Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [39]
“It never came up. The camera focussed on the front of the restaurant wasn’t working. And if, as you say, they went up a back stair, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
When he had gone, Hamish switched on his computer and studied the little information he had about the four men. Thomas Bromley ran a chain of clothing stores. But did he have other businesses? Was Timothy’s one of his? If that was the case, it would explain why Timothy was prepared to lie for him. Timothy had claimed in a statement to Guildford police that he was the owner. Hamish Googled a list of Guildford restaurants, and his hazel eyes gleamed. Timothy’s was not listed, and yet he had a feeling in his bones that it was owned or part owned by one of the men. He needed a business expert to search company directors and find what other companies might belong to the men and if they had any connection with Scotland.
Prosser’s supermarkets were called Foodies but all of them were in the south of England. There was no connection, then, with Scotland.
Hamish had a feeling that the captain had actually got much more money out of one or all of them for some scam, more money than they claimed to have lost. The lawyers’ letters from the four had all been dated last year. Maybe the captain had come up with a get-rich-quick scheme for them. Persuading them that it was so good that they could not only recoup their losses but gain a fortune. From people like Angela and Edie and Caro, he had gathered that the captain had been superb as a con artist.
He went out for a walk and met Angela Brodie on the waterfront. Her thin face was alight with excitement. “Hamish, my publisher thinks my book might be nominated for the Haggart Prize.”
“That’s grand, Angela. What’s it about?”
“Oh, the usual this and that.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, Hamish, literary books are so hard to describe.”
“Try me.”
“Oh, there’s Mrs. Wellington. I must ask her about something.”
Hamish studied her retreating figure suspiciously. He suddenly felt sure that Angela’s novel was based on Lochdubh, maybe a thinly disguised Lochdubh. He was in the clear because writers only brought policemen into detective stories, and detective writers never got literary awards.
He rubbed his face and neck with midge repellent because the day was soft and damp and those Scottish mosquitoes were out in force. A thin line of mist lay across the forest on the opposite bank. Two seals struggled onto a rock by the beach and stared at him with big round eyes. He turned away. A little part of his brain was superstitious and believed the old stories that the seals were dead people who had come back.
He collected his dog and cat and drove to Drim. He let them out on the beach to play and went to Milly’s house.
Hamish frowned when he recognised Tam’s car parked outside. He didn’t quite trust Tam or, for that matter, any other reporter except Elspeth. He wanted to phone Elspeth and ask her if she knew any business expert but—remembering the fate of Betty Close—decided he might be putting her in danger.
Milly answered the door. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright. “Come in, Hamish. You’ll find Tam in the kitchen.”
“I would like a word with you in private. Did your husband leave any business papers? Did the police take them away?”
“Apart for bank statements and bills and things like that, there wasn’t much else.”
Tam appeared in the doorway. Hamish had a sudden idea. “Tam, do you know anyone expert enough to dig into company registers and find maybe hidden companies?”
“Why?”
“I can’t be telling you the noo but if you help me, you’ll be the first to get the news if anything breaks.”
Tam scratched one of his large ears. “I mind there’s a retired businessman up at Craskie in a wee white cottage called Cruachan just on the left as you approach the village. He’s called John McFee.”
“Thanks. I’ll try him.”
Hamish drove off and took the coast road to