Death of a Scriptwriter

∨ Death of a Scriptwriter ∧

8

They flee from me, that sometime did me seek.

—Sir Thomas Wyatt

Two days later, a good number of the village women who had acted in Eileen’s film were gathered in the manse.

For the first time, Eileen became aware that there was a sour atmosphere. Nonetheless she was determined that nothing was going to take the glow out of her achievement, even though she could not talk about it.

She stood up before them and cleared her throat. “There are a few mistakes in act one that need to be fixed. I thought we could film it again.”

There was an impatient, restless shuffling. Then Nancy Macleod stood up. “We cannae really be wasting any more time on your fillum, Mrs. Jessop. We’ve got other things to do.”

Eileen looked at her in surprise.

“You see,” said Holly Andrews, Ailsa’s friend, whose nose had been put out of joint because of the friendship which had grown up between Ailsa and the minister’s wife, “we all feel we’re wasting our time with an amateur film when we’re in the real thing.”

“But you are only in several of the crowd scenes in The Case of the Rising Tides,” protested Eileen.

“But Edie Aubrey got a speaking part,” said Nancy. “There’s a chance for us all tae be discovered.”

“Where is Edie?” asked Eileen. “And shouldn’t Alice be here as well?”

A hostile silence greeted her.

“So we’d best all be going,” said Nancy.

Eileen watched them all, with the exception of Ailsa, depart in silence.

As soon as she was alone with Ailsa, she asked, “What has gone wrong? Up till now they’ve all enjoyed acting for me. They said they’d never had so much fun.”

“They’ve been discontented for some time,” said Ailsa.

“I didn’t know that!”

“It’s because you’re the minister’s wife. It’s like that in Highland villages with the minister’s wife. They’re usually respectful.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were enjoying yourself. No need to involve you in squabbles. But Edie Aubrey got a chance to say one line and so someone threw a brick through her front window.”

“Who did it? What did the police say?”

“Edie never reported it. We police ourselves here.”

“They cannot possibly think they are going to be film stars!”

“That’s exactly what the silly biddies do think. Cheer up. You’ve got masses of film already.”

“But I could still have done better,” wailed Eileen.

“Never mind. You’ve lost weight.”

“I’ve been on a diet,” said Eileen in an abstracted way. “I should do something about this. Why should some jealous woman get away with terrorising poor Edie?”

“It’ll all blow over, you’ll see,” said Ailsa. “Now I’d better get back and take over from Jock and mind the store. He’s got a shinty game over in Crask this afternoon.”

After she had gone, Eileen paced up and down. Then she came to a decision, got in her car and drove over to Lochdubh and parked outside the police station.

Hamish was feeling tired. In between his other duties, he had driven all over the place, searching for Scan Fitz. If only the morning of the murder hadn’t been thick with mist.

He opened the door to Eileen and looked at her in polite inquiry, not recognising the minister’s wife in the slimmer, dark-haired woman who stood blinking myopically up at him.

“We met before,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Eileen Jessop, the minister’s wife…at Drim, that is. You called on myself and my husband shortly after we moved up here.”

“So I did. Come in. Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be nice,” said Eileen.

“Then pull up a chair.”

Eileen sat down at the kitchen table. Then she said, “Perhaps I should be telling you this in the police office. It’s a police matter.”

“You can tell me just the same over a cup of coffee.” He plugged in the kettle and took down two mugs and a bowl of sugar and took a jug of milk out of the fridge. Eileen waited until he had handed her a mug of coffee and sat down.

“Now,” said Hamish, “what is this all about?”

He was really a very attractive man, thought Eileen, and her next thought was that it was a long time since she had really looked at any man to find him attractive or otherwise.

“It’s this TV film. It’s causing bad feeling among the village women. Now it’s turned criminal. Edie Aubrey got a line to say instead of just being in the crowd scene like the others and so someone threw a brick through her window.”

“Well, that’s Drim for you.”

“But they were not like this before!”

“They have been,” said Hamish, remembering that murder case a few years before. “If it is any comfort to you, tempers flare among them, but if you try to interfere, they close ranks against you.”

“But you must do something!”

Hamish was about to say if Edie had not reported it, there was little he could do; but suddenly he saw a great way of being officially back in Drim.

“Wait until you’ve finished your coffee and then I’ll follow you over and see if I can do something to frighten them into good behaviour. So how are you getting on? I heard something about you making a film.”

“Oh, it’s just a silly little thing,” said Eileen, who had become increasingly depressed about her play on the road over. She had even begun to worry that Sheila had just been humouring her. “But it was fun while it lasted.”

“What’s it about, your film?”

“I wrote a Scottish play when I was a student. It’s comedy with a dark side. It’s about an eccentric woman who arrives to live in a small Highland village and gets damned as being a witch. I changed the title to The Witch of Drim. I would have liked to do some more work on it, but the village women have decided they do not want to be involved in amateur dramatics anymore.”

“I suppose they think that Spielberg or someone will see their unlovely faces on the Strathclyde Television thing and say, “That’s the woman for me!””

“That is just what they are thinking.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do something. Is Drim still full of the press?”

“They’ve mostly gone. I believe some of the nationals have left a few reporters up here, but they are down in Strathbane. There’s some scandal about poor Miss Martyn-Broyd being driven into a nervous breakdown.”

“Is that young lassie Sheila Burford around? She was supposed to meet me for dinner on Monday and she didn’t turn up or even bother to phone.”

Monday, thought Eileen. Monday was when she had seen Sheila. And Sheila had forgotten her date with this attractive policeman to look at her, Eileen’s, film. Her heart soared and she gave Hamish a radiant smile. Then she said, “I asked for her at the castle before I came here. She said she had to go down to Glasgow for a funeral.”

Hamish hoped against hope that bad news had made her forget their date. He did not like to think he had not been worth even a phone call.

Eileen finished her coffee, thanked Hamish and left. Hamish washed out the cups, put the milk back in the fridge, locked up the police station and got into the police Land Rover and took the winding road to Drim.

There was no filming that day, and Drim lay peacefully in the sunshine, as if murder had never taken place.

He parked the Land Rover outside the general store and then walked to Edie Aubrey’s cottage. The front window was boarded up. In a more civilised part of the country, a glazier would have replaced the broken window by now, but in the Highlands it was very hard to get anything repaired quickly. Glaziers, plumbers, electricians, men who repaired dry stone walls and builders all seemed to suffer from bad backs. The work always eventually got done, but it took a long time.

He knocked on the door, and after a few moments Edie answered it. She was a scrawny woman with thick glasses and dressed in a track suit of a violent shade of red.

“Hamish!” she said. “What brings you?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course. I was just about to put the kettle on. Take a seat in the lounge.”

Hamish went into an uncomfortable, overdecorated room. Although not a Highlander, Edie had adopted the Highland way of keeping one room for ‘best,’ so it had that clean, glittering look and stuffy, unused smell. It was all in shades of pink. Barbara Cartland would have loved it. There was a pink three·piece suite upholstered in some nasty slippery material. Pink curtains hung at the boarded-up window, and the walls were painted in a shade Hamish recognised as being called blush pink. Pink scatter cushions cascaded onto the floor as he sat down. The sofa was so overstuffed, he felt himself slipping forwards, so he retrieved the cushions and then sat down on the one hard upright chair in the room.

Edie came in carrying a glass tray with thin cups on it, cups embellished with gold rims and pink roses.

“Could we have some light in here, Edie?” asked Hamish, peering at her through the gloom.

“Of course.” She switched on a pink-shaded, pink-fringed standard lamp.

“Now, Edie, what happened to your window?”

“The silliest thing,” said Edie with awful brightness. “I was vacuuming the room and I slipped and the end of the vacuum went straight through the window.”

“So all this talk about someone throwing a brick through the window is lies? Come on, Edie, I’m not daft and I know what goes on in Drim. Someone was jealous of you getting a wee speaking part.”

Edie glared at him and then shrugged her thin shoulders. “Oh, well, you know how we are here. Someone pushed money in an envelope through the letter box the other day for the repairs. We settle our own disputes.”

“You are a bunch of silly hens,” said Hamish. “And what about this film the minister’s wife is doing?”

“Oh, that was fun for a while,” said Edie, lying back against the sofa in a jaded, sophisticated way. “But we can’t be caught up in the wee woman’s amateur dramatics every day of the week.”

“You’re making a big mistake there,” said Hamish. “Oh, me and my big mouth!”

Edie sat up straight. “What do you know?”

Hamish smiled at her ruefully and then shrugged. “Oh, well, then I’ll tell ye, Edie, but it’s to be a secret, chust between the two of us. Promise you won’t breathe a word!”

“I promise. Would you like a dram?”

“No, it’s too early and I’m driving.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “As part of this murder case, I haff been checking up on the backgrounds of everyone.”

“I heard you were off it,” said Edie.

“This was afore,” said Hamish huffily. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Yes, yes, go on.”

Hamish took a slow sip of tea while Edie waited eagerly.

“In the background of the minister’s wife…”

“I knew it! I knew it!” said Edie, her pale eyes shining behind her glasses. “Scandal!”

“No, nothing like that,” said Hamish sternly, “and I won’t be telling you, Edie, if you keep interrupting.”

“Go on.”

“That play of hers, when she was a lassie, was performed at the university and got rave reviews. She was approached by a major film company. They wanted to buy the rights.”

“Oh, my. What did she do?”

“Her parents were Calvinists and against the movies. They made her turn it down. But I happen to know – if you tell any one this, I’ll kill ye!”

“No, no. Go on. Have a biscuit.”

Hamish selected a foilwrapped Penguin chocolate biscuit and began to peel off the wrapping with maddening slowness. Then he took a bite and looked at Edie solemnly.

“I happen to know that Eileen Jessop is sending her film off tae Hollywood to some big producer. It’s a deadly secret. She hasnae even told her husband.”

He smiled sweetly at Edie’s astonished face. He finished his biscuit and drained his cup and stood up.

“But if you get any more attacks from the locals, Edie, you should tell me.”

“Oh, I will, Hamish. And I won’t breathe a word.”

Hamish turned in the doorway. “See that you don’t.”

♦

Edie’s next visitor was Holly Andrews.

“We put Eileen Jessop in her place,” said Holly. “It’s a bit vain, don’t you think, Edie, her wanting us to take time off from our homes to act in her wee bittie film when we could all be stars.”

“We’re all thinking this television thing is going to be shown,” said Edie. “But there’s a jinx on it already. One of the camera crew said they were getting worried on BBC Scotland that it might be tasteless to show it at all in view of the deaths. I think we were all a bit hard on Eileen. Come to think of it, I think my part could do with more work. I’m going up to Eileen’s to say I’ll be available for more filming.”

Holly was jealous of Eileen’s friendship with Ailsa. “She puts on airs because she’s the minister’s wife, but I tell you this, Edie, if she shows that tosh she’s filmed outside of Drim, we’ll be a laughing stock.”

Edie leaned forward, her face intense in the gloom of her living room. “If I tell you something, Holly, something about Eileen, will you promise not to breathe a word?”

“I’m a clam. You know me. I wouldn’t say a word to a soul.”

Holly’s eyes grew rounder and rounder as Edie repeated what she had heard from Hamish Macbeth.

“So you’re not to say anything, mind!” cautioned Edie as Holly made her way out.

♦

Colin Jessop had gone off to Inverness, and Eileen was alone that evening. She felt depressed and let down.

She walked to the manse window and looked down the drive. And then she saw the village women, done up in their best, walking up the drive, happy and chattering, headed by Edie Aubrey.

She went and opened the door. “We’ve just been thinking,” said Edie excitedly, “that it would do no harm to let you film a bit more.”

“If you really want to,” said Eileen, surprised.

There was a chorus of ‘Yes, yes,’ as they all crowded into the manse.

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 rubbish!”

“‘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 chores, 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 mass 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 café 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 prone 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 password but this time could not get into the reports. He swore and switched off the machine and stared into space.

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 hell 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! 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 tits there.”

Hamish took down the bottle of malt whisky and poured two glasses. 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 damn 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 identity and get backing. He puts it about that he was educated in England but born in Glasgow. Actually he was born to respectable middle·class 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 glass.

“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?”

“It was in Florida a few years ago. He was filming for some television travel show about British tourists abroad. Some American copper tried to move him on, and Giles lost his rag and socked him. Got two nights in the pokey before the lawyers could get him out. But look at the time factor. He was giving the directions. He hardly had time to run off through the mist and tip her over, or, as she said, drag her over.”

“What if Penelope got it wrong?” mused Hamish. “She was dying when she told me. What if no one pulled her over, but she got one quick push from behind?”

“That would put that delicious wee blonde, Sheila Burford, in the frame.”

“Hardly. She heard her scream and ran towards the sound. What about Fiona King?”

“Done a couple of times for possession of drugs. Had a cat-fight with the woman she was living with, police called, shouting and screaming, lovers’ tiff, nothing much there.”

“What about Penelope’s past? Nothing there at all?”

“Nothing more than I’ve told you.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair and tilted the liquid in his glass. “You know, the murder of Penelope confuses things. Let’s get back to Jamie Gallagher. Angus Harris has a temper, Angus Harris finds his friend was cheated and Angus Harris stood to gain a good bit of money which he must have felt, as the legatee of Stuart’s will, he had been done out of. That would have been a good, solid motive. Where was he when Penelope was killed?”

“Touring about, but no alibi. But why would he kill Penelope?”

“Chust supposing,” said Hamish, becoming excited, “that he killed Jamie Gallagher, but that someone like Fiona, Harry or Giles killed Penelope.”

“Farfetched.”

“So let’s take another leap of the imagination. Where was Mary Hoyle on the day of Penelope’s murder?”

“Why her? No one checked. Why should they?”

“I haven’t seen her in anything for a while,” said Hamish slowly. “Look at it this way: The original idea of the script was to have sex and a stunner in the main part. What if Mary Hoyle got Harry’s ear and pointed out how much better she would be in the part?”

“And he says they’ve already got someone, so she bumps Penelope off? Come on, Hamish!”

“I haven’t met her. Is she at the hotel?”

“Aye, with the others. But you’d better not approach her or you’ll have Harry Frame running to Lovelace.”

“There’s nothing to stop me having dinner at the hotel this evening.”

“Except your wages.”

“I can afford it once in a blue moon. I’d chust like to meet her.”

“Suit yourself. More whisky?”

♦

That evening, Hamish changed into his one good suit. He would really need to buy a pair of shoes to go with it, he thought as he pulled on his boots. He drove to the hotel and went into the manager, Mr. Johnson’s, office.

“I would like to meet this Mary Hoyle,” he said.

“You might be in luck. The rest have gone down to the Napoli. She’s in the dining room, I think.”

“Any hope of a cheap dinner? Your prices are awfy steep.”

“All right, you moocher, but order the trout and nothing else. We’ve got more trout than we know what to do with. It’s Jenkins’s night off. Tell the waitress, Bessie, to give your bill to me.”

Hamish thanked him and went through to the dining room. He recognised Mary Hoyle, sitting at a corner table, reading a manuscript. As he approached, he saw from the title page that the manuscript was the television printed run-off of The Case of the Rising Tides.

“Excuse me, Miss Hoyle.” She was an attractive woman with dark hair and a clever face, not beautiful, but with a certain presence. Her eyes were striking, being large and green.

She looked up inquiringly. He sat down opposite her. “I am Hamish Macbeth, the policeman at Lochdubh. Don’t worry. I’m off duty and off the case. I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your acting.”

She smiled. “That is very kind of you.” Her voice was low and throaty.

The waitress came up. “I’ll have the trout, Bessie,” said Hamish. He looked around. “But I don’t want to be bothering Miss Hoyle…”

“Oh, stay where you are. I’m nearly finished.”

“And how are you getting on?” asked Hamish.

“Very well. It’s an easy part.”

“You must be playing a different character to the one portrayed by Penelope Gates.”

“Yes, I persuaded Harry that he was on the wrong track trying to sex it up. Play it straight and it could run forever. Harry saw sense at last.”

“Did you know him before?”

“Of course. The theatre and television world in Scotland is very small. We all know each other.”

“So you knew Penelope Gates?”

“I met her at a couple of parties. She wasn’t an actress. Just a body.”

With a flash of Highland intuition, Hamish said, “When you heard on the grapevine that Harry was going to do this series, you went after the main part, only to be told he wanted Penelope.”

“Who told you that?”

“Someone or other,” said Hamish vaguely. He longed to ask her where she was on the day of the murder but did not dare go that far for fear she would complain to Harry, who would promptly complain to Lovelace. “How are you enjoying Patricia’s book?” he asked instead.

“It’s a bit old·fashioned, even for the sixties. More like a between-the-wars detective story. It doesn’t have the pace of a Christie or the brilliance of a Sayers, but it’s all right, a bit dull.”

“I’ve never read it.”

She smiled and handed over the manuscript. “You can have this. Now if you’ll excuse me…?”

“Grand talking to you.”

Hamish watched her leave the dining room. Bessie brought his trout, which he picked at while his mind raced. Forget the murder of Jamie. Here was a good motive for the murder of Penelope.

He finished his meal, told Bessie to take his bill to Mr. Johnson and went out. Sheila Burford was just coming into the reception area. She saw him and coloured slightly.

“I’m very sorry I stood you up, Hamish,” she said. “Something came up.”

But Hamish no longer saw her as an attractive girl but as a possible source of information. “Come into the bar,” he urged. “I want a wee word with you.”

“Just a short time, then,” said Sheila reluctantly. Using a funeral as an excuse, she had gone down to Glasgow, where she had registered her own film and television company. Then she’d taken Eileen’s cut and edited film with her own name on it as producer to Scottish Television. She was still waiting to hear what they thought of it.

She said she only wanted a glass of tonic water, and Hamish had the same, just in case the dreadful Lovelace came in and caught him drinking whisky.

“So what do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“Mary Hoyle.”

Sheila looked at him in surprise. She had somehow expected Hamish to ask her out again.

“What about her?”

“Did you know she was after the part of Lady Harriet before Penelope got it?”

“No, but I can see why she would expect Harry to give it to her.”

“Her being the better actress?”

“Well, no, because she hadn’t had any significant work for some time, and she and Harry used to live together.”

Hamish’s eyes gleamed. “There’s a thing. I wonder where she was on the day of Penelope’s murder.”

“You mean Mary Hoyle would come all the way up from Glasgow on the off chance of bumping Penelope off, that she would climb up the mountain on a misty day and just happen to pull Penelope over!”

The excitement left Hamish’s hazel eyes. “Now you put it like that, it does sound daft. Still, I’d like to know where she was on the day of the murder.”

“You’re a policeman. You ask her.”

“I cannae. That beast Lovelace might get to hear of it, and I’m off the case. You couldnae ask her yourself?”

“Just like that!”

“You could chust sort of sneak it into the conversation. I know, you thought you saw her in Drim on that day. Please.”

“I’ll try,” said Sheila doubtfully.

“And you’ll phone me?”

“Oh, all right.”

“You won’t forget?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll ask her. Now can I go to bed?”

Hamish stood up. “I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”

♦

When Hamish got back to the police station, he felt restless. He decided to take The Case of the Rising Tides to bed.

It was certainly soporific reading. But he managed to get halfway through it before he finally fell asleep, the papers scattered around the bed.

♦

Sheila almost forgot Hamish’s request, but the following day during a break in the filming, Harry instructed her to take a cup of coffee to Mary’s caravan.

She almost felt like refusing and saying she was not a waitress, when she saw a way of asking that question for Hamish.

Mary Hoyle was creaming her face when Sheila knocked and entered the caravan. “Good, put it down there,” said Mary without turning around.

“Something’s been puzzling me,” said Sheila.

“What?” said Mary absently.

“I think I saw you in Drim on the day of Penelope’s murder.”

Mary threw a soiled tissue into the wastepaper basket and turned round. “What’s your name?”

“Sheila Burford.”

“I wish Harry would employ sensible, intelligent girls instead of little tarts who are all bust and no brains. You are mistaken. I was not in Drim on the day of the murder.”

“Where were you?”

“Do you know who you are speaking to? Get out of here and find something to do. That is, unless you are expected to do anything other than allow Harry and the other men to gawp down your cleavage.”

Sheila, who was wearing a low-necked blouse, turned and left the caravan. Damn them all. If only she could sell that film of Eileen’s.

She took out her mobile phone and called Hamish Macbeth.

“Thanks, Sheila,” said Hamish when she reported the conversation.

Sheila remembered how nice Hamish was compared to the people she was working with. “I’m really sorry I stood you up, Hamish. I tell you what, I’ll take you for dinner on Wednesday evening at the Napoli. It’s a firm date.”

“Grand,” said Hamish. “I’ll be there.”

He rang off and stared into space while his mind raced. If only he could get down to Glasgow and start ferreting into Mary Hoyle’s movements on the day of the murder. Perhaps he could phone in sick. Perhaps –

There was a knock at the door.

Hamish opened it.

The sun was shining once more. A tramp squinted up at him. “Any chance of a cup of tea?”

Hamish beamed.

“Come in, Scan Fitz,” he said. “You’re chust the man I want to see.”