his shotgun and blast the animal to kingdom come. He was always amazed at the bleeding hearts of townspeople who would step on a cockroach but went all sentimental over Mr. Foxy. Had they ever been at the receiving end of the cruelty of a fox, who would kill lambs and hens and leave them bleeding, not killing for food but for the sheer hell of it, perhaps it would have changed their minds – although he doubted it. There existed in the British Isles a large body of people who neither knew much about nor understood wild animals, the sort of people who would shake their heads and say, “Animals are better than people any day,” by which they meant that they demanded unconditional love from dogs and cats but found humans too difficult.
He had been turned off animal documentaries on television because they always gave animals pet names, saying, “Here comes Betty,” and on the screen limps an antelope, say, which has been rejected by the herd, and ten to one it is going to be eaten before the end by some other creature that Hamish cynically thought the film makers let out of a cage to speed up the process. Then there is little Jimmy, the baby turtle, just born and struggling towards the ocean, and Hamish always knew that little Jimmy was not going to make it. Some marauding seagull would get him. So in all, he found an animal documentary as much fun as a snuff movie.
He went indoors and made himself some supper and was emotionally blackmailed into sharing it with Lugs, who whined and rattled his bowl, although he was sure Angela had fed the dog earlier.
He then went through to the office and switched on the computer and began to go through his reports. Archie had said he had seen someone possibly aged seventeen lurking near the post office. But he had not seen the person’s face and seventeen would seem old to Archie, so it could have been anyone.
There was a knock at the kitchen door and he heard Elspeth’s voice calling out, “Hamish, are you there?”
“I’m in the office,” he shouted back, “but I’m busy.”
Undeterred, Elspeth strolled into the office. “Hard at work, copper?”
“Aye, I’m going over my notes, so I haven’t time to talk.”
“Why don’t we go over them together? I might see something you’ve missed.”
“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
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
