Hamish looked at the photograph. It was not one made up from the cleaned-up corpse of Randy. It had been taken by someone of a group standing in the Lochdubh bar. It was a good clear shot of Randy. He couldn’t have known the photograph was being taken, for he was not looking at the camera but talking to a group of locals, including Andy MacTavish and Archie Maclean. For once he wasn’t wearing his ridiculous slatted glasses and his hat was tilted back on his head.
Keeping the photograph beside him, Hamish studied the list of names again and began to find photographs in the books to match them.
His eyes kept returning to one photograph. It was of a thin-faced man with short straight hair. His very shoulders were thin. He had had previous convictions for armed robbery and inflicting grievous bodily harm. His name was Charlie Stoddart. But there was something about that face, about the arrogant, malicious gleam in the eyes that the camera had caught.
He looked from the photo in the file to the one of Randy beside him on the desk. What if Randy had gone in for body-building as well as plastic surgery? What if he had become a big heavy-set, powerful man?
He became aware that Bill was standing in the doorway, watching him curiously. ‘Got anything?’
‘Come and have a look at this,’ said Hamish.
Bill walked forward and peered over his shoulder. ‘That’s never Duggan!’
‘There’s something about it,’ said Hamish. ‘Same way o’ looking. Think, man. He could have gone in for body-building or taken steroids. Then the plastic surgery. Is he currently under arrest?’
‘No, I remember we pulled him in for questioning over that bank robbery, but he had an alibi and we had to let him go.’
‘Can you get me his last known address?’
‘Sure.’
Bill left and Hamish waited impatiently. When Bill returned, Hamish seized the address.
‘I should keep clear of you,’ said Bill, ‘but I’m off duty and I’ll go with you. But if anyone recognizes you, I’ll swear I didn’t know it was you.’
‘All right,’ said Hamish with a grin. ‘Let’s see if we can find Charlie Stoddart.’
The rain continued to fall in the Highlands, dampening the souls of the inhabitants of Lochdubh, causing general depression, which meant that the staff of the Tommel Castle Hotel kept falling ‘sick’, with the usual Highland-excuse ailments of bad backs and viruses.
John Glover and Betty John would be leaving the following morning. Priscilla, who was manning the reception desk, had said she would have their bill ready for them before they left. John had issued no more invitations to lunch or dinner and Priscilla was glad of that. She had taken a hearty dislike to the couple. She gave a little start when she realized both were standing before her.
‘I see your Hamish has his photo in the newspapers this morning,’ said John. ‘It says he’s gone missing. Know where he is?’
‘Not a clue,’ said Priscilla.
‘Do you believe someone really shot at him at the Cnothan games?’ asked Betty.
Priscilla gave her a long cool look. ‘Yes, I do. Hamish is never mistaken in things like that.’
‘Someone in the village said he had been told to take a week off because they thought he was suffering from stress,’ said John.
‘He suspected that Randy Duggan had not been killed by Beck,’ remarked Priscilla, ‘so I think Strathbane wanted him out of the way.’
‘Well, let’s hope he’s all right,’ said Betty, taking John’s arm in her own. ‘The bar’s open. Let’s have a drink.’
Priscilla watched them as they walked away. She had thought her dislike of them was because of Betty’s fling with Hamish, but now she decided she did not like either of them just because of the way they were. There was a cockiness about them, an insolence, and she began to wonder if John had briefly courted her as some sort of joke.
Willie Lamont ran home from the restaurant and waved a newspaper in front of Lucia. ‘Do you see this? Hamish has gone missing.’
‘Let’s hope he stays missing,’ she said coldly. ‘He was causing a lot of trouble with his stupid suspicions.’
‘But he could be dead!’ wailed Willie. ‘He could have driven over a cliff.’
Lucia gave a little curved smile. ‘Good,’ she said, and tossed the paper away.
Annie Ferguson was serving tea to Geordie Mackenzie. Annie had made one of her rare visits to the Lochdubh bar the night before. It had been nearly empty, as the fishing boats were out and the forestry workers were all at Andy MacTavish’s birthday party. But Geordie had been there and she had issued the invitation to tea.
‘I cannot understand this business about our Hamish going missing,’ said Geordie primly. ‘It bothers me. Look at it this way. Hamish goes around saying Duggan was not killed by Beck, Hamish gets shot at, and then no one can find him.’
‘Och, our Hamish is a bit o’ a drama queen,’ said Annie. ‘He says he was shot at but we’ve only his word for it. Take it from me, Geordie, that man is sulking because he won’t admit he was wrong about Randy’s murder. Forget about him. Hamish Macbeth has a slate missing, if you ask me. Have another scone.’
Chapter Ten
O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!
– William Shakespeare
Charlie Stoddart’s last known address was in a depressing block of tower flats on the south side of the city.
Bill said it was due for demolition, and it had such a cracked, rusted, deserted air that it looked as if the demolition process had already started. Children did not play on the scrubby, balding, litter-strewn grass outside. At some point an attempt had been made to plant trees, but they had been savagely destroyed and only a few cracked, white shattered stumps lay around for mangy dogs to pee against.
The entrance hall was covered in graffiti. The lifts did not work and Bill said gloomily that they probably had not worked for some time. From checking the flat number in his notes, he said with even more gloom that Charlie lived on the top floor. They climbed onwards and upwards. There were occasional sounds of life to show that some flats in the block were still tenanted: a baby cried, a dreary, lost wail of sound; a man swore suddenly and violently; a woman shouted abuse.
Nobody wanted to live in these tower blocks, and so gradually the decent people had left and the flotsam and jetsam of humanity stayed behind, corrupting each other with their violence and misery and filth. No one, reflected Hamish, had such a talent as the bottom rung of the Scottish social ladder for sheer filth and decay. There were smells of urine and vomit, stale beer, and the cooking diet of the poor: fish fingers, chips and baked beans.
By the time they reached the outside of Charlie’s flat, Hamish was beginning to feel light-headed with fatigue. He took off the late Mr Sinclair’s glasses and tucked them in his pocket. The lenses were beginning to give him a headache. The balconies outside the flats with their rusted railings were open to the salty, muggy, wet air blowing up from the river Clyde. Litter blew along the passageways. A dirty newspaper wrapped itself around Hamish’s legs and he impatiently tore it away.
‘Well, here it is,’ said Bill, stopping outside a chipped and scarred door. ‘But if there’s anyone still here, it’ll be a miracle.’
He knocked loudly on the frosted glass of the door and they waited while the wind shrilled through the metal railings. Hamish leaned against the wall and wished it were all over and he was back home again.
Bill knocked loudly again and shouted, ‘Police! Open up!’
The door next to the one he was hammering on opened suddenly and a woman looked out.
‘You’ll no’ get anyone in there, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘Hisnae been anyone there for a bit. Mrs Stoddart left wi’ the weans last month.’
Hamish found the Glaswegian way of addressing everyone as Jimmy highly irritating. ‘Where did she go?’ he asked.
‘Ower Castlemilk way, Jimmy,’ said the woman laconically.
‘And what about Charlie?’ asked Bill.
‘Och
, that one went off a few years ago. Meant fur better things.’ She screeched with laughter.
‘Have you an address in Castlemilk?’
‘Wait a wee bit. Sharon, come here!’
The woman was small, stunted and ill-favoured. Sharon, on the other hand, was a giantess with dyed blonde hair, thick lips and vacant eyes. ‘Whaur in Castlemilk did Jeannie Stoddart go?’ asked the woman, who seemed to be Sharon’s mother.
‘Lenin Road,’ said Sharon. ‘Nummer 52. I ken ’cos I wrote it doon. I always remembers what I write doon.’
Bill and Hamish left and made their way down the miles of stairs and back out again. On the road to Castlemilk, Hamish fell asleep in the car, and when he awoke for a few moments he did not know where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.
Lenin Road did not seem to be any improvement on the tower block. Although it consisted of a row of two-storey houses with gardens, most of the windows were boarded up and the gardens were untended, and practically all had either no fences or the ones that had had wooden ones were contained now by only a few smashed pieces of wood.
They knocked at Mrs Stoddart’s door. To Hamish’s relief, there were sounds of movements inside.
Bill shouted, ‘Police, Mrs Stoddart.’
The door opened suddenly. A woman stared at them. She was middle-aged with thick hair dyed yellow-blonde. She was heavily made up, wearing ski pants and a low-cut cotton top. A tom, thought Hamish. Whatever she was before, Jeannie Stoddart is on the game, a prostitute.
‘What d’ye want?’ she asked sullenly.
‘Where’s Charlie?’ asked Bill.
Two women stopped behind them at the garden gate and stared curiously. ‘Come inside,’ said Jeannie. She led the way into an overcrowded, fussy living room which seemed at first glance to be full of stuffed toys, magazines, and dolls from different countries.
She sat down and lit a cigarette and then said evenly, ‘I don’t know where Charlie is and that’s a fact.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Nineteen eighty-nine.’
The year of that bank robbery, thought Hamish, waking up again.
‘Where did he say he was going?’
‘I’m telling you, Mac, by that time he was-nae even speaking to me. I wasnae good enough fur him any more. Went off with his posh friends.’
Bill looked at her cynically. ‘Charlie with posh friends? Pull the other one.’
‘It’s true! Man wi’ a big Mercedes used tae drop him off.’
‘And who was this man?’
She gave a half-ashamed sort of laugh. ‘It seems daft now. But I believed it at the time. Charlie said he was working for British Intelligence.’
‘Why would British Intelligence want to employ a toe-rag like Charlie?’ Bill’s tired voice was heavy with sarcasm.
‘He made it sound very convincing,’ she said defensively. ‘He said they got hold of him during his last stretch in prison, and they said if he worked for them, they’d shorten his sentence. There wus a play on the telly about that.’
‘Probably where Charlie got the idea from,’ said Hamish. He was sitting opposite Jeannie, his knees nearly touching hers. ‘Look,’ he coaxed, ‘you must have got a glimpse of the man in the Merc.’
‘Whit’s in it for me?’ she demanded truculently, her accent thickening.
‘A hundred,’ said Hamish, cutting across Bill’s exclamation that it was Jeannie’s duty to tell the police everything that she knew.
‘Let’s see it.’
Hamish turned away and peeled five twenties from the prize money in his inside pocket. She reached for it but he held it away. ‘Description first,’ said Hamish. ‘And make it a good one.’
‘Charlie told me never to look. He said the man in the posh car was the big boss. The boss dropped him back late one night when I could-nae sleep. I took a peek out o’ the window. As Charlie got out, the man lit a cigarette. He had black hair, going grey, face like an executive.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Bill impatiently.
‘Sort of tanned, well shaved, good suit, silk tie.’
‘Any distinguishing marks?’
She shook her blonde head. ‘Nuthin’ important. Big thick gold wrist-watch, cream shirt.’ She looked hungrily at the money. Hamish slowly passed it over. The beginning of a dreadful idea was forming in his brain. He nodded to Bill and got to his feet. Bill followed Hamish out. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
Hamish leaned against the car and said slowly, ‘Look here. Think about this. I’ve described all the suspects to you. But there’s one I didn’t really concentrate on. At the time of the murder, there was this banker, John Glover, staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel. He said he was the bank manager of the Scottish and General Bank in Renfrew Street. Credit cards matched, car registration matched. Phoned the bank. Yes, Mr Glover was on holiday in the Highlands. Nothing to worry about there. Fiancée called Betty John arrives. Romances me and tells me stories about the bank. Seems to know what she’s talking about. But we never called at John Glover’s home or asked for a photo of him.’
‘You think Charlie’s posh boss could be someone posing as this banker?’
‘It could be, and his boss could be this mysterious Gentleman Jim you’ve all been looking for.’
‘Hamish, Hamish, this is all a wee bit far-fetched. Och, I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go to the Scottish and General and put your fears to rest. If I could nail this Gentleman Jim before I retire, it would be the height o’ my career, and things like that just don’t happen.’
They drove in silence back into the centre of the city and stopped outside the bank.
They were received by the deputy manager, a Mr Angus, a small, portly man with a pompous air.
‘You’ve already asked all the questions,’ he said impatiently. ‘Mr Glover is due back Monday. He always holidays up north and no, he doesn’t leave an address, says he doesn’t want to be bothered. I am perfectly able to handle things here in his absence.’ Mr Angus looked as if he believed that he could run things better than Mr Glover any day.
‘And you have his fiancée, Betty John, as an employee?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Angus testily, dashing Hamish’s hopes.
Faint but pursuing, he said, ‘We would like to see a photograph of Mr Glover.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. I don’t carry photos about with me.’
‘Perhaps,’ ventured Bill, ‘there might be one taken at a staff function?’
‘Oh, one of those.’ Mr Angus’s face cleared. ‘There’s one taken at the Christmas party on the wall of his office next door.’ He led them through into a wood-panelled room with a large desk and the gloomy air of a million rejected bank loans.
He lifted a framed photograph down from the wall and held it out to them.
Hamish looked at it and then said in a voice sharp with alarm, ‘Which is John Glover?’
‘Why there, next to Miss Betty John.’
It was Betty all right, but the man next to her was thin and stooped, with glasses and a tentative smile.
‘That’s not the John Glover who’s been holidaying in Lochdubh,’ said Hamish bleakly. ‘Get us his home address, now!’
‘You mean someone’s been impersonating him?’ said Mr Angus, looking flustered.
‘Just get the address,’ howled Bill.
‘Are you going to call for back-up?’ asked Hamish.
‘We’ll do that from the car on the road there.’
Mr Angus came back with an address in Hyndland Road in the west end of the city.
Priscilla, thought Hamish, as they raced through the streets. As soon as we see what’s happened, I’d better warn Priscilla.
‘There’s your bill, Mr Glover,’ Priscilla was saying.
‘Thank you.’ He handed over a gold credit card. ‘We’ve enjoyed our stay. We’ll just have a last cup of coffee and then we’ll be on our way. Back to the unexciting life of banking, hey?’
Betty, standing beside him, let out a snort of laughter. Then both headed in the direction of the restaurant, looking, thought Priscilla suddenly, more like conspirators than lovers. Maybe lovers look like conspirators, jeered a voice in her head. How would you know, Priscilla?
She gave a little sigh. Still short-staffed, rain still falling. She may as well check their rooms and see if they had left anything behind. She took down the pass key and went upstairs. She went into Betty’s room first. A suitcase and a holdall stood packed and ready on the floor. She went into the bathroom. Nothing there. She went next door to John’s room with a certain reluctance. She had an uneasy feeling John had used her. But why should she think that? They were obviously an immoral couple. Just think of Betty and Hamish! No, better not think of that. John had two suitcases – very expensive, Gucci – packed and ready. Nothing left in the bathroom. He had made his bed. How odd! He did not look the sort of man to bother making up his bed. And so neatly, too. Hospital corners. He must surely know the beds would be stripped the minute they had left. And who was to strip the beds? Me, thought Priscilla grimly, thinking of the absent maids. Might as well make a start.
She wrenched off the duvet and threw it on the floor, took off the cover, and then tugged at that firmly tucked-in undersheet. She placed it on the floor. Then the pillowslips. She went to the linen cupboard at the end of the hall and took out a fresh duvet cover, sheet and pillowslips and returned to John’s room. She knew she was being over-efficient. The next person who would take this room was not expected to arrive until the following morning. She knew she was playing the martyr. Some of the missing maids would surely soon be back on duty. Still, may as well use martyrdom to get some necessary jobs done.
And it was this wretched martyrdom of hers, Priscilla was to think later, that had made her decide to turn the mattress as well.
She heaved it up and over and then drew in her breath in a sharp exclamation of surprise. For under the mattress lay two leather gun cases. She backed away from the bed, her eyes flying to the phone on the bedside table.
Death of a Macho Man Page 16