Hamish Macbeth 20 (2004) - Death of a Poison Pen (15 page)

“But he should be here soon?”

“I don’t see why,” said Elspeth. “I’ve got the story.”

After she had left, Jenny applied some make·up; and brushed her hair. It was awkward with the plaster cast on her arm. Her next visitor was Hamish Macbeth, wearing an old pair of trousers, short in the leg, and a long Fair Isle sweater.

“Sorry about my appearance,” he said. “I had to borrow some clothes. My uniform dried but it was so encrusted with salt I had to take it to the dry cleaner’s.”

“What about Iain’s car? Was anyone able to rescue it?”

“We didn’t even try. It’s insured. I phoned Iain and he said it would be a write-off anyway so to let the sea do its worst. I see you’ve got the screens around your bed. You’re not that ill, are you?”

“It’s a good way of not having to talk to the other patients.”

“Oh, you should try, lassie. You might hear some gossip.”

“I’ve given you enough help,” said Jenny pettishly.

“Suit yourself. I chust called round to see you were okay,” said Hamish, turning to leave, the sudden sibilance of his accent showing he was annoyed with her.

But after he had gone, Jenny thought that perhaps she was being silly. She had risked life and limb to see if she could find out anything about the murders. She stretched out her good arm and drew aside the curtain. She stared in surprise at the girl in the bed next to her. It was Jessie Briggs, the former favourite of Miss McAndrew.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jenny.

“Got pumped out,” said Jessie in a weak voice.

“Drugs?”

“Naw, he left me. The boyfriend. Told him to give me a bottle of whisky as a farewell present and I drank it along with a lot of aspirin. Didn’t want to live.” Large tears ran down her pallid face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I would ha’ succeeded in killing myself if that interfering auld biddy from next door hadn’t peered in the window and seen me lying on the floor and called the ambulance.”

“You should be grateful to her. She saved your life.”

“So what!”

“Listen, did you phone AA?”

“Oh, them. I phoned them the once. I told them it was all Miss McAndrew’s fault I was in this state and some woman says to me, she says, “Nobody makes you drink. It’s not as if she held you down and poured it down your throat.” I said it was because she’d ruined my life. She says she used to suffer from self-pity as well and used to blame everyone for her drinking. I told her to go and shove her head up her arse.”

“Try them again and go along. What have you got to lose?”

“Maybe.”

“Who do you think murdered her?”

“How should I know? One o’ the teachers. She made their life hell. Joseph Cromarty, the ironmonger. He hated her. I passed them in the street not long afore she was killed and he was shouting at her that she was a disgrace and he was glad she had retired. He said if she’d stayed on, he would have murdered her.”

“Joseph’s a decent man,” said an old lady in the bed opposite.

“Shut up and mind your own business,” snapped Jessie.

Jenny gave the old lady a weak smile.

Jessie lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes, just as Jenny’s next visitor came in—Iain Chisholm.

“How’s your car?” asked Jenny.

“Och, I’ll be getting herself out at low tide. I did try to warn you.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Jenny. “Hamish said you’re insured.”

Iain silently cursed Hamish Macbeth. He’d come to the hospital hoping to get a cheque from Jenny.

“Well,” he said huffily, “so she is. But that was a rare car. Not many of those around nowadays.”

He looked so angry that Jenny said quickly, “Maybe I can rent something else from you. I should still be able to drive.”

“I have a wee Morris Minor. But I will need to be charging you more for the rental, seeing as how you are the bad risk.”

“Like how much?”

“A hundred and twenty-five pounds a week.”

“I’ll think about it.” Jenny copied Jessie and lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes while she privately resolved to go down to Strathbane and rent something modern.

She kept her eyes firmly closed until she heard Iain leave.

Elspeth met up with Pat Mallone in the main street of Braikie. A savage gale was whipping rubbish down the street from overturned garbage bins. Her face was soaked with rain and flying salt spray blown in from the sea. “Let’s get inside somewhere,” shouted Pat, “and compare notes.”

They went into the dingy pub. Most pubs now supplied coffee but not this one. They ordered soft drinks and went to a corner table. “I was up at the school,” said Pat, “trying to get a word with the teachers, but that head teacher, Arkle, turned me away before I could speak to anyone. What about you?”

“I’ve been interviewing Jenny. Quite a good local story.”

“What’s this about?” asked Pat.

Elspeth knew the town had been buzzing with the rescue of Jenny Ogilvie and wondered, not for the first time, how a reporter like Pat Mallone could miss stories that were right under his nose. As usual he had slept late, and she guessed that he had rushed up to Braikie, gone to the school and been turned away, and had not tried to do anything else but look for her to see if he could save himself some work. She told him about Jenny’s rescue.

“I’d better go up to the hospital and see her.”

“Why? I’ve already phoned over the story.”

“We’re pals. I’d better go now.”

Elspeth glared after his retreating back. Pat had been quite keen on her, she thought sourly, before Jenny came along. Still, as far as Hamish Macbeth was concerned, Jenny wasn’t a threat. It had been mean of Jenny not to give Hamish any credit for her rescue. Elspeth grinned as she thought of the story she had phoned over, which would go out in the weekly paper under Sam’s headline:

LOCAL HERO

She decided to make her way to the community centre to see if Mr. Blakey was available. As she went out of the pub, the wind seized her old fishing hat and sent it bowling down the street. Elspeth scampered after it, but another greater gust of wind sent it flying up over the rooftops.

When she gained the shelter of the community centre, water was streaming down her face from her rain-soaked hair. Mr. Blakey was mopping the floor. “A leak in the roof,” he said mournfully. “I saw you last night.”

“Before I speak to you, have you a towel or something I could use on my hair?”

“Sorry, there’s just the hand drier in the toilet.”

“That’ll need to do.” Elspeth made her way across the hall and into the ladies’ toilet. She banged on the hand drier and crouched under it, occasionally reaching up to switch it on again after it had automatically switched off. At last she straightened up and fished in her capacious handbag for a brush and dragged it through her frizzy hair before going back into the hall.

“I tried to see you earlier,” she said. “I’m from the local paper. I thought this place would be full of reporters.”

“I think it would have been, but there’s a landslide on the road. Two of them tried to climb over the hill and had to be rescued. But the tide’s turned and they think they’ll get the blockage cleared soon.”

“You must have been very shocked by that video.”

Mr. Blakey sat down suddenly on a chair. “I’m frightened,” he said. “It was such an evil thing to do, and why pick on the old folks?”

“Has anyone told you or the police if anyone was seen in or around the community centre when the package was delivered?”

“The problem is that I just found the package when I opened up. That would be around five o’clock. It could have been delivered anytime during the day.”

“I saw you handing Hamish a note.”

“Yes, that came with it. I told you about that. It simply said it was a video from Help the Aged.”

“Typewritten?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well, the police will be searching everywhere in Braikie for the typewriter that was used.”

“What worries me, too,” said Mr. Blakey, “is that they’ll be too frightened to come back for another film show. They used to love them.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Elspeth’s busy mind was already forming an appeal. Maybe raise money for a proper screen and cinematography equipment. She asked him some more questions and then said she had to file a story. She went back out into the storm and located her car, stopping on the way to buy a rain hat and a towel.

In the car, she once more dried herself and then took out her laptop, pushed back the driving seat to its limit to give herself more room, and began to type busily.

When it was finished, she sent it over and then phoned Sam, the owner and editor. She told him about her idea of an appeal to help the community centre. “Great,” said Sam. “Where’s Mallone?”

“I think he’s up at the hospital seeing Jenny.”

“Didn’t you tell him you’d already done that story? And have you a camera? Harry can’t get through. There’s a landslide.” Harry was the photographer.

“Yes, I’ve got a camera.”

“Then get a photo of Jenny and one of Hamish. Get as many photos of the locals as you can. That’s what sells this paper. And get Pat to take photos as well.”

“I doubt if he’ll have a camera.”

“I’m seriously thinking of sacking him, Elspeth.”

“Give him a talking-to first.”

“I already have. Doesn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference.”

Elspeth rang off and located her camera. She drove up to the hospital. Pat was sitting on the end of Jenny’s bed, laughing and joking and eating most of the chocolates he had brought her.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” cried Pat.

“Harry can’t get through, so I’m here to take a pic of Jenny,” said Elspeth. “Have you a camera, Pat?”

“No.”

“Well, after I take Jenny’s picture, you’d better come with me. Sam’s orders are that we’re to take as many pictures of the locals as possible and get their comments.”

“Can’t you do that?”

“It would be nice to have some help.”

Elspeth took several photographs of Jenny and then said, “Come along, Pat.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” he muttered, but he bent and kissed Jenny on the cheek and reluctantly followed Elspeth out of the hospital. “I’ll follow you down into the town,” he shouted above the roar of the wind.

Elspeth set off and parked in the main street. But when she got out of her car, there was no sign of Pat Mallone. Wearily, she set off in the direction of the post office.

To Elspeth’s delight, there were six elderly ladies clustered around the counter in front of Mrs. Harris, all chattering and exclaiming about the events of the night before. Elspeth interviewed them and then photographed them.

As Elspeth was taking the used film out of her camera and searching in her pockets for another roll, Mrs. Harris exclaimed, “Would you look at that!”

Everyone swung round in alarm. Mrs. Harris was pointing at the window. “Sunshine,” she said.

The weather of Sutherland had gone in for one of its mercurial changes. Pale yellow sunlight was flooding the street outside.

Elspeth left the shop. The wind was dropping rapidly and the clouds were rolling back. Elspeth strolled around the streets and shops, photographing and interviewing the locals, enjoying the now friendly, blustery wind and the feel of warm sun on her cheek, and all the time looking for Hamish Macbeth. At last she caught up with him as he came out of the dry cleaner’s. He was wearing the old sweater and trousers he had borrowed and carrying his cleaned and pressed uniform. Elspeth raised her camera and took his picture.

“Och, Elspeth,” said Hamish angrily. “Could ye no’ wait until I got my uniform on?”

“It’s better like this,” she said. “Have you seen Pat Mallone?”

“Not a sign.”

Elspeth sighed. “Tell you what, Hamish, my expenses aren’t that great, but they would certainly run to taking a policeman for lunch.”

“You’re on. Where?”

“What about that hotel outside Braikie where we went before?”

“Right.”

“My car’s just along there.”

“If Blair sees me,” said Hamish, glancing around, “I won’t be able to go.”

“Then hurry up!”

They were just sitting down in the dining room when Elspeth’s mobile phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said to Hamish, and answered it.

“I’ll go and change into my uniform,” said Hamish. “Thank goodness I didn’t wear my cap for the rescue or I’d never have been able to get it back into shape.”

Elspeth heard Sam’s voice on the phone. “Mallone’s turned up trumps,” he said. “He’s got marvellous quotes. Better than yours. But no photos. If I give you the addresses, could you get round there and take pictures?”

“Wait till I get my notebook.” Elspeth took it out of her handbag and opened it on the table. “Fire away.”

She wrote down the names and addresses and then said cautiously, “Sam, are you sure these people exist? I mean, Mrs. McHaggis of Tavistock Street? Apart from the daft name, I don’t remember a Tavistock Street in Braikie. Tell you what, I’m having lunch with Hamish Macbeth. I’ll show him the names and addresses and get back to you.”

When Hamish returned, now in his uniform, Elspeth explianed about Pat Mallone’s quotes, names, and addresses.

“Let me see,” said Hamish.

He carefully read the list and then leant back in his chair, looking amused. “The man should be writing fiction.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know every street in Braikie and I don’t see one genuine address on this list. He’s made the lot up.”

“I suppose I’ll need to tell Sam.”

“You’ll have to. If he publishes any of that, people from Braikie will soon put him wise.”

Elspeth phoned Sam and told him that Pat had made the lot up. “That’s it,” said Sam angrily. “I’ll give him a month’s notice. That’s more than he deserves.”

Pat was back seated on the end of Jenny’s bed, regaling her with some highly embroidered stories of his life in Dublin, when his mobile phone rang.

Sam’s angry voice came down the line. “You’re fired.”

Pat said airily to Jenny, “Office business.” He walked rapidly outside the ward.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you made up all these people and quotes and addresses, that’s why. You’re on a month’s notice.” Sam rang off.