slums, people might think he didn’t know what he
was writing about.’
‘Did he always write?’
‘He always tried.’
‘What was he doing when you knew him?’
‘He was an income tax inspector.’
‘That’s enough to get anyone murdered,’ said Jimmy.
‘My friend is dead,’ said Harry coldly. ‘I don’t like your tone.’
‘Who was he in contact with here apart from you?’ asked Hamish.
‘He had consultations with the director and the script editor.’
‘And who is the script editor?’
‘Sally Quinn.’
‘May we speak to her?’
‘I’ll get Miss Patty to take you to her. Now I have work to do.’ He buzzed for his secretary.
As Miss Patty led them to a staircase leading to the floor below, Hamish studied her with new interest. She was a small faded woman, possibly in her late thirties, with dull sandy hair and a
pinched white face. Hamish felt suddenly sorry for her. She should have been secretary to a bank manager or had some sort of job away from this brutal world where she might get a bit of respect.
Yet some people would put up with a lot to think they were part of show business.
‘In here,’ said Miss Patty, pushing open a door. ‘Selly, pelice to see you.’
Sally was a tall, angular woman with frizzy grey hair and pale eyes behind thick glasses. ‘I wish that silly cow would stop calling me Selly,’ she said. ‘It’s the old
Kelvinside accent. You hardly hear it these days. You’ve come about John’s death?’
‘Did you think his script had merit?’ asked Hamish.
‘Brilliant stuff. Never seen anything like it,’ said Sally to the window.
‘Did everyone here like him?’
‘Of course. Sweet man,’ Sally told the coffee pot on her desk.
‘Why isn’t there a copy of the script here?’
‘Paul Gibson took all the copies with him on location. It wasn’t quite finished, and so he thought he’d go over it while he was away. He’ll be back tomorrow.’
Jimmy’s phone rang. He took it out and moved to a corner of the room. Hamish heard his exclamation of surprise and then ‘Right, sir.’
Jimmy rang off and turned to Hamish. ‘Developments. We’ve got to go.’
They thanked Sally and walked outside.
‘What?’ asked Hamish.
‘Blair has arrested Alistair Taggart for the murder.’
Chapter Five
Here lies one who meant well, tried a little, failed much: – surely that may be his epitaph, of which he need not be ashamed.
–Robert Louis Stevenson
The message they received when they arrived back at police headquarters was that Jimmy was to go immediately upstairs to join Blair and that Hamish Macbeth was to get back to
his beat.
Hamish drove straight to Lochdubh, parked the Land Rover, collected Lugs, and walked up to Alistair Taggart’s cottage. He knocked on the door. Maisie Taggart answered. Her eyes were red
with crying, and she hugged her thin figure.
‘He didnae do it,’ she said on a choked sob.
‘Can I come in?’
She nodded and turned away. He followed her into their living room. A battered typewriter stood on a desk in the corner with a pile of typescript beside it. I wonder where folks get ribbons for
those things today, thought Hamish, what with most people using computers.
He took off his cap and sat down. Lugs slumped in a corner and went to sleep.
‘Why do they think he did it?’ asked Hamish.
‘Thon Perry Sutherland says he saw Alistair up at John’s cottage the night he was killed.’
‘And why didn’t Perry say this before?’
‘He said he didn’t want Alistair to get into trouble. Then that nasty fat detective kept shouting at him and accusing Perry of the murder, and that’s when Perry said he’d
seen Alistair.’
‘Did they search your house? Did they find anything incriminating?’
‘They found a packet of mothballs.’
‘I’ve got a packet of mothballs. I think everyone in Lochdubh has a packet of mothballs. Why did Alistair say he was visiting John?’
‘He went to get the money back
was writing about.’
‘Did he always write?’
‘He always tried.’
‘What was he doing when you knew him?’
‘He was an income tax inspector.’
‘That’s enough to get anyone murdered,’ said Jimmy.
‘My friend is dead,’ said Harry coldly. ‘I don’t like your tone.’
‘Who was he in contact with here apart from you?’ asked Hamish.
‘He had consultations with the director and the script editor.’
‘And who is the script editor?’
‘Sally Quinn.’
‘May we speak to her?’
‘I’ll get Miss Patty to take you to her. Now I have work to do.’ He buzzed for his secretary.
As Miss Patty led them to a staircase leading to the floor below, Hamish studied her with new interest. She was a small faded woman, possibly in her late thirties, with dull sandy hair and a
pinched white face. Hamish felt suddenly sorry for her. She should have been secretary to a bank manager or had some sort of job away from this brutal world where she might get a bit of respect.
Yet some people would put up with a lot to think they were part of show business.
‘In here,’ said Miss Patty, pushing open a door. ‘Selly, pelice to see you.’
Sally was a tall, angular woman with frizzy grey hair and pale eyes behind thick glasses. ‘I wish that silly cow would stop calling me Selly,’ she said. ‘It’s the old
Kelvinside accent. You hardly hear it these days. You’ve come about John’s death?’
‘Did you think his script had merit?’ asked Hamish.
‘Brilliant stuff. Never seen anything like it,’ said Sally to the window.
‘Did everyone here like him?’
‘Of course. Sweet man,’ Sally told the coffee pot on her desk.
‘Why isn’t there a copy of the script here?’
‘Paul Gibson took all the copies with him on location. It wasn’t quite finished, and so he thought he’d go over it while he was away. He’ll be back tomorrow.’
Jimmy’s phone rang. He took it out and moved to a corner of the room. Hamish heard his exclamation of surprise and then ‘Right, sir.’
Jimmy rang off and turned to Hamish. ‘Developments. We’ve got to go.’
They thanked Sally and walked outside.
‘What?’ asked Hamish.
‘Blair has arrested Alistair Taggart for the murder.’
Chapter Five
Here lies one who meant well, tried a little, failed much: – surely that may be his epitaph, of which he need not be ashamed.
–Robert Louis Stevenson
The message they received when they arrived back at police headquarters was that Jimmy was to go immediately upstairs to join Blair and that Hamish Macbeth was to get back to
his beat.
Hamish drove straight to Lochdubh, parked the Land Rover, collected Lugs, and walked up to Alistair Taggart’s cottage. He knocked on the door. Maisie Taggart answered. Her eyes were red
with crying, and she hugged her thin figure.
‘He didnae do it,’ she said on a choked sob.
‘Can I come in?’
She nodded and turned away. He followed her into their living room. A battered typewriter stood on a desk in the corner with a pile of typescript beside it. I wonder where folks get ribbons for
those things today, thought Hamish, what with most people using computers.
He took off his cap and sat down. Lugs slumped in a corner and went to sleep.
‘Why do they think he did it?’ asked Hamish.
‘Thon Perry Sutherland says he saw Alistair up at John’s cottage the night he was killed.’
‘And why didn’t Perry say this before?’
‘He said he didn’t want Alistair to get into trouble. Then that nasty fat detective kept shouting at him and accusing Perry of the murder, and that’s when Perry said he’d
seen Alistair.’
‘Did they search your house? Did they find anything incriminating?’
‘They found a packet of mothballs.’
‘I’ve got a packet of mothballs. I think everyone in Lochdubh has a packet of mothballs. Why did Alistair say he was visiting John?’
‘He went to get the money back
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