Hamish Macbeth 13 (1997) - Death of a Dentist (7 page)

He turned his back on Hamish and walked off to the nether regions, carrying the crate.

It was an odd place for a bar, thought Hamish, placed as it was along one wall of the reception area like a theatre bar.

There was a clack of heels and Mrs. Macbean and her daughter, Darleen, came in. Mrs. Macbean was wearing yellow plastic rollers in her hair this time. Hamish wondered wildly if she ever took them out and if they were colour coordinated to match her clothes, for she was wearing a sulphur yellow blouse. Darleen was in jeans with frayed slits at each knee, a satin pyjama jacket, but no makeup, which made her look much younger.

“I’m sick o’ the police,” began Mrs. Macbean. “Questions, questions, questions.”

“This will not take long,” said Hamish soothingly. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?”

She led the way through a pair of double doors leading off the main reception area. He found himself in a rather sleazy dining room with the residue of breakfast still lying about on three tables. “I see you have guests,” said Hamish. “I assume the police have questioned them?”

“They’ve questioned everyone in the whole bloody place.”

She sat down at a table. Darleen sat down next to her, crossed her long legs and winked at Hamish. Hamish took out his notebook and sat down as well.

“Now the morning of the burglary, you and Darleen had been over at the dentists in Braikie. You know the dentist has been found murdered. So I am trying to get a picture of what sort of man Gilchrist was. Had you been to him before?”

“Ma got her dentures from him,” said Darleen and Mrs. Macbean glared at her daughter.

“A dentist is just a dentist,” she complained. “You don’t wonder about anything but getting your teeth out.”

So much for progress, so much for cleaning and flossing, so much for dental technology, thought Hamish. This was still Scotland. Out with all of them and get yourself a nice set of false teeth.

“What about you, Darleen?” he asked.

Darleen giggled. “He was dead sexy.”

“In what way?”

“He used tae stroke my hair and tell me I was a good girl. Cool.”

“Pay no heed to her,” snapped Mrs. Macbean. “She thinks everything in trousers is after her.”

“And they usually are,” commented Darleen, smug in the security of long legs and youth.

“Did either of you ever meet him socially?”

“What d’ye mean?” Mrs. Macbean lost a roller.

“I mean, did he ever ask either of you out on a date?”

“Here!” screeched Mrs. Macbean. “What are you getting at? You cannae solve a burglary and now you’re trying to pin a murder on me.”

“Och, no,” said Hamish soothingly, wondering if her husband beat her out of a mixture of exasperation and hate—if he beat her. “Did you see anyone while you were at the surgery who looked as if they might loathe the man enough to murder him?”

“Everyone loathes the dentist.”

“And you Darleen?”

“There was that awful old Harrison woman always hanging around. She gave me the creeps.”

“Anyone else?”

“Naw.”

“Look, we’ve got a hotel to run, copper.” Mrs. Macbean got to her feet. She shook her head angrily and rollers fell from her head and rattled across the carpet, thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks in Vallombrosa. Hamish wondered whether to pick them up for her, but she was already walking away, leaving the rollers spinning across the carpet.

She turned in the doorway. “Come on, Darleen!”

Darleen winked at Hamish again and walked out after her mother, her hips swaying.

Hamish, who had stood up when they had left, sat down again and looked bleakly at the tablecloth, which had a large coffee stain in the middle of it although it was supposed to be clean. His mind wandered off to speculate on the various claims of washing powders, beaming women holding up stained items and then pulling them out of the machine an hour later with cries of joy. This cloth had come back from the laundry, starched and ironed but with the coffee stain still on it.

He jerked his mind back to the problem in hand. It was his own fault for doggedly avoiding promotion that he was kept in the dark as to what everyone had said in their statements. Had the dentist been sexy or had Darleen just been winding him up? What would a girl that young see in a middle-aged dentist? It was hard to tell what Gilchrist had really looked like. Had the pathplogist’s report come through?

Perhaps the day had come when he should alter his attitude to his job, apply for a job in the CID. But being a detective would mean moving to the hell that was Strathbane and working closely with Blair. Gone would be lazy days in Lochdubh. Was there something missing in his character, for he knew himself to be that rare thing, a truly unambitious man.

If this burglary had been an inside job, who was there on the inside? The staff of the hotel and the Macbeans. Was Macbean in debt? So many questions. He could go to Strathbane and try to get hold of Jimmy Andersen. But Blair would hear he had been at police headquarters go through another of his lightning changes of mood banish him from both cases.

Rain began to patter against the windows and the wind howled in increasing ferocity. The wind of Sutherland started with a regular gale and then increased to a booming sound finally ending in a great screech that rent the heavens from end to end. No wonder the locals were superstitious.

Was there any point in plodding on, finding out a bit here and a bit there? Why not go back to the police station, light the fire and settle down in front of it with a detective story, preferably an American one of the more violent kind where the hero could act out Hamish’s frustrations for him, slamming people up against walls and beating confessions out of them.

But Duty, stem daughter of the voice of God, niggled at his conscience. He would go back to Braikie and see what he could find out there.

Starting with Maggie Bane.

Maggie Bane lived in a trim bungalow on the outskirts of Braikie called My Highland Home.

Hamish, as he rang the doorbell, wondered whether he should have called at the surgery first. But surely she would not be there. The police would have the whole place sealed off.

Maggie Bane answered the door and her face fell when she saw him. “I’m sick of the police,” she said harshly.

“Just a few more questions,” said Hamish soothingly.

“But two detectives have already been here this morning,” she wailed. “And yesterday, that horrible fat man, Blair, kept shouting at me and did everything but charge me.”

“It’s like this, Miss Bane. It’s a murder enquiry and I am sure you would be happy if we found the murderer. I think the answer to the murder must surely lie in Mr. Gilchrist’s personality and who he knew, and who better to tell us than yourself?”

She fidgeted on the doorstep and then said reluctantly, “You’d better come in.”

She led the way into a living room. It was furnished with a three-piece suite covered in flowered chintz. There was an electric fire, two bars, the kind that eats up electricity, the kind everyone in the Highlands bought in the heady days when they blocked off their coal fires under the impression that the Hydro Electric Board was going to supply cheap electricity. I mean, it all came from water, didn’t it? Too late they found themselves faced with some of the highest electricity charges in Britain and yet the electric fires remained and the coal fires stayed blocked up. Women in the Highlands, it seemed, did not want to go back to the days of shovelling coal and raking out ashes. There was a noisy flowered wallpaper on the walls, bamboo poles with writhing green vegetation. There was a square dining table at the window with a bowl of artificial flowers on it. A low coffee table stood in front of the sofa, with glossy magazines arranged in neat piles, rather like in a waiting room.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” said the normally mooching Hamish, but he was anxious to get down to business.

She began to cry. “You think I’m a suspect,” she said when she could. “The police never take hospitality from people they think are guilty.”

“Och, no,” said Hamish. “I’m too anxious to get on with the questions, that’s all. You go and dry your eyes and make us a cup of coffee.”

Maggie gulped and nodded. She was a beautiful girl, he thought, when she had left the room, but with such an ugly voice, such an aggressive voice. She wasn’t aggressive at the moment and again he had an uneasy feeling that Maggie Bane was maybe one of those women who could cry at will.

He looked around the room for any sign of a desk, but there was not even a sideboard or cupboard which might house letters or documents.

Now, if he was one of the detectives in the stories he liked reading, he would seduce her and when she was asleep, search her bedroom and handbag. He grinned to himself. From his experience, he would probably sleep like a log and have to be awakened by her.

After some time, he was just beginning to wonder if she had run away, when the door opened and she came in carrying two mugs of coffee on a tray with milk and sugar.

“Were you fond of Mr. Gilchrist?” asked Hamish, once he was handed a mug of coffee.

“He was a good boss.”

“He was divorced. Was he going with anyone?”

“He liked the ladies, but I do not think there was anyone in particular.”

“And what about you, Miss Bane? Are you engaged?”

She held out one slim left hand. “See? No rings.”

Hamish took a deep breath. “Were you at any time romantically involved with Mr. Gilchrist?”

She flushed angrily. “No, I was not!”

“I’m bound to hear if you were,” said Hamish gently. “You know what it’s like up here.”

“We went out for dinner once or twice. You know how it is. Some days were very busy and it seemed natural for both of us to have a bite to eat before we went home.”

Hamish made a mental note that there had probably been something going on. Gossip would already have been running rife all over the Highlands. At first people would be discreet because the man was so recently dead, but within a few more days tongues would begin to wag.

“Have you any idea why someone would hate him so much to kill him?”

She shook her head. “I think it was just some maniac who came up when I was out.”

“Ah, about your going out. You have probably been questioned about that, but I must ask you again—why so long and why on that particular day?”

“I’m sick of this!” she said, her ugly voice rasping across the neat impersonality of her living room. “It was a quiet day. It was a chance to do my shopping. That’s all.”

“Are your parents alive, Miss Bane?”

“Yes.”

“And where are they?”

“Dingwall.”

“They must be concerned about you. Have they been to see you?”

“I haven’t had much to do with them since I left university.”

Hamish looked surprised. “Which university?”

“St. Andrews. I got a scholarship.”

“Did you stay the full course? Did you get a degree?”

“Yes, I studied maths and physics.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair and studied her thoughtfully. “And you worked for Gilchrist for five years! That must ha’ been about your first job. Why should an attractive and highly educated young woman go to work for a dentist in a small town in Sutherland?”

“There are not many jobs around and just because one has a degree, a good job doesn’t automatically follow.”

“Yes, but…”

“Constable Macbeth,” said Maggie firmly, getting to her feet, “I do not think you realise how tired and upset I am. I am in no fit condition to answer any more questions today.”

Hamish rose as well. He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’ll be back.”

When he left, he half turned at the garden gate. So many questions unanswered. The main question was why she had buried herself in a dull town like Braikie, working as receptionist to a dentist with a bad reputation.

For the first time, he felt like giving up and letting Strathbane get on with it. What could one Highland constable do who did not have access to all the information, all the statements? He did not even know how Gilchrist had been killed.

I regard you with an indifference closely bordering on aversion.

 

—
Robert Louis Stevenson

Hamish parked the car at the police station, locked his hens away for the night, checked on his sheep, and then went for a walk along the waterfront in the watery greenish light of the Highland gloaming. The little waves of the sea loch, calmer now that the wind had moderated, slapped at the pebbled shore. A phone box by the harbour seemed shockingly scarlet in the soft gloom and muted colours of its surroundings. There were smells, of tar and fish, and diesel mixing with smells of cooking and strong tea as the villagers prepared their evening meals.

The lights of television sets flickered behind cottage windows, bringing the outside world to Lochdubh where villagers probably studied the latest fighting in Somalia with indifferent eyes while they talked about more interesting death close at hand.

“Hamish!” The voice was loud and peremptory. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, marched towards him. She was armoured in tweed, as usual, and on her head was a green felt hat with a pheasant’s feather stuck in the hatband.

He looked wildly around, seeking some avenue of escape, but he was in full view of her.

She came up to him, her bulldog face heavy with accusation.

“What are you doing about this dreadful murder?”

“I’m doing the little a Highland policeman can. If you have any complaints, you should talk to the superintendent, Mr. Peter Daviot.”

“It’s on your beat. You’ve solved cases before.”

Hamish touched his cap. “I am doing what I can,” he said, and then he walked quickly away.

And then he felt a little surge of gladness beginning somewhere deep inside him and realised he had that dinner date with Sarah. Time to put murder and mayhem out of his mind.

He went back to the police station, had a bath and dressed carefully in an elegant suit he had bought in a thrift shop, a striped shirt and a silk tie Priscilla had bought him. It was then he realised that his one pair of good shoes were in need of repair and he had forgotten all about it. The sole of the left one was hanging loose. He swore under his breath and got a tube of Stickfast Glue to effect an amateur repair. But the glue stuck to his fingers and his fingers stuck to the dangling sole of the shoe and there was no way he could get his fingers loose without tearing off skin.