by M C Beaton
“Wait till I get my notebook.” Elspeth took it out of her handbag and opened it on the table. “Fire away.”
She wrote down the names and addresses and then said cautiously, “Sam, are you sure these people exist? I mean, Mrs. McHaggis of Tavistock Street? Apart from the daft name, I don’t remember a Tavistock Street in Braikie. Tell you what, I’m having lunch with Hamish Macbeth. I’ll show him the names and addresses and get back to you.”
When Hamish returned, now in his uniform, Elspeth explianed about Pat Mallone’s quotes, names, and addresses.
“Let me see,” said Hamish.
He carefully read the list and then leant back in his chair, looking amused. “The man should be writing fiction.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know every street in Braikie and I don’t see one genuine address on this list. He’s made the lot up.”
“I suppose I’ll need to tell Sam.”
“You’ll have to. If he publishes any of that, people from Braikie will soon put him wise.”
Elspeth phoned Sam and told him that Pat had made the lot up. “That’s it,” said Sam angrily. “I’ll give him a month’s notice. That’s more than he deserves.”
Pat was back seated on the end of Jenny’s bed, regaling her with some highly embroidered stories of his life in Dublin, when his mobile phone rang.
Sam’s angry voice came down the line. “You’re fired.”
Pat said airily to Jenny, “Office business.” He walked rapidly outside the ward.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you made up all these people and quotes and addresses, that’s why. You’re on a month’s notice.” Sam rang off.
“Bugger!” said Pat loudly, startling a passing nurse.
Jenny looked up as he walked back into the ward. “What’s up?” she asked.
He pulled a chair up to the bed and drew the screens around it. “I made up some quotes,” he said, “and Sam found out. He’s fired me.”
“Oh, poor Pat,” said Jenny. “What are we going to do?”
Warmed by that ‘we,’ Pat drew his chair closer. “I wonder,” he said, turning the full blast of his Irish charm on her, “whether you might be prepared to put me up in London for a week? I’m sure to get a job on one of the nationals.”
Jenny looked at him cautiously, wondering how he hoped to get a job on a national when he had been fired by a local paper. The only boyfriends Jenny had ever been able to keep were the few that had scrounged off her. Not only did she earn a good wage but she had a modest income as well from a family trust.
“I’ve a better idea,” said Jenny. “You’ve got a month. If we could find out who the murderer is, you would have a great story and could send it direct to the nationals. Then you would be sure of getting a job. I’ll help you.”
“What can we find out that the police can’t?” demanded Pat sulkily.
“I’ve got a lead.”
“What?”
She told him about Joseph Cromarty threatening to kill Miss McAndrew. “You could start there. Look! The sun’s shining now.”
Pat’s mind worked quickly. He would appear to go along with her plan, casually ask for her home address before she left, and then just turn up on her doorstep. Better look enthusiastic.
“That’s a grand idea.” He stood up. “I’ll get to work right away.”
But when he drove down from the hospital and entered the main street, it was to find it swarming with press. The landslide must have been cleared quickly. He went to the pub instead where he knew some of the other reporters would be. Perhaps he could pick their brains and find out how to get a job on a national.
Hamish was weary by the time the day was over. Blair had ordered him home, his superior anxious to get rid of this policeman who had a nasty knack of taking any glory away from him.
He fed Lugs and then made his own supper. He wanted permission to go to Perth but was sure he would not get it. Miss Beattie was the key to all this. Of that he felt sure. His shoulder ached from the effort of righting Jenny’s car and fighting with the force of the waves. He could persuade Dr. Brodie that he needed a day off.
“Lugs,” he said.
The dog cocked his heavy head on one side and looked up at him with those odd blue eyes.
“Fancy a trip to Perth?”
Chapter Eight
What’s gone, and what’s past help
Should be past grief.
—William Shakespeare
Hamish called on Dr. Brodie at breakfast time the following day and secured a line to say he was suffering from exhaustion. He had debated whether to leave Lugs with Angela, but that would be a way of telling the good doctor that he was lying and wanted an excuse to go off somewhere.
“I’d planned to take you anyway, I suppose,” said Hamish as Lugs sat proudly beside him on the passenger seat. “But behave yourself! No wanting to stop for a walk every fifteen minutes.”
He heard a rap on the window and rolled it down to face the gimlet eyes of the Currie sisters. “Aren’t you coming to the kirk this morning?” asked Jessie.
“Not today.”
He began to roll up the window but heard Jessie shout, “You could do wi’ some spiritual help. You’ve begun talking to yourself. We saw you!” Hamish motored off.
As he drove over the humpback bridge, he noticed that the River Anstey was in full spate from the storm, although the weather had calmed down considerably. The sky above had a fresh-scrubbed look. He rolled down the window again and breathed in the scents of pine and wild thyme. He felt his spirits lift. It was good to be getting away.
He was halfway on the road south to Perth when he suddenly thought of that poison-pen letter, the one found lying on the floor under Miss Beattie’s body. They had all assumed it came from Miss McAndrew. But why would Miss McAndrew accuse Miss Beattie of being a bastard when it was plainly not true? He swore under his breath. What if, for some reason, someone wanted them to think it came from the usual source? Someone had definitely wanted them to think Miss Beattie had committed suicide. He decided to phone the handwriting expert when he got back.
Perth lay dreaming in the sunset, south of the craggy peaks of the Highland line. The River Tay curved through the town, gleaming silver. He stopped the police Land Rover on the outskirts and let Lugs out for a run while he consulted a map of the town that he kept with a pile of others in a cardboard box in the back. Mrs. Dinwiddie lived on a new housing estate, just outside the town and just off the A9. As he headed in that direction, he now wished he had phoned her first. She might be away for the day.
But Mrs. Dinwiddie was at home and she welcomed him warmly. “My husband’s gone to visit his elderly father,” she said, “so we should have some peace and quiet. The police returned my sister’s papers to me yesterday and I was just going to get in touch with you.”
She led Hamish into the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Grand. Thanks.”
“Is that your dog out in the car? I don’t mind dogs.”
“I’ll bring him in,” said Hamish gratefully. “I forgot his water bowl and he’ll be thirsty.”
When they were all settled, Hamish with a mug of tea and Lugs with a bowl of water, Mrs. Dinwiddie left the kitchen and came back with a pile of papers. “I’ve been through them myself,” she said. “Nothing much but bills and bank statements. No letters at all.”
“What about photographs?”
“She had some of those.”
“May I see them, please?”
She left and came back with a battered-looking photo album. Hamish opened it up. There were photos of Highland games and photographs of the post office and one of Billy fishing. Nothing exciting. Ever hopeful, he turned over the last blank pages of the album. In the back was a dusty plastic envelope of photos.
He opened it and began to look through them. There was a photo of two little girls. He held it out to Mrs Dinwiddie. “That’s me and Amy when we were small,” she said.
&
nbsp; Then a photo of a severe-looking couple. “Our parents,” said Mrs. Dinwiddie.
There were more photos of Amy and her sister, some when they were older, some in high school uniform.
And then there was one of Amy Beattie with a group of bikers. At that stage of her life, she had thick black hair and a roguish expression. She was wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket. “I wonder they let her out of the house dressed like that,” said Hamish, showing the photograph to Mrs. Dinwiddie.
“Oh, she used to buy clothes she liked and hide them under the bed. She would change into them somewhere outside. Then Mother found out about her wearing them and the house was searched. My parents had a ceremonial burning of them in the garden. Poor Amy cried and cried.”
“The fellows in this picture, do you recognise any of them?”
Mrs. Dinwiddie pointed to a handsome young man who was sitting astride a motorbike, smiling at Amy Beattie. “That’s Graham Simpson. He was at school with Amy. I think they used to be close, he and Amy—well, as close as we could get to any boy with our parents always watching us.”
“Do you know if he’s still in Perth?”
“Yes, someone told me about him. He’s manager of the Scottish & Regional Bank in Turret Street. But what can he have to do with Amy’s death?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone found out something about her background she didn’t want anyone to find out.”
“That would explian suicide, but not murder.”
“I’d like to see him just the same. Can I keep this photograph? I’ll give you a receipt and send it back to you.”
“Keep it as long as you like.”
“Where is the church you used to go to?”
“Down by the river. Harris Street.”
Hamish left with Lugs and got into the Land Rover and looked up Turret Street on his map of Perth. Once there, he went into the bank and asked to speak to the manager. The teller gave him an anxious look. Hamish was in uniform. “Nothing wrong, is there?” she asked.
“No, no,” said Hamish soothingly. “I just want a wee word with him.”
He waited. The teller returned and said, “Follow me,” and ushered him in through a heavy mahogany door.
The man who rose to meet Hamish bore little resemblance to the carefree, handsome biker in the photograph. He was tall with thinning hair, a heavy red face, and a thick body.
“Sit down,” he said. “What’s this about? No one been fiddling the accounts, have they?”
“No, nothing like that. I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. You will have read about the murder of Miss Beattie.”
“Yes, indeed. Dreadful business, but what’s that got to do with me?”
“Sometimes if I can find out more about the murder victim, I can sometimes find the murderer,” said Hamish. He drew out the photograph and handed it over. “This is you, isn’t it?”
“Michty me, so it is. And Amy.”
“Were you Miss Beattie’s boyfriend at one time?”
“Hadn’t a chance. Her parents were that strict. We were able to see each other for a bit and then they started locking her up at home, and Mr. and Mrs. Beattie came round one evening to see my parents. They called me a limb of Satan and my father threw them out of the house.”
“She left Perth suddenly, I believe. Do you know the reason for it?”
“The reason was her parents. I guess she couldn’t stand them anymore.”
“But time heals wounds, and yet Miss Beattie did not even attend their funerals.”
“You’d have to have known them. Right pair of scunners. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He half rose.
Hamish surveyed him. “You seem in a hurry to get rid of me.”
“It’s not that. I have an appointment with someone. They should be here any moment.”
“One more thing. The other young men in the photograph. There are three of them. Can you tell me if I can contact them?”
“I shouldn’t think so. I only remember one of them and that’s Peter Stoddart and he went to Australia.”
“Why can’t you remember the names of the others? I find one can usually remember the names of friends of one’s youth.”
“Peter was my friend. The others, as I mind, were just visiting the town from down south.”
Hamish left with an uneasy feeling that the man had been lying to him. But he drove to Harris Street and parked outside the church. The congregation were just leaving and the minister was standing on the church porch. He was an elderly man. Hamish could only hope he had been minister at the time Mr. and Mrs. Beattie were alive.
“Might I be having a word with you?” he asked. “I’m investigating the murder of Miss Beattie. Do you remember her parents?”
“I became minister here after Miss Beattie left home. But, yes, I remember Mr. and Mrs. Beattie. Come along to the manse. It’s a bit chilly here.”
Hamish followed him to the manse next door. The minister led him into a gloomy Victorian kitchen. “Sit yourself down and I’ll make some tea. My wife died last year and I’m still not very domesticated but I do my best.” Hamish waited patiently while the minister made tea and put the teapot, milk and sugar, cups, and a plate of digestive biscuits on the table.
“Did you ever hear any talk of why Miss Beattie left home?” asked Hamish.
He shook his head. “I am not surprised she left home. However, I heard some talk from some parishioners that she was a wild girl and from others that she was disgracefully bullied. The Beatties were very strict, very strict indeed. They saw sin everywhere. They were even having their doubts about me. They considered me too lenient with the youth of the parish. They did not seem to understand that life had moved on since the days of their youth. I am afraid it is only the middle-aged and elderly that attend my church these days. I cannot go out and terrorise young people into attending, which is what the Beatties wanted me to do.
“I am sure Miss Beattie left home because she could not stand the harsh discipline anymore.”
Hamish asked him some more questions, but it all seemed very simple. There had been nothing more dramatic in Amy Beattie’s past than a pair of insufferably bullying parents.
As he drove back north, he reflected that the handwriting expert would hardly be available on a Sunday, so he went to police headquarters. He hoped Jimmy Anderson was not still up in Braikie, but he found him in the detectives’ room typing up reports.
“Hamish!” said Jimmy with a grin. “Heard you were sick.”
“Between ourselves,” said Hamish, “I’ve been down to Perth. I had a hope that there might have been something in Miss Beattie’s background that might give me a clue, but I can’t seem to think of anything. But an idea occurred to me: What about that letter that was found with Miss Beattie’s body? I mean, the poison-pen letter.”
“What about it?”
“I mean, it turned out to be a load of rubbish. She wasn’t a bastard. Was it the same handwriting as the others?”
“Cost you a double whisky.”
“Och, all right. If a gannet could drink whisky, it would be just like you.”
Jimmy booted up his computer. Hamish sat down next to him, obscurely thankful that Jimmy did not smoke. Hamish had given up smoking a while ago, but the occasional yearning for a cigarette never seemed to go away.
At last Jimmy said, “Here it is. The letter was sent to Roger Glass, thon handwriting expert. He said it was the same handwriting as the others.”
“Now, that’s odd.” Hamish leant back in his chair. “I have a feeling that the murders were committed by lucky amateurs. I mean, we’re not dealing with hit men here. But why leave a letter they were sure we would find out didn’t contain anything like the truth?”
“Don’t ask me, Sherlock,” Jimmy was beginning, when Hamish disappeared under the desk.
Jimmy swung round just as Detective Chief Inspector Blair lumbered into the room. “I’m off to Braikie,” he said, “and you’re coming with me.”
>
“Just finishing up here,” said Jimmy. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Get a move on, then.”
“I thought you didn’t work on Sundays.”
“The boss is terrified by all the press coverage and says we’ve got to work until we find someone. Hurry up!”
Jimmy nodded. He waited until Blair had left and then said, “You can come out now.”
Hamish groaned as he unwound his lanky form from under Jimmy’s desk. “I’d better wait until I’m sure the old scunner is on the road. Then I’ll get to Lochdubh fast in case he decides to drop in.”
“Don’t forget you owe me a whisky.”
At the Highland Times, Elspeth was starting to read through a pile of national Sunday papers. She turned to the Sunday edition of the Bugle, wondering if they had used her colour piece. She flipped over the pages and then she found it. She stared at the large byline as if she could not believe her eyes. “Pat Mallone,” it said.
She remembered Pat telling her he had taken the liberty of sending off her article. He must have erased her name and put his own on, and once the article had gone he had put her name back on it.
Sam was having a day off and had gone to visit relatives in Alness. She picked up the phone and dialled the Bugle and asked to speak to the editor of the Sunday paper, only to be told he was never at work on Sundays. Elspeth then got through to the news desk of the daily and told them that the article featured under Pat Mallone’s byline was actually her own and her editor could confirm it. “Don’t worry,” said a voice from the news desk. “We’ll let him know.”
“What was that about?” a colleague asked when he put the phone down.
“Oh, some girl up in the Highlands claiming another reporter stole her article,” he said. “Nothing interesting.” Then he promptly forgot about it.
Still thirsting for blood, Elspeth went out to look for Pat Mallone.
At that moment, Pat Mallone was sitting in the Italian restaurant with Jenny. Jenny had been telling him about her dreadful experience after the church service when she had been waylaid by the Currie sisters and given a lecture on sin.
