Death of a Poison Pen

∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧

6

Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol not faille.

—Geoffrey Chaucer

Hamish felt himself reluctant the next day to call at the school and demand to see Archie Brand. He did not like Mr. Arkle and felt sure the head teacher would find some obstacle to put in his way.

But to his relief, Mr. Arkle was out somewhere and the meek secretary, Freda, went off and collected Archie and brought him into her office.

“Now, Archie,” said Hamish, “can we go over again what you told me?”

“It was the night her at the post office was murdered. I was going to the chippy…”

“What time would that be?”

“About nine. There was this fellow standing outside the post office. He was looking up, you know, at the upstairs windows.”

“Right. Now tell me as much as you can remember.”

“He was all in black,” said Archie, red-faced and squirming in his seat. “He had a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes and his clothes were black. He had wan o’ thae down-filled jackets and a pair o’ black trousers and black sneakers.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Naw. Thon cap was pulled right down.”

Hamish stifled a sigh. Nothing more there.

“Thanks, Archie. If you remember anything more, phone me at the police station in Lochdubh.”

“Right, boss,” said Archie proudly.

♦

Hamish returned to Lochdubh and phoned Jimmy. “Have you got a time of death for Miss McAndrew?” he asked.

“Sometime during the night, Hamish. You know how it is. They can never pinpoint the exact time. But she was killed in her bed and she hadn’t yet eaten any breakfast, and from the contents of her stomach, they guess it must have been somewhere in the small hours.”

“No sign of forced entry?”

“None.”

“That’s odd. I don’t see her getting out of bed and letting her killer in and then going back to bed and waiting to be stabbed. I’d swear whoever it was got her when she was asleep. What kind of lock on the front door?”

“Just a Yale. Easily picked.”

“Footprints, fingerprints?”

“No fingerprints. No footprints. This is one coldblooded murderer. He’d vacuumed his way out of the house. The vacuum was lying just inside the door.”

“Anything in the bag?”

“Our murderer took the vacuum bag with him. Not a fibre, not a hair.”

“Anyone been down to Perth to check on Miss Beattie’s background?”

“Perth police did that. An old neighbour remembered she had some sort o’ falling-out with her parents and left. They were a close-mouthed religious pair and never spoke about it.”

“I’m not getting anywhere with my enquiries. How about you lot?”

“Blair’s got another case down here which leaves me in charge. You know what he’s like. When a case seems impossible to solve, he dumps it on some other sucker, said sucker being me.”

“I’m going to the old folks’ club tonight. Maybe some of them will remember something.”

“My, my. The excitement of living in the Highlands. Have fun.”

♦

Pat Mallone walked along the waterfront, filled with unease. He had a great deal on his conscience. The day before, Elspeth had said, “Thank goodness that’s finished. I’ll get a cup of coffee and send it off.”

Pat had stopped by her desk. “Your colour piece?” he had asked.

“That’s the one. Be a lamb and have a look at it. Won’t be long.”

Pat had sat down at Elspeth’s computer. He quickly read the piece. It was brilliant. A wild impulse seized him. It was all ready to be sent off to the Bugle. He erased Elspeth’s byline, put his own on, and sent the article off. Then he erased his byline and typed Elspeth’s back in.

“What do you think?” asked Elspeth, appearing behind him.

“Great,” said Pat. “I sent it off for you.”

“That’s a bit high-handed of you. I might have wanted to make changes.”

Pat twinkled up at her, turning on the full force of his Irish charm. “I’m sure you thought it was perfect.”

Elspeth grinned. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

What Pat now hoped was that because the article was not written by a member of their own staff, the Bugle would not use the byline on the piece, but if they were pleased with it, they might offer him a job. He would need to sweat it out until Sunday when the paper appeared.

He saw Jenny walking towards the police station. He hurried to waylay her.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

“I was just going to see if Hamish was at home.”

“I think I saw him driving off earlier,” lied Pat. “I’ve got to cover an amateur dramatic show at Cnothan this afternoon. A children’s affair. Feel like coming?”

“Yes, all right,” said Jenny.

“How long are you staying?”

“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “I’ve got a lot of leave owing.” As a matter of fact, she had phoned her office that morning and claimed that she had caught the flu. The only trouble was they had asked for a doctor’s certificate.

Pat looked down at her guilty, flushed face.

“Is that the truth?”

“No,” said Jenny, turning even redder. “I said I had the flu and now they want a doctor’s certificate.”

“So we’ll pinch one.”

“How do we do that?”

“I’ll tell this local doctor I’ve got back pain, you create a diversion, and I’ll nick one.”

“Could you?” breathed Jenny.

“It’s worth a try. Come on. The surgery’s open.”

They walked into the surgery. Pat explianed his problem to the receptionist, glad he had taken the precaution of signing on when he’d first arrived in Lochdubh and therefore was saved the business of filling out forms. “After I go in,” he whispered to Jenny, “create a diversion in the waiting room, something to get him running out.”

“I’ll try,” Jenny whispered back.

There were only two elderly patients before Pat was due to be called. Jenny tried to read a romantic story in the People’s Friend. But the print jumped before her nervous eyes.

At last it was Pat’s turn. He breezed in. “Sit down,” said Dr. Brodie. “What’s up with you?”

“It’s my back,” said Pat, his eyes roving over the doctor’s desk.

“That’s unusual,” said Dr. Brodie.

“Why?”

“People usually complain of bad backs on a Monday so they get a week off work.”

“I’m not trying to get off work,” said Pat. “I just want something to ease the pain.”

“Did you do anything to strain it?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Sam wanted me to lift the photocopier to another part of the office. It was heavier than I expected.”

“I should think it’s nothing more than a temporary strain. I’d better examine you just the same. Go behind the screen and strip to the waist.”

Why wasn’t Jenny doing something? wondered Pat.

Then he heard the sound of a heavy fall from the waiting room, and the receptionist came running in, shouting. “Doctor, come quick. There’s a lassie’s fainted.”

Pat peered over the screen. The minute Dr. Brodie was out of the room, he ran round the screen, his eyes scanning the desk. There it was, the book of forms. He quickly tore one off the top and put it in his jacket pocket and then went into the waiting room, where Jenny was being helped into a chair.

“I’m all right,” she was saying. “Just a dizzy turn.”

The doctor saw Pat. “I’d better examine this young lady first. You wait here.”

“Right,” said Pat. “Actually, I’m probably making a fuss about nothing. A couple of painkillers’ll probably put me right.”

Jenny was helped into the consulting room. Pat waited anxiously. She was gone for ages. Jenny had to have a full examination. At the end of it, Dr. Brodie studied her rosy cheeks and bright eyes and said slowly, “I would say you are one remarkably healthy lady. Have these murders made you nervous?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jenny, seizing on the excuse. “I was helping Hamish with his enquiries yesterday and it was all very exciting. I think the horror of it all got to me today.”

“I don’t know what Hamish was thinking of to involve you in two nasty murder cases,” said Dr. Brodie. “I’ll be having a word with him.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” pleaded Jenny. “I wouldn’t want to get him into any trouble.”

“Nonetheless, I’ll be speaking to him. If you get another fainting fit, come and see me. The receptionist will give you the necessary forms to fill in with the name of your London doctor. Send that young man in.”

After examining Pat thoroughly, Dr. Brodie felt he was wasting his time. Both Pat and Jenny seemed to be in perfect health.

After they had gone, he phoned the police station. Hamish was out, so he left him a message and then walked to his home – to find Hamish sitting in his kitchen, drinking coffee.

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 1940s 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?”

“And typed the letter to go with it? Not likely,” said Elspeth.

“You’re right.”

“You know what this means?”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“It means,” said Elspeth patiently, “that if whoever sent the video to the community hall was in on the murders but did not perform them, then that person is liable to find himself murdered.”

“Won’t wash. Whoever filmed the murder was as much a part of it as the man or men who strung Miss Beattie up. Someone’s looking at a long jail sentence.”

Elspeth suddenly swung the car to the side of the road and stopped. She darted out and was violently sick. Hamish climbed out and handed her a rather grubby handkerchief. “There, now,” he said gently. “It’s the shock.”

Elspeth choked and gasped and then handed Hamish back his handkerchief, unused. She took a small packet of tissues out of her pocket, extracted one, and dabbed her mouth. “Sorry, Hamish, it’s a nightmare.”

“It is that,” he said grimly. “Get back in the car, lassie, and I’ll drive.”

♦

Jenny and Pat Mallone were just finishing a meal at the Italian restaurant when Iain Chisholm entered. He bent his head over a table of diners and whispered urgently. There were cries and shocked exclamations. Iain left. The diners he had spoken to leant over to the next table and began to whisper. More cries of shock and alarm.

“Something’s up.” Pat got to his feet. “And I’m going to find out.”

He walked over to the diners Iain had first spoken to. Jenny watched. She couldn’t hear what they were saying because they were whispering. Finally, Pat came back. “I’d better get to the office,” he said. “You’ll never believe what’s happened now.”

“What?”

“A video was shown at the community hall in Braikie tonight. Someone had delivered it and said it was a short documentary from Help the Aged. It showed Miss Beattie hanging.”

“Gosh!”

“I’d better see Sam and get over to Braikie.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No, I’ll need to take a photographer with me.”

♦

When Pat got to the newspaper office, it was to find that Elspeth had already phoned over the story, and it had been sent off to the nationals along with library pictures of the community hall.

Pat chewed his thumb in vexation. At least the nationals would send their own reporters. Most of those reporters would rewrite Elspeth’s story and put their own names on it. He didn’t want Elspeth to get an offer of a job on a national newspaper before he did.

♦

Hamish worked late filing his report. Blair phoned back at two in the morning and told him to go to Braikie as early as possible and do door-to-door enquiries. Hamish set the alarm and tried to compose himself for sleep, envying Lugs, who was snoring at the end of his bed. But sleep would not come. He felt sure that somewhere amongst all the people he had interviewed lay a clue to the murders, a clue he had missed.