“I doubt it,” said Hamish crossly.
“Come on, Hamish. Even if I make a stupid suggestion, it might spark an intelligent one.”
“Oh, all right. Sit down and keep quiet.”
Elspeth pulled up a chair beside him and sat quietly while he scrolled through the notes on the computer screen. He reached the notes he had typed in after his visit to Perth. “I haven’t sent this stuff over,” he said, “because I didn’t get anywhere and I wasn’t even supposed to be there.”
“Wait a minute,” said Elspeth. “This Graham Simpson said that Peter Stoddart was in Australia. Now, that name rings a bell. Let me think.”
Hamish waited patiently.
“I know. Moy Hall, outside Inverness. I was covering the fair there a year ago. I’m sure a chap called Peter Stoddart won the clay pigeon shoot.”
“Could be lots of Peter Stoddarts.”
“But we got a photo of him.”
“Let’s go along to that office of yours and see if you’ve still got the photo in the files.”
As they walked into the newspaper office, Sam waylaid Elspeth, saying, “Don’t you think I should give Pat another chance? He did a good story on the bullying.”
“I haven’t had time to tell you,” said Elspeth, “but that colour piece in the Sunday Bugle was mine. He put his byline on it instead of mine.”
Sam sighed. “Oh, well, in that case he can leave at the end of the month. What are you doing here, Hamish?”
“Detecting.”
“If you come up with anything that would make a story, let me know.”
Elspeth went to the filing cabinets where the photographs were stored. “We’ve had so many dizzy village girls helping out with the filing, God knows what it’ll be under.”
She tried under ‘Moy Hall.’ Then under ‘Clay pigeon shooting.’ No success.
“Can you remember the headline?” asked Hamish.
“It was something daft. Sam does the headlines. Oh, I remember: FASTEST GUN IN THE NORTH.”
“Try under ‘F’.”
“Really, Hamish!”
“You ought to know how the locals think.”
“Okay, Sherlock. Here are the F’s. Gosh, you’re right. I’ve got it.”
Elspeth pulled out a photograph.
“Let’s take it over to the light,” said Hamish. He fished in his inside pocket and pulled out the photograph of Amy Beattie with the bikers.
In Elspeth’s photograph, a burly man stood holding up a silver cup. His hair was white. Hamish looked from Elspeth’s photograph to the one in his hand.
“I swear they’re one and the same person,” he said. “Can you fish out the article? There would be a caption under the photograph.”
“We still keep back copies of the paper in bound volumes. You’ll need to help me. They’re through in the storeroom.”
Hamish walked with her through to a room at the back of the building where the bound volumes of the paper were stored. Elspeth scanned the spines. “It’s that one. Up on the top shelf,” she said.
Hamish reached up and lifted it down. They carried it to a table. Elspeth opened it and flipped through the August editions of the newspaper until she found the right one. “Here we are! Right on page one.”
They both bent over the paper, their heads together. The caption under the photograph read: “Winner of the clay pigeon shoot at Moy Hall, Mr. Peter Stoddart of Perth.”
“Where in Perth?” demanded Hamish.
“I might have put it in the article,” said Elspeth. “Ah, here it is. Peter Stoddart, plumber, of 58 Herrich Road, Perth.”
Hamish closed the book, lifted it up, and put it back on the shelf. “I’ve got to get to Perth tomorrow,” he said. “That bank manager said this Stoddart was in Australia. Why would he lie?”
“You’ll maybe find out he went to Australia and came back again. Go and see him first before you start accusing the bank manager of anything.”
“I’ve got to get to Perth without Blair knowing anything. If I tell him, he’ll tell me I’m wasting my time and if I’ve got any suspicions, to tell the Perth police. Och. I’ll chust go. With luck he’ll think I’m somewhere around Braikie making enquiries.”
“But what’s so important about all this, Hamish?”
“I’ve got to find out what drove Miss Beattie away from her home.”
“That’s easy. Her parents.”
“Maybe. I’ve got to try anyway.”
♦
Hamish set off with Lugs beside him early the next morning. It was a dismal day with a fine drizzle smearing the windscreen. This time, he was not wearing his uniform. He shouldn’t have been wearing it the last time, he thought. He could have been spotted by some Perth policeman. Of course, some Perth policeman could easily spot the Land Rover, but he felt less conspicuous walking around in civilian clothes. He decided to try to find Peter Stoddart and tackle him first.
Again, outside Perth, he stopped by the road, walked Lugs, and consulted his map of Perth. Then he set off again, hoping that Stoddart worked from home.
Herrich Road was in a fairly new housing development on the outside of the town. He located Stoddart’s house and went up and knocked at the door, which was answered by a tired, faded-looking woman.
“I am Police Constable Macbeth,” said Hamish. “Is your man at home?”
“Aye, come in. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing to worry about. I just wanted a wee talk with him.”
She ushered him into what she called the lounge. Hamish sat down on a cream wool-covered sofa and looked around. The room smelled of disuse. How odd, he mused, that in this modern day and age so many houses in Scotland kept a room for ‘best.’ What a waste of living space.
The door opened and the man from the photograph walked in. “What’s up?” he said. “You lot were round last month to check the guns and the gun cabinet.”
“Nothing to do with that,” said Hamish soothingly. He took out the photograph he had got from Mrs. Dinwiddie. “Is that you?”
“Aye, so it is. I loved that bike.”
“You’ll have read about the murder of Miss Amy Beattie?”
“I did that. Bad business. But what’s it got to do with me?”
“I’m trying to find out why Miss Beattie left Perth.”
“Oh, that’s easy. I remember it fine. It was those parents of hers. They found she’d been sneaking out to meet us and locked her up in her room after they’d burnt her clothes.”
“Was she your girlfriend?”
“Not me, laddie. She and Graham were pretty thick. But it didnae last long.”
“Have you ever been to Australia?”
Stoddart looked puzzled. “No, why?”
“Someone said you had.”
“Who was it?”
“Oh, just someone. I’ll maybe let you know later. Nothing to worry about. What was your impression of Miss Beattie?”
“She was a wild one. Up for anything. I ‘member when Graham’s folks were away for a week. Graham was on his own so he threw a party. We all got awfy drunk and Amy was dancing on the coffee table. It was a glass one and it broke. Graham was in such a state. He and Amy started shouting at each other and it got a bit nasty, so we all left them to it.”
“Who were the others?”
“Some bikers from down south and the local girls they’d picked up.”
“Thank you,” said Hamish. “I would appreciate it if you did not tell anyone of this visit.”
“Why?”
“I’m working undercover,” said Hamish desperately. But his lie appeared to satisfy the plumber.
♦
As Hamish was driving towards the bank, his radio crackled and he heard a voice hailing him. He cursed and switched it off. His absence had been noted, but he did not want to turn back now.
♦
“I want that bastard found…now!” Blair howled to Jimmy Anderson. “He’s probably still in his bed. He’s not answering his radio. Get over to Lochdubh and see if you can find him.”