Hamish sighed and ran his thin fingers through his short dyed hair. His brain suddenly seemed to clear up. He tapped the books. “Which of these villains has been involved in major robbery? Or, look, let me put it another way. Let’s go for the big time. What was the biggest robbery of cash in Glasgow in recent years?”
Bill sat down, suddenly curious. “I suppose you mean unsolved robbery. Well, let me see, there was the break-in at the Celtic Bank. No, wait a bit, we got someone for that I know, nineteen eighty-nine. Another bank.”
“The Scottish and General?” asked Hamish, suddenly remembering John Glover.
“No, it was the Clyde and South-Western Bank. The head office in Hope Street.”
“What happened?”
“They hijacked the manager from his home. One man stayed behind with a gun held at his wife and children. Manager did what they said. Opened up the bank. Opened up the safe. Got away with over two millions pounds.”
Hamish fingered the books eagerly. “Who was suspected?”
“There’s a villain we’ve only heard about from our underworld contacts. Known as Gentleman Jim. Supposed to have been the brains behind it. We pulled in several of the usual low life who might have done this but couldn’t crack any of them. This Gentleman Jim seems to run a reign of terror. But unlike the Kray brothers, no one on the force knows who he is. Villains get drunk, villains brag, but no one will give us a murmur about him.”
“So who did you pull in to question on this robbery?”
Bill pulled forward the books and began to skim through them. “Usual lot. All of them with alibis. Where are they?”
“Holding a gun on a woman and kids,” mused Hamish. “Who have you got that would be nasty enough for that?”
“I’ll scribble you a list of names and leave you to it. But one hour more, Hamish, and that’s your lot.”
Hamish stared at the list of names and then the books. Forget about what Randy had looked like when he knew him. Think of really bad villains. His brain now very sharp and clear, he opened the books again. The door opened. Bill came in and put a photo of Randy on the desk. “You might need that,” he said.
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 bodybuilding 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.
Bin walked forward and peered over his shoulder. “That’s never Duggan!”
“There’s something about it,” said Hamish. “Same way of 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 road.”
“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 I just because of the way they were. There was a cockiness I 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 I 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.”
? Death of a Macho Man ?
10
O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!
—
Charlie Stoddart’s last known address was in a depressing block of tower flats on the south side of the city.
