“It could be argued that murder is not in Patricia, either. She is very conscious of being a lady.”
“‘God bless the squire and his relations, and keep them in their proper stations,”’quoted Fiona.
“Aye, something like that. Is Sheila around?”
“She’s been taken to Strathbane for questioning as well. She was heard shouting to Penelope, “I hope you break your neck.””
“Have they taken in Gervase Hart?”
“No, not him.”
“I wonder why. He was overheard telling Penelope he’d kill her.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Fiona sharply.
“Meaning you’ve told them all to shut up, except when it comes to Sheila.”
“That’s not the case at all.”
Hamish sighed. “Lies, lies and more lies. Don’t go around trying to hide things from the police. All it means is that a lot of innocent people get grilled by Blair when the murderer could be running around loose.”
He decided to spend what was left of the day trying to find out if anyone had seen Patricia on the morning of the murder. He drove over to Golspie and learned that the police had already questioned the waitresses at the Sutherland Arms Hotel and had found that Patricia did indeed have lunch there. No one had noticed that her manner was anything out of the way. She had, for example, not been muttering and talking to herself as she had been on the day that Dr. Brodie had found her. But although he diligently checked around Golspie – calling first on Hugh Johnston, the owner of Golspie Motors, the main garage – no one had seen Patricia or her car. It was a white Metro. Perhaps she had stopped somewhere for petrol. He drove miles, checking at petrol stations without success.
♦
Colin Jessop, the minister, arrived back at the manse and called, “Eileen!” No one answered. He went through to the kitchen. There was a note on the kitchen counter. It read, “Gone to Inverness with Ailsa. If I am not back, there is a casserole of stew in the fridge. Just heat it for your dinner.”
He glared at the note and then crumpled it into a ball. It was this silly film business of Eileen’s that was making her forget her duties as a wife. Well, as soon as she got back, he would put a stop to it.
He ate his solitary dinner, looking all the time at the kitchen clock. At nine o’clock he heard a car drive up.
He got to his feet.
His wife came in. He stared at her in outrage, at her makeup and at her dyed hair.
“You look a disgrace,” he shouted, the veins standing out on his forehead. “You will go and wash that muck off your face, and tomorrow you will get your hair put back to normal, and then you will stop this film business which is leading you into the paths of sin.”
Eileen looked at him coolly. “At least my hair is not bleached blond. I was in that new restaurant in Inverness today. What’s it called? I know. Harry’s. That’s the place. You see some interesting sights in there. I wonder what your parishioners would say if I described one of the sights I saw. But I’ll say no more about it, Colin. The hair stays, the makeup stays and the filming goes on.”
He sank down slowly into his chair. Eileen gave him a gentle smile and went out, quietly closing the kitchen door behind her.
♦
Hamish sat in front of the computer that evening. He tried Blair’s password again, fully expecting to find it had been changed; but unlike before, for some reason, his hacking had not yet been discovered.
He studied the reports.
Fiona King said she had backed off a little because she wanted a cigarette and Giles Brown, the director, couldn’t bear the smell of cigarette smoke. Gervase Hart said that he was bored and had strolled off a bit, looking for somewhere to sit down. Sheila said she had shown Penelope where to stand and then had gone back to join the others. Giles Brown confirmed that Sheila had been beside him when Penelope had screamed, so she could not possibly have done it. Harry Frame said he had gone off to find a quiet place in the mist for a pee. Patricia kept to her story about driving mindlessly around. No, she had not stopped for petrol. She had had a full tank when she set out.
Hamish ploughed on through all the reports from various members of the television company, from the estate staff at Drim Castle, from the villagers of Drim.
He sat back, bewildered.
Who on earth could have murdered Penelope?
The clue to it must lie somewhere in her background, and that background lay in Glasgow.
He picked up the phone and called Detective Sergeant Bill Walton of the Glasgow police, an old friend. He was told Wal-ton was off duty that day, so he called his home number.
“So it’s you, Hamish,” said Bill cheerfully. “My, you do have exotic murders up there. All we’ve got here is pedestrian jobs like slashings, muggings and drugs. No beautiful actresses.”
“It’s this Penelope Gates, Bill,” said Hamish. “It’s a mess.” He outlined the suspects. “You see what I mean?” he said finally. “Any of them could have done it. It was a simple murder where someone saw an opportunity of getting rid of her. I don’t think it was planned. So I was wondering if you had been on the case, if there was anything in Penelope’s background.”
“I’ve been working on it a bit,” said Bill, “and yes, I’ve been digging into Penelope’s background. She comes from a pretty slummy home in Parkhead.”
“And how did she manage to get to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art?”
“That was the mother. Saw her daughter as a modern Shirley Temple, always putting her into children’s competitions, all curls and frilly dresses. Got the money out of a doting uncle who keeps a newsagent’s in Cumbernauld. Violent, bullying father, minor offences, drunk and disorderly mostly.”
“Any boyfriends in the past?”
“I gather mother kept her under wraps and was furious when she married Josh. Would guess our Penelope was a virgin until she married Josh, unless that uncle she hated meddled with her. He was suspected at one time of child abuse, but nothing was ever proved.”
“Could be that uncle. She could have threatened to expose him.”
“Uncle was on holiday in Tenerife when the murder happened. I saw that writer woman on television. My money’s on her.”
“Why?”
“She came across as arrogant as sin and as cold as hell.”
“She’s quite vulnerable,” said Hamish slowly. “In fact, she offered to pay me to find out who really did it.”
“Could have done that to throw you off the scent.”
“Don’t think so,” said Hamish with a flash of arrogance. “I do haff the reputation up here.”
“Okay, Sherlock, but I don’t think I can help you.”
“There’s another thing. That death of Jamie Gallagher. I’ve got a feeling in my bones that Josh didn’t do it.”
“So just suppose for a minute you’re right. Who would want to get rid of both Jamie and Penelope?”
“Fiona King,” said Hamish. “The producer. She’s a hardbitten, pot-smoking woman, and her job was under threat from both of them.”
“Could she have killed Penelope? She was on the wrong side of the camera, if you know what I mean.”
“She could have sprinted off through the mist. The mist and the heather block out sound.” He described the outcrop and the little space underneath.
“But no matter how thick the mist, Penelope would have seen her or at least heard her.”
“I thought of that, but she could have muttered something like ‘Just checking,’ slid over the edge and waited.”
“You’re making my head ache, Hamish, but if anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”
Hamish said goodbye and rang off.