paper.”

“How’s your astrology piece doing? Haven’t read it lately.”

“Sam says it’s what sells the most papers. I’m good at it.”

Hamish snorted. “You’re good at making things up.”

A buffet of wind shook Elspeth’s small car as she moved along the coast road. “Another Sutherland gale,” said Elspeth. “When I see one of those nature films on television and they speed up the sky scenes so that the clouds race from horizon to horizon, I think they should come up here and find it doesn’t need any tricky camera work to make the sky look like that.”

Mrs. Harris came downstairs to meet them when they parked outside her building. In honour of the occasion, she had put a sort of 1940
s
make·up; on her face: white powder and dark red lipstick.

Elspeth drove to the community hall and parked the car.

The hall was full, but Mr. Blakey had reserved them seats at the front. He thanked Hamish for his present of videos.

“I’m looking forward to this,” said Elspeth. “I didn’t see
Green Card
when it was first released.”

The elderly audience were rustling sweetie papers: The local shop nearby still sold sweets from large glass jars and put them in paper bags. An elderly woman next to Elspeth offered her a jelly baby from a large crumpled bag. Elspeth took one and murmured her thanks.

Elspeth turned to Hamish. “That’s a very small screen for a movie,” she said. “Actually, it’s not a screen. It’s just a telly.”

“All our Mr. Blakey could afford,” murmured Hamish. “Shh, it’s about to start.” Hamish wondered why so many should turn out on a cold windy night to watch a video on a television set when they could have rented one and watched it in the comfort of their homes, but then he reflected that the show was free and they obviously enjoyed each other’s company.

Elspeth settled back to enjoy the film but soon found her enjoyment impaired by the voices all around her. Some had seen it before and insisted on telling their neighbours what was going to happen next, and the deaf had companions who bellowed scraps of dialogue into their ears.

When the film was over, noisy and appreciative applause rang out. Mr. Blakey walked to the front of the room and held up his hands. “Before you all go,” he said, mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief, “a video was delivered to me this morning from Help the Aged, suggesting you all might like to see it before you go home. It is only fifteen minutes long.”

He slotted the video in, pressed Play, and then signalled to someone at the back of the room to turn out the lights again.

At first there was nothing but white dots on black. “Must be broken,” someone shouted.

And then, suddenly, there was a picture of a room and the camera swung round to focus on a figure in a chair.

“That’s Miss Beattie!” came a chorus of horrified voices. There was another shot of a black screen with dancing lights and then a picture of Miss Beattie’s lifeless body, swinging this way and that.

Pandemonium erupted. The elderly screamed. Chairs were overturned. Some women fainted.

The screen went blank.

Hamish ran to the door and locked it and took out his phone and called for backup.

He turned and shouted, “Sit down, everybody. Nobody is to leave until statements are taken.”

Mr. Blakey confronted him. “But some of the women have fainted.”

“See they’re all right, and if there’s any sign of anything more serious than a fainting fit, let me know. How did you get that tape?”

“It was put through the hall letter box, I don’t know when. I found it when I came to open up. There was a letter with it.”

“I’ll need to see that. But first let’s get this lot calmed down.”

Hamish went up and stood in front of the now blank screen. Mr. Blakey switched on the lights. Elderly women were being helped back to their seats. The air was redolent with the scent of urine. Poor things, thought Hamish.

“Listen,” he said. “The police are going to need your help. We’ll not keep you any longer than possible. When backup arrives, leave your names and addresses and then you will be allowed to go home. If any of you can think of anything that’s of use, stay behind. Now, this tape, supposed to have come from Help the Aged, was put through the letter box of the hall. Anyone who saw anyone near the letter box, please let me know. Isn’t there usually refreshments served after the movie? I think a lot of you could do with a cup of tea.”

Six women got up meekly and headed to the kitchen off the hall. Hamish surveyed the audience.

The panic was slowly being replaced with a buzz of excitement. The ones who had fainted appeared to have recovered.

Mr. Blakey handed Hamish a letter. Hamish took out a pair of thin plastic gloves and took the letter from him and read it. It was typewritten. He read: “Dear Mr. Blakey: As a member of Help the Aged, I thought this fifteen-minute documentary might interest your members.” It was unsigned.

“What was I to think?” pleaded Mr. Blakey. “It had a label on the video, “Help the Aged.””

“You left it in the machine?”

“Yes, I just switched the machine off.”

There came a thumping at the door and a cry of “Police! Open up.”

Hamish went to the door and opened it. Jimmy Anderson stood there flanked by six policemen.

“We were doing door-to-door enquiries when we got your call,” said Jimmy. “What the hell’s going on?”

Hamish explianed. Jimmy ordered the policemen to go around and take names and addresses and told them to keep back anyone who had something of interest to say.

“Where’s the video?” he asked.

“In the machine. I thought it had better be left there for the forensic boys. This is the letter that came with it.”

Jimmy put on gloves, took the letter from Hamish, and put it in a glassine envelope.

Where’s Elspeth? wondered Hamish suddenly, looking around. Police were moving among the crowd, while women served tea and cakes and sandwiches. No Elspeth.

“Type up your statement when you get back to Lochdubh and then send it over,” said Jimmy. “In fact, you’d best be off and do that now.”

“I’d better talk to Mrs. Harris first. I brought her along with me.”

Hamish made his way to where she was sitting. “I know your name and address, Mrs. Harris,” he said, “so I can take you home.”

“Where’s that girl, Elspeth?”

“I don’t know,” replied Hamish. How was he to get back to Lochdubh if Elspeth had disappeared? Elderly people were gradually making their way out of the hall, now nervous and subdued. Hamish suppressed a groan. Of course, Elspeth would have run off to file a story, which Sam would send out to the news agencies and nationals. Braikie would be swarming with more press than ever before by the morning. And the pressure of the media would mean Blair back on the job, ranting and raving.

Hamish escorted Mrs. Harris outside. To his relief, Elspeth was sitting in her car, her mobile phone at her ear, talking busily. He rapped on the window. She said something into the phone and rang off.

Hamish and Mrs. Harris got into the car. “Are you all right?” Elspeth asked her.

“I cannae take it in yet,” said Mrs. Harris. “Was that really Amy in that fillum or was it some awful joke?”

“We’ll find out,” said Hamish. “Are you going to be all right on your own?”

“Aye, I’ll be fine once I get into my flat and have my things around me.”

“People will be talking about nothing else in the morning,” said Hamish. “If you hear anything you think might interest me, phone me.”

“I’ll do that,” said Mrs. Harris.

When they dropped her off, Hamish got into the front seat of Elspeth’s small car. “Home,” he said.

“I thought the whole point of this was to talk to some of the old people and find out if they knew anything,” said Elspeth. “And what about the letter that came with the video? Mr. Blakey said something about a letter.”

“I’ve got to file a statement, and they can all wait. What was the point of the video? It didn’t show the murders.”

“It could be a warning.” Elspeth expertly swung the car round a startled sheep in the middle of the road. “Maybe someone tried to blackmail the murderer or murderers, someone who was in on it. He or they didn’t pay up. Maybe it was a warning that next time they’d show more.”

“This is the Highlands of Scotland!” shouted Hamish, exasperated. “Not some damn horror movie. Wait a bit. Horror movies. There’s something there. A child. What if a young child found that video and sent it to the community hall as a joke, not knowing that it was showing part of a real murder?”