Death of a Celebrity

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘You might have something there,’ said Hamish slowly. ‘I’d better have a word with Professor Tully first. He might just have thrown that in to pretend to an inside knowledge he doesn’t have.’

  ‘How cynical of you and how well you know him!’

  ‘I don’t know him, but he’s a Highlander.’

  ‘And it takes one to know one?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Hamish drove over to Bonar Bridge. The light was already fading fast and cold little stars twinkled above in the Sutherland sky.

  Professor Tully lived in an old Georgian house, just outside the town. It was Scottish Georgian, eighteenth century, square and without ornament. The garden was a wilderness of weeds.

  To Hamish’s relief, the professor was at home. He invited Hamish in but insisted Lugs be left outside. ‘I have cats,’ he explained.

  ‘Lugs is very kind to cats,’ said Hamish.

  ‘No dog is kind to cats,’ replied the professor, so Hamish had to take Lugs back and shut him in the Land Rover.

  Hamish went back into the house. The professor ushered him through to a dark and grimy kitchen where not much seemed to have been changed since the eighteenth century. There were two old stone sinks and enormous wooden dressers, their once-white paint yellow with age. Light came from a dingy forty-watt bulb high up in the ceiling.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ asked Professor Tully.

  ‘On one of your discussion programmes, you said that the old docks at Strathbane should be pulled down because they had become a market for drug dealing.’

  The professor leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. ‘I can remember those docks when they were thriving. I can even remember Strathbane when it wasn’t a sink of iniquity, a monstrous carbuncle on the face of the Highlands.’

  ‘But about the drugs?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be getting anyone in trouble.’

  ‘I’m only interested in finding out a possible witness to the murder of Felicity Pearson.’

  The professor lowered his gaze to the battered kitchen table, which still held the remains of his lunch.

  ‘You see,’ he said at last, ‘there’s this lad lives in Bonar Bridge. He’s clean now. But I got talking to him one day when I was shopping in town. He said he used to buy his stuff down at the docks, said it was a sort of marketplace at night. He said it was safer than the clubs because the police hardly ever went around the docks at night.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘If he’s clean, then he won’t be getting into trouble and any information he gives me, well, I’ll protect the source.’

  ‘It’s Barry Williams, a young English fellow. Family moved up here some years ago.’

  ‘And where does he live?’

  ‘Somewhere up at the council houses.’

  Hamish thanked him and left. He did not want to ask the local police for the address and maybe scare the boy into silence. He asked for the address at the shops and finally found that Barry lived near Mrs Gordon.

  A woman answered the door to him and looked shocked when he asked to speak to Barry. ‘My son’s a good boy,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ said Hamish patiently. ‘I just want a wee word with him.’

  She turned and called, ‘Barry!’

  A thin youth came down the stairs behind her, dressed in torn jeans and a bomber jacket. ‘I was just going out,’ he said sulkily.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Hamish. ‘We’ll just walk along the road a bit.’

  ‘I haven’t been doing anything,’ said Barry, hunching his thin shoulders against the cold.

  ‘I know. Look, Barry, you once told Professor Tully that they dealt drugs down at the docks. I know it’s all behind you now, but I want a name of your supplier.’

  ‘I can’t be doing that!’

  ‘Barry, I have to know. A murder was committed at the docks and I’m looking for witnesses. No one will know it was you that told me. But if you don’t tell me, I’ll need to get all official and take you into Strathbane for questioning.’

  Barry moodily kicked a Coke can. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘It was the Big Drip.’

  ‘Come on. A name?’

  ‘I’m telling you. That’s what he was called.’

  Hamish sighed. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Sort of tall, as tall as you, and with bleached hair in spikes and a nose ring. Dealt heroin.’

  ‘And you only know his nickname?’

  ‘Yes. That’s all anybody knew.’

  Back at the police station, Hamish phoned Carson. Not so long ago, he would have phoned Jimmy, but he knew now that Jimmy would pretend that the information was his own.

  Carson listened carefully and then said, ‘I’ll look into it. Stay by the phone.’

  Hamish cooked dinner for himself and Lugs. He wondered what Elspeth was doing. She had not called at the police station for a good few days now.

  He was just getting ready for bed when the phone rang. It was Carson. ‘Got him,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Hughie Fraser, otherwise known as the Big Drip because he’s six feet tall.’

  ‘Any chance of finding him?’

  ‘Every chance. He’s just started doing time in Strathbane prison for pushing. We’ll see him in the morning.’

  ‘We, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you can come as well. I’ll meet you outside the prison at nine-thirty in the morning.’

  Carson was waiting outside the prison when Hamish drove up. ‘What’s this?’ snapped Carson, looking at his watch. ‘Highland time?’

  Hamish glanced at his own watch. It was nine-thirty-one. ‘I am sorry I am a minute late, sir,’ he said. ‘The traffic was awful.’

  Carson knew that as the prison lay on the outskirts of the town, there had probably been no traffic except an occasional sheep, so he knew Hamish was mocking him. He also knew he deserved it. But he was beginning to want to put a distance between himself and this odd constable. He knew he was not following procedure by inviting Hamish along. He should have had a detective with him, not a local bobby.

  The prison was a Victorian one, made of shiny red brick. Inside, the walls were painted institutional green. They were led along bleak corridors and up an iron staircase. A warder opened a door to a dark room furnished only with a table and three chairs. ‘I’ll go and get him, sir,’ he said.

  Carson and Hamish waited in silence, side by side at one end of the table, looking at the empty chair opposite. Prison noises filtered in through the thick door from outside; clanging of gates, raucous shouts, curses.

  Then the door opened. A tall man in prison overalls came in with the warder. He had a long white face and a very red mouth and weak, watery eyes. The warder took up a position at the door.

  ‘Sit down, Hughie,’ ordered Carson.

  Hughie sat down and looked at them. His eyes had that peculiar faraway stare of someone who had served time before.

  ‘Got any cigarettes?’ he asked.

  Hamish took out a packet and a box of matches but kept them on his side of the table. ‘In a minute,’ said Hamish. ‘Let’s see if you can help us first.’

  Carson leaned forwards. ‘We believe you were in the habit of peddling drugs down at the docks. Did you ever go to Dock Number Two at night?’

  Hughie eyed the cigarettes hungrily but said nothing.

  To Carson’s surprise, Hamish shouted angrily, ‘We know you did, man, so give us a bit of help.’

  He inched the packet of cigarettes nearer Hughie.

  ‘What if I did?’ asked Hughie.

  ‘We’re interested in the night Felicity Pearson was killed,’ said Carson.

  ‘I’d nothing to do with that. Give me a cigarette.’

  Hamish drew the packet back towards him and put his hand over it. ‘You saw something,’ he said. ‘And you’d better tell us what it was. We’ll take your fingerprints and c
asts of every shoe in your digs and we’ll prove you were there.’ Hamish gambled on the prisoner’s almost superstitious fear of forensic work. ‘And if you sit there silent, we’ll assume you did the murder because she wandered on to your patch. We’re anxious to clear the murder up.’

  ‘I didnae do it,’ said Hughie, becomingly visibly alarmed. ‘You can’t pin it on me.’

  Hamish gave him a slow smile. ‘Oh, no? Try me.’

  Hughie hunched forwards. ‘Give me a cigarette and I’ll tell you.’

  Hamish took one cigarette out of the packet and handed it to him and then struck a match and lit it.

  Hughie took a hungry draw, blew out smoke, and then said sulkily, ‘I was there. I heard the blast, that’s all. I went out and saw a body lying on the ground. I was in the warehouse. Man, I ran like hell.’

  ‘But did you see the murderer?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘I got a glimpse of a figure walking away. It was dark, man. Light footsteps. Could have been a man or a woman.’

  ‘Which way did this person run?’

  ‘Out on to the road. Whoever it was went left and I ran right and didn’t look back.’

  ‘Skirt or trousers?’

  ‘Trousers and a jacket of some kind.’

  ‘So it was a man?’

  ‘Funny thing. I thought it was a woman. I don’t know why Just a figure with a gun held down at the side. Something in the walk. Light, quick steps.’

  Hamish pushed the packet of cigarettes and matches over to Hughie. ‘Can you think of anything else? Were you waiting for a customer?’

  Hughie looked shifty. ‘Just hanging around in the hope someone turned up.’

  Hamish studied him narrowly. ‘You weren’t waiting for a customer. You were waiting for your supplier. You’re only the street man. Who was it?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Hughie desperately. ‘I cannae be telling you that. I tell you that and I’ll be found strung up in my cell.’

  Carson took over the questioning but could get no further information. Hughie would not reveal his supplier, nor could he add any more about the murder than he had done.

  When they were outside the prison, Carson said abruptly, ‘There’s a café round the corner. We’ll go there and talk this over.’

  The café was full of tired-looking women and squalling children. They had obviously been waiting for the official visiting hour, because at exactly ten o’clock, they all rose and filed out. Carson and Hamish found a table.

  ‘So,’ said Carson. ‘Did you believe anything he said?’

  ‘Yes, he was there. Yes, he heard the blast and saw the body. Yes, he thought it was a woman.’

  ‘So we have to start looking at female suspects? Who?’

  ‘I’d start with Amy Cornwall. Where was she the night of the murder?’

  ‘We interviewed them all. I think she said she had gone home late and washed her hair, watched a bit of television, and went to bed. Why her? And there’s no shotgun registered to any of them.’

  ‘They’re easy to come by,’ said Hamish.

  ‘So why Amy Cornwall?’

  ‘Crystal French drove Felicity into murdering her. Felicity might have given Amy a rough time as well.’

  ‘But Amy Cornwall is just a pretty wee lassie.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a conscience.’

  ‘Come on. We all have one.’

  ‘No, some are born without one. It’s always everyone else’s fault.’

  ‘I’ll get Jimmy Anderson on to it. Thank you for coming over, but I am sure you have enough on your own beat to keep you busy.’

  Hamish looked hurt.

  ‘Look here,’ said Carson. ‘It’s like this. You’ve chosen to be a village constable over in Lochdubh. Proper procedure must be followed. I cannot go on ignoring the talents of your seniors. This is work for the CID. Now, if you wish promotion, I will do everything to help you. But as long as you decide to remain a village constable I cannot work with you and leave the CID out of it. I warn you. They are closing village police stations down all over the country. It’s got so bad in the south that the farmers are complaining that whole combine harvesters are being stolen out of their fields and they are threatening to form vigilante societies. If Lochdubh is closed down, you have no option but to get transferred to Strathbane. Start now getting promoted, or you could end up on the beat down here.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ said Hamish with all the haughtiness of the truly offended Highlander, ‘and get back to my beat.’

  ‘Think about it,’ said Carson.

  ‘So I’m off the case?’

  Carson made an impatient noise. ‘You haven’t been listening to me.’

  But as he drove home, Hamish still felt cross. One minute Carson was saying, Call me Pat, the next he was behaving like God Almighty.

  He climbed down from the Land Rover outside the police station and sniffed the air. It was one of those odd, balmy autumn days when soft winds blow in off the gulf stream.

  He fed Lugs and told the dog what a shite Carson was, and Lugs wagged his tail in agreement and shoved his face in his food bowl.

  He decided to relax and have a lazy day, maybe get out his rod and poach one of the colonel’s salmon. Hamish did not regard his own occasional poaching exploits as criminal. It was every Highlander’s right to take a deer from the hill and a fish from the stream.

  Hamish was just getting out his rod when he heard the wail of a siren and stiffened in alarm. Lugs barked sharply.

  He ran out to the waterfront. An ambulance was standing outside Patel’s. Hamish rushed along. He pushed his way through the crowd into the shop. Two ambulance men were bending over Elspeth, who was looking sick and white-faced.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘The poor girl screamed and fainted right in the shop,’ said Mrs Wellington.

  ‘I’m all right. I just fainted,’ said Elspeth feebly. ‘I don’t need to go to hospital.’

  ‘I think you should go and get a checkup,’ said Mrs Wellington. ‘You young girls are always up to something these days. I read about it. Either starving yourselves or vomiting.’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ Elspeth stood up. She looked at Hamish. ‘Could you take me home? I’ll be all right if I get to bed.’

  ‘If you’re sure you shouldn’t be in the hospital,’ said Hamish doubtfully.

  She gave him a weak smile. ‘Mrs Wellington kept me captive here for nearly an hour, waiting for the ambulance. I’ve had plenty of time to recover.’

  Hamish took her arm and led her out. ‘If she’s pregnant,’ he heard Nessie Currie say as they walked off, ‘then he’d better make an honest woman of her.’

  Hamish took Elspeth’s keys and unlocked the door of her flat. Lugs, who had followed Hamish to the shop, trotted in after them.

  Colour had returned to Elspeth’s face. ‘Do you want me to run a hot bath for you?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘No, just make us some tea.’

  Hamish went into the kitchen and made tea, and collected milk, sugar and biscuits along with the teapot on a tray, and carried the lot into the living room.

  ‘So,’ he said, setting the tray down, ‘what brought it on?’

  ‘I’m frightened, Hamish. I think I must be mad.’

  He took her hand in a warm clasp and squeezed it. ‘You’re not mad.’ He released her hand. ‘Here, let me pour you some tea. Lots of sugar. You seem to have had some sort of shock.’

  He handed her a cup of tea and poured one for himself. ‘What frightened you?’

  ‘You won’t tell anyone?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘My friend Sally is coming up from Inverness to stay with me for a few days. I hadn’t much food in the house. Oh, I’ve left all my groceries in Patel’s.’

  ‘You can get them later or I’ll get them for you.’

  ‘I hadn’t paid for them. He’ll probably just put them back on the shelves.’

  ‘Never mind the groceries. Drink some tea. Ni
ce and hot. Good girl. Now, go on.’

  ‘The shop was very full. I was just putting a packet of cereal in my basket when suddenly everything was dark and there was a blast, like a gun blast. I felt it hit my chest and the pain was awful. That’s all I remember. Oh, Hamish, I’ve had a fit.’

  ‘There now.’ He put an arm around her. ‘I don’t want to distress you, Elspeth. You said that if you ever came across the murderer, you’d know.’

  ‘Oh, you’re as mad as I am.’

  ‘Let’s chust take a flight of fancy. Somewhere in that shop was the murderer of Felicity Pearson, so for one split second, you were Felicity Pearson and you felt the shotgun blast in your chest. Who was in the shop?’

  ‘Half the village seemed to be milling around. I’m scared. I don’t want a turn like that again. Funnily enough, I was playing a sort of game after the funeral. I was captioning the photographs and putting aside a great pile that weren’t to be used. Sam always goes in for overkill. Sometimes he publishes so many photographs, there’s hardly room for print. I remember thinking someone was missing and that intrigued me, because even old Mrs Syme who’s half blind and can’t walk was there in her wheelchair.’

  ‘And you thought if you could find out who the missing person was then you might get the vibes about a murderer?’

  ‘Something like that. It seems silly now. I mean, although my mother left the gypsies, she was fey and superstitious, too, and she filled my head with a lot of stuff.’

  ‘I’m prepared to try anything,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ve got the electoral roll back at the police station. After you’ve relaxed and had a sleep, I could take it along to your office and go through the photos and find the missing person.’

  ‘I’m all right now,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elspeth reluctantly, although she felt it would be nicer to sit there forever with his arm about her shoulders.