Hamish Macbeth 13 (1997) - Death of a Dentist (11 page)

“This is a small town. Everyone gets to hear everything.”

“That’s why I’m here. There’s this young lassie works for the chemist. Kylie something.”

“Kylie Fraser. Thon’s a cheeky wee thing. Called me old man. Cheek!”

“You wouldn’t have happened to hear if she had been seen at any time in the company of Gilchrist?”

“He was old enough to hae been her faither.”

“True. But that hadn’t seemed to have stopped him chasing young ladies.”

“There’s a lot o’ talk about her. She’s aye in the pub wi’ the fellows. But I never heard o’ her being wi’ Gilchrist.”

“Could you let me know if you hear anything?”

“Aye, I’ll do that. I’m a regular at the Old Timers Club at the community hall. The biddies that go there hear every blessed thing.”

“Thanks, Mr. Sutherland. And I would be grateful if you would be discreet about it.”

Fred laid a gnarled finger alongside his nose and winked. “Dinnae fash yourself. I’ll let you know.”

Hamish then ran lightly down the stairs and went into the dress shop. As usual it was empty of customers. The yellow cellophane was still across the windows casting a jaundiced light around the interior. Mrs. Edwardson came forward to meet him.

“I remember you,” she said, peering up at him. “You discovered the body. Have you any idea who did it?”

“No, that I haven’t, Mrs. Edwardson. You see, no one seems to give me any idea of what Gilchrist was like as a man.”

“I knew him a little bit. He fancied himself with the ladies. Smooth. Unctuous, is the word. Smarmy. Surely there are papers and letters and photographs at his home that might give you an idea?”

Hamish had already thought of that but did not want to lower his position on the case in her eyes by telling her that the CID were covering that. He frowned suddenly. There must be some report in the files now of the contents of Gilchrist’s home. He wondered if Sarah could access those, or if that was taking too great a risk.

“What do you know of Kylie Fraser?”

“The tarty little piece of baggage that works for the chemist?”

“Her, yes.”

“Apart from the fact that she’s getting herself the reputation of a tart and a lush, no.”

“Would Gilchrist have made a pass at her?”

“He might have done. But the fact is I don’t go out much.” Her face was sad. “At the end of the day I feel so tired, I usually sit down in front of the television set and fall asleep.”

“If you hear anything let me know.”

“I most certainly will.”

“Just to remind you, my name is Hamish Macbeth and I am the policeman over at Lochdubh.”

“Yes, I know that.”

He hesitated. He had been about to caution her to be discreet. Then he thought, it might be interesting if Kylie found out he was asking questions about her. He thanked Mrs. Edwardson and left the shop and stood for a moment outside in the snow. Then he set off in the direction of the pub. Time to ask more questions and hope his interest in her got back to Kylie.

The Drouthy Crofter was fairly quiet apart from a juke box blaring in the corner. Hamish went up to the bar. The barman eyed his uniform suspiciously. “I would like to ask you a few questions about one of your customers, Kylie Fraser.”

“Oh, thon wee lassie? What’s she been up to?”

“I just wondered if she had ever been in here with Gilchrist, the dentist who was murdered?”

“Naw. She hangs about with the young lads. She’s good fun.”

“Ever get drunk and disorderly?”

“Och, you know the young folk. They usually drink that alcoholic lemonade and get a bit pissed and noisy. Mind you, Kylie always drinks straight whisky. They all live locally and don’t drive here, so it’s not as if I have to worry.”

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

Later that day Kylie stood with her friend, Tootsie Duffy, outside Mrs. Edwardson’s shop. Mrs. Edwardson was just locking up. “Did you ever see such fashions?” crowed Kylie. “I wouldnae be seen dead in one of them. Tell you what, one o’ them would make a good shroud.”

Tootsie shrieked with mirthless laughter. Tootsie hardly ever found anything funny but she supplied a sort of canned laughter to her friend’s sallies.

Mrs. Edwardson whipped round and stared at Kylie with contempt. “You’d better just watch yourself, my girl. The police have been asking me about you and Gilchrist.”

Kylie stood, her small mouth hanging a little open. “What d’you mean?”

“Just what I said.” Mrs. Edwardson stalked off, her back rigid.

Tootsie moved a wad of gum to the other side of her mouth and asked, “You and auld Gilchrist?”

“Spiteful old twat,” said Kylie viciously. “I could do with a drink.”

They walked into The Drouthy Crofter, both teetering on high heels, oblivious to already cold and wet feet. Tootsie’s long skinny legs were purple with cold. But one must suffer to be beautiful.

Kyle pouted when she saw the pub was still empty. She did not like spending her own money.

“Getting yourself in trouble with the police?” asked the barman after he had taken their order.

“What is this?” demanded Kylie angrily.

“That tall policeman wi’ the red hair was in here asking if Gilchrist had been getting his leg over.”

“It’s police harassment,” said Tootsie. “You should report him, Kylie.”

Kylie tossed her short blonde locks. “And I will, too,” she said savagely. “Just you see if I don’t.”

Sarah sat in a corner of the bar-reception area at The Scotsman Hotel, pretending to read a book, but listening carefully. Two men who looked like detectives went into the hotel office. Then a small angry-looking middle-aged woman went up to the bar and said, “Give me a whisky. The decent stuff.”

Sarah looked at her curiously as the barman said, “Right you are, Mrs. Macbean.”

Mrs. Macbean had a headful of bright green plastic rollers. Mrs. Macbean picked up her drink and turned around. She saw Sarah looking at her and glared. Sarah smiled tentatively.

Mrs. Macbean walked over. “Were you looking at me?”

Sarah smiled into her truculent face. “I’m just a tourist and I wanted to ask someone if this hotel was a comfortable place to stay.”

The anger left Mrs. Macbean’s face and she sat down opposite Sarah. “I’m married to the manager,” she said. “The rooms are clean and the rates are cheap. Then we have the bingo Saturday night, if you’re interested.”

“Not really,” said Sarah. “I never win anything. I am one of life’s losers.”

“Me too.” Mrs. Macbean took a moody sip at her whisky. “Men,” she said bitterly.

“Tell me about it. They’re all bastards,” said Sarah encouragingly. “We’re still brought up to think the knight on the white charger is coming to look after us.”

“But all we get is horse shit,” said Mrs. Macbean. She jerked her thumb in the direction of the office. “That’s all he talks.”

Normally Sarah would quickly have disengaged herself from such a conversation.

“My husband’s the same,” she said.

“You don’t wear a wedding ring.”

Sarah gave her a slow smile. “I threw it down the toilet, and do you know why?”

“Go on. Tell me.” Mrs. Macbean now looked positively friendly.

“He beat me up.”

“And you took it?”

Sarah spread her hands in a deprecatory gesture. “What else could I do? He was stronger than me. So I got a divorce.”

“Lassie, lassie.” Mrs. Macbean shook her head and a curler fell into her glass of whisky. “Don’t you see that’s what they want? You get a divorce and settle for lousy terms or nothing at all. A man isnae as strong as a woman with a breadknife in her hand, remember that.”

Sarah looked at her, wide-eyed. “You sound to me like a very brave woman.”

Mrs. Macbean took another sip of whisky. Sarah noticed with horror that she was straining it through the roller, which had floated to the top of her glass, but did not want to say anything for fear of drying up this interesting conversation.

Mrs. Macbean preened. “You have to learn to take care of yourself. Brian, that’s him.” She jerked a thumb again in the direction of the office. “He used his fists on me last week. Well, he likes hot chocolate in the mornings so I put a whole lot of laxative in it. “You lay a hand on me and next time it’ll be poison, buster,” that’s what I said.”

Sarah gazed at her in well-feigned admiration.

“He’s useless, that’s what he is. Did you know we had the burglary here?”

“No!”

“Fact. Two hundred and fifty thousands pounds out o’ the safe.”

“How? Gelignite?”

“Naw. The damn fool had this safe wi’ a wooden back. Thought no one would find out.”

“But he’ll get the insurance.”

“I don’t think so. The insurance company said a safe like that was jist like leaving the money lying on the bar.”

“How terrible for you. And I’ll bet he made you think it was all your fault.”

“That’s it. That’s what he did.”

“But he couldn’t get away with it. I mean, you didn’t buy the safe.”

“Isn’t that what I told him? He said I musta told someone about the wooden back on the safe. As if I would!”

Sarah’s fine eyes glowed with sympathy. “I think you have a very hard life, Mrs. Macbean.”

Mrs. Macbean took another roller-flavoured sip of whisky. “Aye, that’s the truth.”

“I never thought of any crime being committed up here,” said Sarah. “I mean, people like me come up here for the quality of life.”

“Quality of life! Ha! Sheep and rain and cold and a lot o’ stupid teuchters.”

“Teuchters?”

“Highlanders. Sly, malicious and stupid. I hate the bastards.”

Sarah looked puzzled. “But they’re all Scottish. Just like you.”

“Don’t insult me.” Sarah covered her glass as another roller flew through the air. Mrs. Macbean leaned forward and whispered, “It’s like one o’ those primitive tribes up the Amazon. They havenae evolved.”

“You are a philosopher.”

“I’ve got my head screwed on.”

“I did hear about a murder up here. Some dentist.”

Mrs. Macbean’s face suddenly closed up. She had a mouth like Popeye’s and it seemed to disappear up under her nose.

“Got to go,” she muttered.

Sarah watched her march off, and then stop at the bar to whisper something to the barman. What would Hamish make of that, she wondered. Eager to tell all the secrets of her marriage life and talk about the burglary, but clams up when Gilchrist is mentioned.

The barman approached her. “Would you be wanting anything else?” he asked truculently.

“No, thank you.”

“Right.” He picked up her unfinished drink and walked off with the glass.

Sarah’s protest died on her lips. She felt she had done enough investigation for Hamish Macbeth for one day. Through the smeared glass of the windows, she could see the snow was falling ever thicker. She stood up and put on her coat. She had never credited herself with an overactive imagination, yet she could swear as she walked to the door that the air was heavy with menace.

I have no great relish for the country; it is a kind of healthy grave.

 

—
Rev. Sydney Smith

The floodlights outside the Tommel Castle Hotel came as a relief to Sarah, who had endured a terrifying drive back from The Scotsman.

She parked the car she had borrowed from the hotel, and, bending her head, she darted through the blinding sheets of driving snow and into the warmth and security of the hotel. She went up to her room to change although she wondered if Hamish Macbeth could possibly keep their date in such weather. She smiled as she took a simple black wool dress down from a hanger in the wardrobe. She had not expected to be dressing up at all. But she could hardly continue her hiking in such weather and it was marvellous to be secure in a comfortable and warm hotel room while the storm raged outside.

At seven o’clock promptly, she was waiting at the reception desk. Mr. Johnson, the manager, came out of his office. “Will you be having dinner here tonight?”

“I should think so,” replied Sarah. “Hamish was to meet me here at seven, but I don’t think he’ll make it. Do you usually have dreadful weather like this?”

“Not until about January, and even then, it’s usually central Scotland that gets the worst of it. We’re nearer to the Gulf Stream up here and that often keeps the worst of the snow away, but every few years, we get something nasty like this.”

The hotel door opened and Hamish came in and stood brushing the snow from his clothes. He was wearing snowshoes.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Johnson sarcastically. “Leave a snowdrift on the floor.”

“Good for the carpet.” Hamish bent down and unstrapped his snowshoes. He was wearing a one-piece ski suit which he unzipped and stepped out of and hung on a coat rack in the corner. He was dressed in a checked shirt and dark green corduroy trousers. He fished in his trouser pocket and drew out a tie.

“If you’re thinking of dining here, Hamish,” said the manager, “then you don’t need to bother about the tie, not on an evening like this. You’ll be about the only people in the dining room. A party of ten who were supposed to be here by now are stranded down in Inverness by the bad weather.”

“Right you are.” Hamish stuffed the tie back in his pocket. “Are you ready to eat?” he asked Sarah.

She nodded. “I didn’t have much for lunch.”

They walked together into the dining room. Hamish looked around. This had been the family dining room when Tommel Castle had been a family home instead of a hotel. He could remember the long mahogany dining table, the gleaming silver and fine china. The oriental rugs had gone and the floor was covered with serviceable fitted carpet and the room dotted with separate tables. Jenkins, once the Halburton-Smythes’ butler and now the hotel’s
maître d
, approached them and handed them menus. His face was stiff with disapproval. He loathed Hamish.

Jenkins was a snob.

“Ignore him,” said Hamish. “He aye looks as if he’s got a bad smell under his nose.”

They ordered and then looked at each other. Hamish was struck again by Sarah’s beauty and Sarah thought Hamish looked very endearing with his red hair still tousled from the storm.