Death Of A Scriptwriter Part 20

"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 gla.s.s. "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 s.e.x 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 b.u.mps 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 ma.n.u.script. As he approached, he saw from the t.i.tle page that the ma.n.u.script was the television printed run-off of The Case of the Rising Tides 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 s.e.x 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 oldfashioned, 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 ma.n.u.script. "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 gla.s.s 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 b.u.mping 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 The Case of the Rising Tides to bed. 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. d.a.m.n 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 s.p.a.ce 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."