“Not really. He complained a bit about changes to the script, but Paul always managed to calm him down.”
“Ah, the script. I’ve seen the one you’re working on, and I would swear that it wasn’t written by John Heppel.”
“I didn’t know you were a literary critic. I’ve got to go.”
“I would like to see the original script.”
“Then you’ll need to ask Sally Quinn.”
But Hamish found that Sally Quinn was in her office in Strathbane. He groaned to himself. Heather would return and would wonder where he was, and if he told her what he was doing, she would no doubt give him a blasting over going off on a wild-goose chase. And yet he was sure there was something wrong about it all. Maybe there had been something in the original script that gave a clue to the murderer.
He left Lugs back at the police station and drove off to Strathbane.
♦
Matthew closed his notebook after what he considered another useless interview. He wanted to do the feature on Standing Stones Island, but Elspeth didn’t want to be part of it.
He heard the school bell ringing for the lunch break – or dinner break as it was still called in Lochdubh – and decided to call on Freda. He found her attractive. He found Elspeth more attractive, but Elspeth seemed wrapped up in that odd local copper.
He walked past shrieking children in the playground and went into the small schoolhouse. Freda was in her office, marking exam papers.
“I wonder if I could tempt you to a bit of lunch,” he said.
“I’d love to. But I’ve brought a sandwich with me and I’ve still got papers to mark. How are you getting on?”
“Getting nowhere. Elspeth’s better at writing up the story of the suicide. I’ve got the features editor interested in a piece about spending a night on Standing Stones Island.”
“How exciting. I’ve heard it’s haunted. Is Elspeth going with you?”
“No, she says she’s not interested.”
Freda thought rapidly. Maybe if she charmed this reporter, Hamish might become interested in her. “I tell you what,” she said. “It’s nice and dry today. Why don’t I go with you?”
“That would be great. It’s a bit boring spending a whole night on a haunted island on one’s own.”
“You don’t expect any ghosts?”
“Not one. But I could write a good piece.”
“How do we get there?”
“I’ve made some enquiries. There’s a chap with a boat who would take us over and then pick us up in the morning.”
“What time would we set out?”
“This evening around eight o’clock. Where will I pick you up?”
“Why don’t we have an early meal at the Italian restaurant so we won’t get too hungry or have to bother taking a picnic? We’ll need lots of warm clothes and sleeping bags.”
“I don’t have a sleeping bag.”
“I’ve got a spare.”
“Good,” said Matthew. “Dinner’s on me. Make it early. I’ll meet you in the restaurant at six o’clock.”
♦
An hour later an angry Sally Quinn was saying to Hamish, “The script you read is the original.”
“But Harry Tarrant described John Heppel’s script as pure Dostoyevsky. The script I saw was just plain uninspired English.”
“Officer, I will have to put a complaint about you to your superiors. Your job is surely to find out which one of those terrifying villagers killed John. Now, go away before I call security.”
♦
Hamish found Heather waiting for him. “Look here,” she snapped. “I have been more than tolerant of your odd behaviour. But your place is here, not running around like some starstrack idiot after television people. I have a list here of people in Lochdubh I want you to call on.”
“Today?” asked Hamish.
“Right now.”
She swept out of the police station, leaving him looking at the names on the list: Freda Garrety, Alistair Taggart, Archie Maclean, Mrs. Wellington, the Currie sisters, and Angela Brodie.
He took Lugs out for a walk up the fields at the back so that Heather would not see him. Then he fed the dog and headed out, deciding to call on Angela first.
The doctor’s wife was at home. Her kitchen looked more chaotic than usual, with cats prowling all over the place and a computer among the jumble of dirty dishes and cups on the table.
Angela pushed a wisp of hair away from her face. “It is a mess, Hamish, but I’ve been busy writing.” Her thin sensitive face was flushed with excitement. “You see, I had an important visitor.”
“Who would that be?”
“Blythe Summer. Mrs. Wellington, bless her tweed socks, told him that I was a talented writer. He asked to see what I’d written. I showed him that short story I wrote for the writing class, and he wants me to expand it into a novel. I’ll make coffee. No, we’ll have a drink.” She got down on her knees and opened a cupboard under the sink. “I think I’ve got a bottle of sherry we brought back from Cyprus about twelve years ago. Ah, here it is, right behind the rat poison.”
“I hope you’re sure you’ve got the right bottle,” said Hamish. “I didn’t know you had rats.”
“They turned out to be big mice, but I thought they were rats. There!” Angela put a dusty bottle on the table. “There’s a bit of a leak under the kitchen sink and the label’s fallen off, but I’m sure it’s sherry.”
“That’s grand news,” said Hamish, looking uneasily at the bottle.
Angela produced two fine lead-crystal glasses from another cupboard. She poured two generous measures of sherry. Hamish sniffed cautiously at his drink. “Smells all right. Here’s to your success, Angela.”
“Slainte! What brings you? I haven’t really got the time to keep looking after that dog of yours.”
“It’s my boss. She’s given me a list of people to interview, and you’re one of them.”
“Why me?”
“Blessed if I know. Anyway, I thought it would be a good idea to call on you in case she’s watching. Have you got a minute? I want to run some things by you.”
Angela threw a longing look at the computer but said, “Okay. Go on.”
Hamish told her as much as he knew. When he had finished, Angela said, “You said you think he had probably been having an affair with Alice Patty. He was close to this actress Patricia Wheeler. Maybe he had an affair with her or someone else at Strathbane Television. I mean the murderer might be a jealous woman. I think John Heppel enjoyed the power he felt from humiliating people. Just look how rotten he was to everyone at the writing class. Imagine what he would be like if he was breaking off a relationship with some woman.”
“That’s a good point.”
“And talking about women, I saw Matthew Campbell and Freda in the Italian restaurant. They were sitting at that table at the window when I went past around six o’clock. Are you going to miss out there?”
“I’m not that interested,” said Hamish huffily.
“What about Elspeth?”
“That iss over and done with!”
“Hamish, don’t you ever think it would be nice to be married?”
The malicious highland streak in Hamish rose up. He looked around the messy kitchen. “Angela, if anyone needs to get married, it iss yourself and Dr. Brodie. You need a good woman to do the housework and take care of both of you.”
“That’s it. Off you go, Hamish. And don’t dare insult my hospitality again. And furthermore, in future, look after your blasted dog yourself.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Hamish miserably. “But I don’t like folks nosing into my private life.”
Angela glared at him and then relented. He looked so forlorn, standing there holding his cap and looking at the floor.
“We’ll both forget about it,” she said. “But I’ve got to write.”
♦