Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [41]
“Well, if McFee comes up with anything, you’d better get your chequebook out,” said Hamish. “I not only want to find out how much Davenport tricked them out of, I want to know if they have any connection to Scotland, Edinburgh in particular. Oh, and did they question Timothy again?”
“Yes, he swears blind the four men are regular customers and salt of the earth. His real name is Andreas Gristedes. Greek by birth. How soon can your expert come up with anything?”
Hamish groaned. “Probably a month or so. It isn’t the telly where some geek flicks through a computer and says, ‘Aha!’ Why haven’t you asked for whisky?”
“Drying out.”
“About time.”
“So we have to wait.”
Chapter Eight
In married life three is company and two none.
—Oscar Wilde
Hamish called on John McFee the next day, anxious for some sort of a result.
“It’s difficult,” said John. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got something. You see, you can hide names of any partners. It depends on what kinds of partners you have. For example, you can have active partner, ostensible partner, silent partner, secret partner, dominant partner, and limited partner. You can also pay to have the names of the partners in the company hidden.
“Then if it’s that secretive, say for hiding companies or laundering money, you could set everything up in Greek Cyprus or Ukraine. I’ll let you know as soon as I get anything.”
When he left John, Hamish stopped on the road back to Lochdubh and called Jimmy. “My expert’s proving slow,” he complained. “Surely you’ve got your own man on it.”
“Fact is, the whole business has gone on the back burner,” said Jimmy. “We’ve got illegal cigarette smugglers and drug smugglers and God knows what other mayhem. The press have forgotten about your case, so the pressure’s off.”
When he had rung off, Hamish sat scowling. He got down from the Land Rover and let the dog and cat out. “Go and play on the beach,” he said. He phoned Elspeth in Glasgow.
“I’m in my dressing room,” said Elspeth. “I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“It’s like this,” said Hamish. “Strathbane have dropped investigating the captain’s death because the press pressure is off. Can you get it on again?”
“I’ll try. Got to go.”
When Hamish returned to Lochdubh, it was to find Angela Brodie pacing up and down outside the police station.
“What’s up?” he asked. “No, you pair,” he shouted at the dog and cat. “You are not going to the Italian restaurant. Get inside. Sorry, Angela. But they’re getting ower fat.”
“My husband’s got the norovirus.”
“That’s bad. But he’ll be over it in three days.”
“It’s not that. The Haggart dinner is tonight in Edinburgh.”
“And?”
“I don’t want to go alone,” said Angela feverishly. “Would you come with me?”
“I think I could manage that. You’re in a right state, Angela. It’s not the Booker Prize. The Haggart people sell cakes.”
“Hamish!” said Angela impatiently. “It’s one of the oldest literary awards. Haggart may manufacture cakes but they set up this award in Edwardian days and it’s been on the go ever since. I’m tired of being just a nominee. The first book was nominated for the Booker. The one before last for the Haggart. I’ve got to win.”
“Angela, you never struck me as being ambitious!”
“Now you know.”
“Calm down. I’ll go.”
“Oh, thanks. Mrs. Wellington is going to check on my husband. We have to be at the Caledonian Hotel for the dinner. It starts at seven o’clock. Can we leave in an hour, say?”
“Won’t we be a bit early?”
“It’s better to be early. I mean there could be sheep on the road, or a tractor, or fog.”
Hamish looked up at the clear blue sky and then back down at Angela’s worried face.
“I’ll be ready,” he said gently.
Angela drove most of the way in silence, her knuckles white with tension on the steering wheel. The last time Hamish had seen her in such a state was when she was determined to be the perfect wife because of the malign influence of an incomer to the village. But ever since she had got over that, she had been her old self, gentle and unassuming and the worst cook in Sutherland.
She was wearing a pretty, floaty sort