Part 19 (2/2)

Eileen smiled with relief and went to get her camera.

A busy and energetic evening was spent, busy because, not being able to build sets, Eileen had used the interiors of several of the older cottages, so they moved from house to house. Eileen returned to the manse with Ailsa.

”How marvellous they all were,” said Eileen. ”So enthusiastic and everyone acting so well. I could hardly believe it.”

Ailsa grinned. ”You've Hamish Macbeth to thank for that. Man, he must be the best liar in the Highlands, and that's saying something.”

”What do you mean?”

”I didn't let on, Eileen, but Hamish told Edie Aubrey that when your play was put on at the university it got rave reviews and you were approached by a major film company, but that your parents were Calvinists and against the movies and wouldn't let you sign the contract, but now you were going to send this film off to Hollywood.”

”They never believed such a load of rubbis.h.!.+”

”'Course they did. Macbeth told Edie he would kill her if she told anyone.”

”This is awful. We must put them right.”

”Why? You're having fun, aren't you?”

”But you didn't believe it. Why?”

”Because we're friends and you would have told me.”

Eileen grinned. ”'I've a bottle of champagne someone gave me two Christmases ago at the bottom of my wardrobe. We'll open it now.”

She longed to tell Ailsa what Sheila had said, but Sheila had told her not to tell anyone. Eileen only hoped Ailsa would not be angry when, if, she ever found out.

Sunday arrived in Lochdubh, wet and misty and warm, ”a great day for the midges,” as the locals described the weather.

It was as if the whole Highland world had ground to a halt. It was hard to think that only recently the village had been crowded with pressmen looking for rooms.

Hamish Macbeth, as he went about his domestic ch.o.r.es, thought how easy it would be to let all thoughts of the murder go. Leave it to Lovelace.

And yet, he had not been able to find that tramp Scan Fitz.

Hamish had given up waiting for Sheila to phone and give him some explanation of why she had not turned up at the restaurant.

He decided to drive out and try once more to find Scan. He remembered two years ago, when he was out on his rounds, seeing the shambling figure of the tramp trudging along some road or other.

He began his search again. It was only after a morning of fruitless hunting that he remembered the tramp was religious, a Roman Catholic. He began to check Catholic church after Catholic church, until at Dornoch he found that Scan had been sighted at ma.s.s the evening before.

Hamish had some mad hope that if he found the tramp, that if Patricia had been seen somewhere far from the scene of the murder and could therefore be cleared, she would recover her memory.

The frustrating thing was that Scan could be cosily ensconced in some croft somewhere, drinking tea, while he drove past on the road outside. By three in the afternoon, he realised he had not eaten and was hungry.

Finding himself in the main street of Golspie, he went into a cafe and ordered a sausage roll and beans and a pot of strong tea.

He turned over the suspects in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he decided that it must surely be a member of the television company. And if it was a member of the television company, it must be someone p.r.o.ne to violence.

He finished his meal and decided to give up the search for Scan and return to the police station and see if he could hack into Blair's reports once more.

But he drove slowly back, still looking to the right and left, hoping to see the tramp.

By the time he reached Lochdubh, the drizzle had thickened to a steady downpour and the waterfront was deserted and glistening in the rain.

He made himself a cup of tea and carried it through to the police office. He played back the answering machine, but there were no messages at all.

He switched on the computer and keyed in Blair's pa.s.sword but this time could not get into the reports. He swore and switched off the machine and stared into s.p.a.ce.

There was a knock at the kitchen door, and he went to answer it. Jimmy Anderson stood there. ”Let me in, Hamish, I'm getting fair soaked.”

”The weather had to break sometime.”

”Aye,” said Jimmy, taking off his raincoat and hanging it up on a peg behind the door. ”And folks say, ”Can't grumble, we needed the rain,” and it always irritates the h.e.l.l out o' me. It'd take a year o' drought for the Highlands to dry up.”

He sat down at the kitchen table. ”I'm sick o' the Highlands, Hamish. I'm sick o' Lovelace. I never thought I would want Blair back again. I'm thinking of getting a transfer to Glasgow. See a bit of life. Got that whisky?”

”Yes, and I hope you've some gossip for me.”

”Nothing much. Your friend Patricia still seems to have lost her memory.”

”What about The Case of the Rising Tides! The Case of the Rising Tides! Does that still go on?” Does that still go on?”

”Aye, and it's a pity Patricia couldn't see the changes. That Mary Hoyle is the sort of actress she'd love. No bare t.i.ts there.”

Hamish took down the bottle of malt whisky and poured two gla.s.ses. Then he lit the wood-burning stove in the kitchen to try to dispel some of the damp.

”I've been thinking,” he said, stretching out his long legs and staring at his large boots, ”that the most likely person with a motive would be one of the television company. You've surely been digging into their backgrounds.”

”Yes, every d.a.m.n one o' them.”

”What about Harry Frame?”

”The biggest scandal in his background is that he's actually English. Gossip has it that he thought this Scottish independence lark was a good way to get an ident.i.ty and get backing. He puts it about that he was educated in England but born in Glasgow. Actually he was born to respectable middlecla.s.s parents in Somerset. If, say, by some wild flight o' the imagination, Penelope found that out, I hardly think he would kill her.”

”I wish it would turn out to be him,” said Hamish moodily. ”Here, Jimmy, that's good whisky, not water. You're supposed to sip it.”

”If your whisky dries up, so does my gossip.”

Hamish refilled his gla.s.s.

”What about Giles Brown?” he asked.

”The director? Well, there's a thing. You wouldn't think that wee man could say boo to a goose, but he socked a copper.”

”When? Where?”

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