Hamish Macbeth 20 (2004) - Death of a Poison Pen (19 page)

“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.”

“Why me? Can’t you send one of the policemen?”

“No, you’re so pally with him, you can go.”

Cursing Hamish under his breath, Jimmy drove to Lochdubh. He knocked at the kitchen door of the police station and shouted at the windows.

“It’s no use raising a fuss.” Jimmy swung round. He recognised the minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington.

“Where’s he gone?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Wellington. “But I was up early and saw him driving out of Lochdubh.”

No point in asking in which direction, thought Jimmy. There was only one road out of Lochdubh.

“You’re not the only one looking for him,” said Mrs. Wellington. “Sergeant MacGregor over at Cnothan is in bed with the cold. His wife phoned me. She said there’s been a burglary at the grocer’s and Hamish has got to cover for him.”

Annoyed as he was with Hamish, Jimmy saw a way of getting his friend off the hook. He thanked Mrs. Wellington and phoned Blair.

“Macbeth has been dragged off to cover a burglary at Cnothan. MacGregor’s sick.”

“Oh, all right. But he should have reported to me first.”

Now, thought Jimmy, all I have to do is to keep phoning Hamish and hope he answers. He’d better get to Cnothan fast before that grocer calls headquarters. Then he thought, Cnothan isn’t far. I could nip over there myself to soothe them down. But, by God, Hamish had better pay me in whisky for this.

When Hamish presented himself at the bank, the teller who had gone in to see the manager reappeared, looking flustered.

“I’m afraid Mr. Simpson isn’t in today.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Where are you going?” she shrieked.

Hamish went straight to the bank manager’s door and opened it. Graham Simpson leapt to his feet. “You’ve got no right to barge your way in here.”

“And you have no right to lie to the police. Sit down. I’ve a few questions for you regarding Amy Beattie. You lied to me.”

“I did not,” blustered the bank manager.

“You said that Peter Stoddart went to Australia when he’s right here in Perth.”

“Is he? Someone must have told me he had gone to Australia.”

“Havers. You had an affair with Amy Beattie, didn’t you?”

“Oh, well, it isn’t a crime. I had a party one night at my house. We all got a bit drunk and Amy damaged a table. We had a row and then made up. We were both very drunk.”

Hamish sat down and surveyed him. He suddenly remembered that poison-pen letter that had been found by Miss Beattie’s body, which read: “I have proof that you’re a bastard. Your father never married your mother and I’ll tell everyone.”

He had never been able to see the point of that letter. Miss Beattie’s parents were married. But what if that letter had been sent to someone else, and that someone else had been so frightened that it had led to murder.

In a level voice, he asked, “So when did she tell you she was pregnant?”

“I’m a respectable man,” he began.

“Forget it. You can stay a respectable man unless you go on blocking my enquiries.”

Graham Simpson bowed his head. Hamish thought he wasn’t going to say anything, but at last he said in a low voice, “What a mess. She somehow managed to get a note to me three months later. She said she’d been missing her periods. She said her parents would kill her. I thought about it for a week and worried about it. Then I told my parents. They said I had to marry Amy, do the decent thing. I was going to go round there, but her parents arrived at our home and started shouting that Amy had run away and where was she? We couldn’t help them. Another week went by and I plucked up courage to go and call on them. They said they had a letter from Amy saying she never wanted to see either of them again. Her parents said they had struck her name from the family Bible and she was no longer any daughter of theirs. I never heard from Amy again.”

“Are you telling me the truth this time?”

“I swear to God. This could ruin me if it gets out.”

“If you didn’t kill anyone, it’s certainly not going to ruin you. How could an affair with a girl all those years ago ruin you?”

Hamish left the bank and climbed into the Land Rover. He took out his mobile phone to check for messages. There was a text message from Jimmy Anderson. It read: “Get your arse over to Cnothan fast. There’s been a break-in at the grocer’s.”

Like Jimmy, Hamish saw a way of covering up his visit to Perth. He switched on the blue light and the siren, no longer caring if the Perth police saw him, and broke the speed limit all the way north to Cnothan.

Although Jimmy had called before him, he had made only a cursory inspection before speeding off. Hamish found that the shop had a security camera and after studying the film was able to make out the features of two of the local youth. He arrested them and drove them down to Strathbane, where they were formally charged and told to appear in the sheriff’s court in a month’s time.

By the time he got to Lochdubh, he realised he hadn’t eaten all day and neither had Lugs. As usual, he fed the dog first before scrambling some eggs for himself. He was just sitting down at his computer when Elspeth walked in.

“Do you never knock?” he asked angrily.

“Come on. Out with it. I helped you, remember?”

“Oh, all right. Sit down and be quiet.”

“Wait a bit,” said Elspeth. “What’s that about Archie seeing a seventeen-year-old lurking near the post office?”

“I’ve thought about that. It could have been someone much older. All Archie could really describe were the clothes.”

“Where were you today?”

“Down in Perth.”

“Find out anything?”

“Keep it to yourself. I found out why Amy Beattie ran away from home.”

“Why?”

“She was pregnant.”

“Goodness,” said Elspeth. “Was it Stoddart?”

“No, it was the bank manager, Graham Simpson.”

“So where’s the child?”

“Elspeth,” said Hamish angrily, “if I knew that, I’d…” He suddenly gazed blankly at the computer screen.

“What?” demanded Elspeth.

“I’m thinking about that letter, the one found with Miss Beattie’s body. It said: “I have proof that you’re a bastard. Your father never married your mother and I’ll tell everyone.” What if that was a letter sent to someone else? Let me think. Chust suppose for a minute Miss Beattie’s child is alive and well in Braikie. Adopted, maybe. The adopted parents are desperate to protect the child and intercept that letter sent to the child.”

“But if they adopted the child, they had nothing to fear. Doesn’t add up, Hamish.”

“You’re right. Shut up and let me go back over my notes.”

“When did Miss Beattie arrive in Braikie?”

“Folks say about sixteen years ago. I said shut up, Elspeth.”

Elspeth sat quietly and impatiently. Then Hamish said, “Why did you ask when she arrived in Braikie?”

“I was thinking of the one person who seems to have caused strong emotions and she’s sixteen.”

They looked at each other and both said at the same time, “Penny Roberts!”

“Miss Beattie had changed a lot in appearance,” said Hamish. “Billy said she had survived cancer. But in the early photographs she’s attractive, and Graham Simpson used to be a good-looking young man. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Roberts are far from lookers. I remember wondering how they had managed to produce such a beauty. What if Miss Beattie wanted to claim her daughter? What if Miss Beattie wanted Penelope to know that she was her real mother? What if Miss McAndrew had found out the secret of Penelope’s birth?”

“That would certainly tie the two murders together,” said Elspeth slowly. “Miss McAndrew may have guessed the truth. She wanted Penny to go to university. Just suppose she threatened to tell Penny the name of her real mother unless they helped her get Penny to university?”

“The problem is how to go about it,” said Hamish. “If I tell all my suppositions to Blair, he’ll demand evidence and I haven’t got any.”

“Someone must have known Miss Beattie was pregnant when she arrived.”

“Not necessarily. She did some cleaning work when she first arrived. What if she cleaned for the Robertses and blurted out her secret? Maybe Mary Roberts had always wanted a child. Maybe she arranged that she would masquerade as the pregnant one while Miss Beattie went away somewhere arranged by her. The baby is born. Mary Roberts discards the cushion she’s been wearing and produces the newborn baby. I’d better start by going to see them in the morning.”

Elspeth heard a sound. She held up a hand. “Did you hear something?”

They listened but could only hear the sound of the wind.

Jenny crept away from the police station, her heart beating hard. She had entered the police station hoping for a word with Hamish. Elspeth had left the door open. Jenny heard the sound of voices coming from the office and decided to listen.

Here was a story! What if she could find out the truth herself and tell Pat? She looked at her watch. Nearly eleven o’ clock.

She had caved in and rented the Morris Minor from Iain after having beaten the price down. It was a sad rust bucket of a car, but it went all right. She went to it, got in, and drove in the direction of Braikie. The cast on her arm itched and was beginning to look dirty. Jenny decided to confront the Robertses, tell Pat what she had found out, and then go back with him in the morning. He could then see the Robertses himself and she would go to the hospital and ask them when the cast could be removed.

To her relief, when she parked outside the Roberts house, she saw a light burning in a downstairs window. They had not yet gone to bed.

Mary Roberts answered the door. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “What on earth brings you calling at this time of night?”

“I’ve found out something important that may interest you.”

“Come in, then. But don’t stay long. We were just about to go to bed.”

“Where’s Penny?” asked Jenny as she was ushered into their living room and Cyril Roberts rose to meet her.

“It’s half-term. She’s gone to stay with my sister and her family in Lochinver,” said Mary. “So what brings you?”

Jenny sat down. Now she was here, she felt embarrassed and awkward. “I was thinking about that poison-pen letter that was found with Miss Beattie’s body. What if that letter had originally been meant for someone else? And someone didn’t want anyone to know their child was not their own?”

Mary Roberts looked puzzled. “But what’s that got to do with us?”

Jenny braced herself. “I thought Penny might not be your daughter.”

The Robertses exchanged glances and then burst out laughing. Mary said, “You think because we’re a right ugly pair that we couldn’t have had a beauty like Penny? Oh, don’t blush. We’ve heard that one before. Have you told anyone about this daft idea of yours?”

Jenny did not want to admit she had been eavesdropping in the police station. “I haven’t told anyone. It just came to me. You see, that reporter, Pat Mallone, and I are thinking of getting married and I wanted to give him a story. I hope you’re not offended.”

“Och, you’re young and the young can be silly. I’ll get you a cup of tea and then you can be on your way.” Mary stood up and went behind the sofa.

“I don’t really need anything,” said Jenny. Then a savage blow struck her on the back of her head and she lost consciousness.

“What did you do that for?” cried Cyril as Jenny’s body slumped across the sofa.

“She’s a chatterbox,” said Mary. “She’ll go chattering to that reporter. We can’t risk it.” She fished in Jenny’s pocket and drew out the car keys. “Go and drive that car of hers up in the hills and lose it. I’ll see to her.”

Hamish was driving towards Braikie the following morning, wishing the case were closed, so that he could go fishing and enjoy this rare fake spring day. A warm wind was blowing in off the Gulf Stream and great white clouds scudded across a pale blue sky. He had almost reached the outskirts when a small figure hurtled in front of the police Land Rover and held up its arms.