Death of a Dentist

∨ Death of a Dentist ∧

3

Bold and erect the Caledonian stood, Old was his mutton and his claret good; Let him drink port, the English statesman cried – He drank the poison and his spirit died.

—John Home

Hamish typed away busily at his report. He remembered the day when computers were a deep and dark mystery to him. Now it was easier than a typewriter.

The door crashed open and Blair lumbered in. He loomed over Hamish. “Where were you?”

“I was interviewing townspeople,” said Hamish, “and then I went to change into my uniform before reporting here.” The printer rattled out the final page of his report. He bundled the pages together and handed them to Blair. “There’s my report.”

Blair took it and stood glaring. “Get to your feet, man, when a senior officer addresses you.”

Hamish obediently stood up.

Blair suddenly sighed and slumped down in a chair. “Oh, sit down, Macbeth,” he grumbled, “and stop standing there looking as useless as you are.”

Hamish sat down again. Jimmy sniggered.

“Where’s Maggie Bane?” asked Hamish.

“Had to send her home,” replied Blair with a surly scowl. “I’ll swear that lassie had something to dae with it, but she sticks to her story.”

“She said she was out shopping,” said Hamish, “but she had no bags of shopping with her when she returned to the surgery.”

“Oh, she had an explanation for that one. Says she went home and left the stuff there. We checked at the shops she said she went to and it all matches up. She went to the grocers and bought stuff, paid the rental on her telly, borrowed two videos from the video library and changed her books at the public library. It all checks out.”

“But why this morning?” asked Hamish. “Did she usually take an hour off?”

“She sticks to her story that it was a quiet morning and she took advantage of it. She said she asked Gilchrist’s permission and he said it was all right. Och, the number of people that need tae be interviewed. We’ve got tae see all his patients. Thon Mrs. Harrison wasn’t at home earlier. You can make yourself useful and drop in on her and get a statement, and get one from that fisherman, Archie Macleod.”

“I thought the CID took statements in a murder enquiry,” said Hamish.

This was indeed the case, but Blair, despite his insults, secretly valued the lanky Highland policeman’s intelligence. All Blair’s wits were usually put to using Hamish and at the same time making it look as if any flashes of insight were his own.

“Was Gilchrist in debt, by any chance?” Hamish asked when Blair’s answer to his previous question had only been a belch.

“He wisnae robbed,” howled Blair, his accent thickening as he grew more truculent. “Why d’ye ask?”

“Just an idea,” said Hamish, heading for the door.

Night was falling on unlovely Strathbane as he left police headquarters. The orange sodium lights were staining the Highland sky where dirty seagulls who never seemed to sleep wheeled and screeched.

As he pulled up at a red light, a pinched-faced youth staggered and then gave the police Land Rover a vicious kick.

The light turned green and Hamish drove on, reflecting that if he arrested every yob in Strathbane who kicked a police car or spat on it it would mean he’d never have time for anything else.

The erratic wind of Sutherland had died. Frost was already beginning to sparkle on the road ahead. When he got to Lochdubh he drove straight through it and out onto the Braikie road where Mrs. Harrison lived. She would certainly have heard of the murder by now. The Highland tom-toms would have been beating from Sutherland to Caithness, to Inverness-shire and Ross and Cromarty.

He drew up outside a small, low croft house. There was a light shining from the window and a battered old Vauxhall parked outside. It looked as if Mrs. Harrison was at home. He hesitated, his hand on the gate. With Mrs. Harrison’s reputation, they should have sent a woman.

But he shrugged and marched up to the low door and rang the doorbell. The door opened suddenly and a small woman looked up at him. Her hair was dyed black, that dead lifeless black, and her wrinkled skin was yellowish. Her dark eyes somewhere between black and brown glittered out over heavy pouches. Her thin, old, disappointed mouth was permanently turned down at the corners. She was wearing a dress which looked as if she had bought it from Mrs. Edwardson, and over it, a Fair Isle cardigan.

“It’s the police, is it? It’s about time you got here,” she said. “Why aren’t you in plain clothes?”

“Because I’m a policeman. May we go inside?”

“No, we may not. I have my reputation to think of.”

Frost glittered on the branches of the rowan tree beside the door. Rowan trees were planted to keep the witches and fairies away, thought Hamish. Hadn’t done its job with this house.

“Then you will need to accompany me to the station,” he said severely. “You should not be obstructing the police in their enquiries.”

“I’m too old to be cavorting about the countryside at this time o’ night. You can come in.”

He followed her into a living room cum kitchen. A peat fire burned in a black old–fashioned range along one wall. There was a table in the middle of the floor covered with a plastic cloth. Four hard upright chairs surrounded it. An oak sideboard stood against the wall opposite the fire containing photographs in silver frames. A picture of Billy Graham hung over the sideboard. There was no carpet on the stone-flagged floor.

He took off his peaked cap and placed it on the table and took out his notebook.

“Now, Mrs. Harrison,” he began, “may I have your full name?”

“Mrs. Mabel Harrison.”

“Age?”

“None of your business, young man.”

“I need your age.”

“I don’t see why. Oh, well, fifty.”

Probably nearer seventy, thought Hamish. Let it go for the moment.

“You went to see Mr. Gilchrist this morning and had a tooth drawn. Why did you go to Mr. Gilchrist? I believe you complained at one time that you suspected he had sexually assaulted you.”

She gave him a coy look. “He didn’t actually assault me. But he fancied me something bad.”

“He made overtures to you?”

“There was the time I knew he was about to ask me out, but she came in and sat there and she wouldn’t go away.”

“Maggie Bane?”

“Calls herself a nurse and she’s nothing more than a receptionist. She’s jealous of me.”

Why did I take this job, thought Hamish wearily. Why am I sitting in this cold kitchen listening to a madwoman?

“What was Mr. Gilchrist’s manner like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he seem worried, frightened, hurried, anything like that?”

“No, he was the same.”

“I do not think I can understand either you or the dentist,” said Hamish. “You did put about stories that he had molested you because they were all over Lochdubh. He must have heard them. Why did you go, and why did he continue to treat you?”

“Can’t you understand plain English?” she demanded nastily. “I’ve told you already. He fancied me.”

“Suppose that to be the case, you did not notice anything odd in his manner?”

“No, he was the same and herself just sat there, reading a magazine.”

“In the surgery?”

“Yes, the whole time I was there. Jealous bitch!”

“And did Maggie Bane say anything to Mr. Gilchrist or did Mr. Gilchrist say anything to Maggie Bane?”

“No…Wait a bit. He was just finished and he said to her, “You can take yourself off when you see Mrs. Harrison out.””

“And that was all?”

“Apart from the usual stuff, open wider, that sort of thing.”

Hamish closed his notebook. “There will probably be a detective along to take another statement. Do not leave the country.”

“Why did you say that, do not leave the country?”

“I always wanted to,” mumbled Hamish, wondering in that moment whether he were not sometimes as deranged as Mrs. Harrison.

“Just drop back if there’s anything else you want to know.” She flashed a smile at him and he backed towards the door. Most of her teeth were missing. Had she needed all those teeth pulled or had the besotted old harridan used tooth pulling as a way to keep seeing a rapacious and I greedy dentist? Extractions were less work than fillings and dentists could claim more from the National Health for them.

He turned in the doorway. “Just one more thing. You are a widow?”

“My Bill died twenty years ago almost to the day.”

She walked to the sideboard and picked up a photograph. “That’s me and Bill on holiday at Button’s in Ayr.”

A handsome young man with a pretty girl on his arm stared out of the frame. It was hard to believe that Mrs. Harrison had ever been as attractive as the girl in the picture. “What did your husband die of?” he asked, handing it back.

“A heart attack.”

“Aye, well, I’d best be on my way.”

He went back to the door and touched his cap and escaped out into the night where he stood for a moment at the gate and took in a deep breath of cold fresh air. The one curious thing about Mrs. Harrison’s statement was the dentist telling Maggie she could go. Innocent enough, of course, if she had asked permission. Still…

He drove thoughtfully back to Lochdubh and parked outside the police station and then went down to the harbour where the fishing boats were preparing to set sail. Archie Macleod was possibly, because of his terrifying wife, the only fisherman ever to go to sea with a tight suit and a collar and tie under his overalls.

“It’s yersel, Hamish,” he said gloomily. “I thought you’d be along. It’s about thon dentist?”

“Aye, why did you cancel, Archie?”

“Och, the pain wasnae that bad after all.”

“Why Gilchrist, Archie? I mean, it seems the man doesn’t have that much of a reputation.”

“He’s cheap,” said the fisherman. “Man, the prices they charge these days. I can ‘member getting the lot of the National Health.”

Hamish took out his notebook and took down details of where Archie had been at the time of the murder. Archie, it transpired, had been in the Lochdubh bar with about fifty other locals to bear witness to the fact.

“They say someone drilled all o’ his teeth,” said Archie.

“How did you hear that? Was it on the news?”

“No, but Nessie Currie told Mrs. Wellington who was over shopping in Braikie and someone had told her.” The Highland tom-toms had been beating, thought Hamish.

“Had you been to Gilchrist before?”

“No, never had trouble for years. As I say, someone told me he was cheap.”

“Off you go, Archie. One more thing.”

“Aye?”

“Do you wear that collar and tie and suit all the time you’re out there?”

Archie grinned. “Take the damp things off as soon as I’m out o’ sight o’ the wife’s binoculars.”

Hamish grinned back and walked towards the police station. He was suddenly ravenously hungry. There was nothing in the police station larder but a few tins of things like salmon and beans. He decided to go to the Italian restaurant in the village, now managed by his once policeman, Willie Lament. When Hamish had been briefly promoted to sergeant, Willie had worked for him. Willie had married a relative of the owner and settled happily into the restaurant business. He was a fanatical cleaner and although the Napoli, as the restaurant was called, had excellent food, the restaurant was always permeated by a strong smell of disinfectant.

Hamish entered and took a table by the window, the table where he usually sat with Priscilla when they went out for dinner together. There were few customers. He felt that stab of loneliness again.

Willie came up. “What’s your pleasure, Hamish?”

“Just spaghetti and a salad, Willie. How’s Lucia?” Lucia was Willie’s beautiful wife.

“Doing just fine.”

The restaurant door opened and a girl entered with a backpack on her shoulders. Willie frowned. He did not like hikers; he thought they lowered the tone of the place. Hamish knew that and said hurriedly, “Don’t be hassling her, Willie. The place is quiet tonight.”

“Yes, miss?” demanded Willie. “Careful with that backpack of yours. I don’t want you knocking things off the tables. You’d best leave it outside.”

“What if someone steals it?” asked the girl.

“You’ve got the police in here.”

“But my rucksack would be outside,” she said reasonably.

“I am afraid all the tables are reserved,” said Willie.

Hamish stood up. “In that case, miss, you’re welcome to share my table.” He glared at Willie.

Reassured by the police uniform, she said, “Thanks.” He helped her off with her backpack and put it on the floor in the bay of the window. She was wearing a woolly hat which she pulled off. Glorious thick brown curly hair rumbled about her shoulders. “Is there a toilet here? I want to take this off. It’s pretty hot.” She indicated the one-piece scarlet ski suit she was wearing.

“Over in the corner,” said Hamish.

He waited until she had disappeared and then put his head round the kitchen door and shouted, “Willie!”

Willie came up wiping his hands on his apron.

“Cancel my order.”

“You leaving?”

“No, I want to see what she orders. I might buy her dinner.”

“And you that could have had Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, slumming wi’ a hiker.”

“Aw, shut up, Willie. You were neffer such a snob when you were a policeman.”

He retreated back to the table.

When the girl reappeared, her ski suit over her arm, Hamish got respectfully to his feet.

She had put makeup on her pretty face. She had wide grey eyes and all that beautiful hair. Her mouth was small, soft and well-shaped. She was now wearing a tailored white blouse and black, tight-fitting trousers. She had a gold watch on one wrist.

“You are very kind, officer,” she said in a beautiful, well modulated voice. “I am sure these tables are not reserved. That snobby waiter just doesn’t like hikers.”

“Pay no heed. Willie’s the local eccentric. You needn’t call me officer. I’m not on duty.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Hamish – Hamish Macbeth.”

She shook his hand. “I’m Sarah Hudson.”

“You’re obviously English, Miss Hudson.”

“Sarah.”

“Sarah. What brings you to the Highlands?”

“I felt like getting away from London – as far as possible. So I just took off.”

Willie appeared with menus. He looked taken aback at Sarah’s new appearance.

“As a matter of fact, miss,” he said, “I’ve just realised I do have a free table.”

“Miss Hudson is my guest,” said Hamish firmly.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” said Sarah, “but I couldn’t possibly…”

“I insist,” said Hamish. They studied the menus. “I think we’ll have a bottle of wine, Willie. The Valpolicella, if that suits you, Sarah?”

“Lovely. Do you know I think I’ll just have a big plate of spaghetti bolognese and some garlic bread and a green salad.”

“The same for me, Willie,” said Hamish.

“May I smoke?” asked Sarah.

“Oh, yes,” said Willie. “I’ll get you an ashtray right away.” Just as if, thought Hamish amused, Willie had not tried to have smoking banned in the restaurant. But the Highlands of Scotland were like the Third World when it came to cigarette smokers and the owner had insisted on allowing smoking.

“How’s crime?” asked Sarah when Willie had left.

Her eyelashes were really ridiculously long, thought Hamish. He realised he was staring at her and said quickly, “Pretty bad.”

She laughed. “I thought this place would be famous for its lack of crime.”

“We had the murder today.”

“In the village?”

“No, but nearby. A town called Braikie about twenty miles north.”

“Who was murdered?”

“The dentist,” said Willie eagerly, who had reappeared with a bottle of wine. “Terrible it was.”

“Chust pour the wine, Willie,” said Hamish crossly, “and I’ll tell Miss Hudson about it. It iss not as if you are on the force anymore.”

“I am sure I did not mean to be obstructive,” said Willie huffily.

“Obtrusive, Willie.” Hamish sipped some of the wine. “Yes, that’ll do nicely.”

When Willie had left again after placing a large glass ashtray in front of Sarah, she lit a cigarette. Hamish fought down a sudden impulse to ask for one. “So go on,” she said. “Tell me about the dentist.”

So Hamish told her all about the pain in his tooth, the visit to the dentist, the discovery of the body, the drilled teeth, everything he knew.

“How bizarre!” she said when he had finished. “But surely it’s all very odd. Look here. Anyone could have walked in. And why did that receptionist stay away so long? It looks to me as if he expected a visit from someone he wanted to be private with and so he told the receptionist to take a long break.”

“But she would need to know who it was and why she was meant to stay away,” Hamish pointed out. “Otherwise why didn’t she say how unusual it all was? Yet, she just sticks to her story that it was a quiet day and she had a lot to do.”

“Oh, here’s our food.” She stubbed out her cigarette. They ate in silence for a bit.

Then Hamish asked, “Was there any particular reason why you arrived in Lochdubh, or were you just wandering about the Highlands?”

“I was coming here anyway. A friend of mine in London said it was a lovely place. I work for a financial consultants in the City. I usually go on holiday abroad. But this year – well, I’ve had a bit of trouble – I felt like some healthy exercise.”

“What’s the name of your friend?”

“Priscilla Halburtbn-Smythe.”

Hamish’s poor heart gave a lurch. “Did she mention me?”

“No, she mentioned her family ran a hotel here. I said I would be backpacking, so I’d probably stay at some bed-and-breakfast. Can you recommend one?”

“There’s several in the village. They don’t usually take guests in the winter. The Tommel Castle Hotel isn’t all that expensive in winter and you’d be comfortable there. I can take you up after dinner, if you like?”

“I think I’ll do that. I’ve been walking for ages now and I could do with some comfort. There’s not all that much privacy in a bed-and-breakfast. The last one I stayed in was full of shrieking kids.” She smiled at him, a glorious smile, and the sharp pain Hamish had felt at the mention of Priscilla’s name disappeared like Scottish mist before warm sunlight.

“So tell me more about this murder,” she went on. “There must be press everywhere.”

“Yes, they’ll be around for a bit. Nothing had happened here for a while. First there was a burglary. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was stolen from the safe at The Scotsman Hotel and now this.”

“Sin bin of the north!”

“Aye, you could say that. Wait a bit…there’s a thing.”

“What?”

“Macbean, the manager of The Scotsman – his wife and daughter were over at that dentist’s yesterday. Damn, I was supposed to go over there today but the murder drove it out of my head.”

“Do you think there could be a connection?”

“No, but Macbean’s wife or daughter might have heard or seen something.”

“So might any of the other patients. All you have to do, surely, is pick out all the names and addresses from the dentist’s files and go through them one by one.”

“The headquarters at Strathbane will be doing that. I just interview who I’m told to interview.” And please God, Blair doesn’t find out about that visit to Inverness. “I’ll go over first thing in the morning.”

They moved to other subjects. She told him about working in London but nothing about her personal life. She did not mention Priscilla again and Hamish was damned if he would ask about her. He did not want to spoil this pleasant evening with this glorious girl.

After dinner, which he insisted on paying for, despite her protests, she disappeared back to the toilet to put her ski suit on, then with Hamish carrying her rucksack, they left the restaurant. “Just wait here and I’ll get the Land Rover,” said Hamish. He wasn’t supposed to drive passengers around in it unless they were suspects, but he would be safe from Blair for the rest of the night.

At first, he thought she had gone and felt quite dismal, but then she stepped out of the shadows at the side of the restaurant. He helped her in and then drove off. She was wearing some sort of exotic perfume which she certainly had not been wearing earlier. He hoped she had put it on for him.

At the hotel, he introduced her to Mr. Johnson and begged for a cheap room for her.

“Miss Hudson, Macbeth is the village moocher,” said Mr. Johnson, “but he says you’re a friend of Priscilla’s so we’ve got a wee room which is reasonable.”

“I’ll be on my way then,” said Hamish awkwardly. He desperately wanted to ask her when he could see her again, but felt suddenly shy.

“My turn to take you for dinner tomorrow, Hamish,” said Sarah. “Eight o’clock?”

His hazel eyes lit up. “Aye, that would be grand.”

She kissed him on the cheek and said good night. He walked out in a happy dream, a silly smile on his face.

The frost sparkled on the ground and the stars sparkled overhead and it was like Christmas. He had not felt quite so happy or elated in ages.

♦

He awoke next morning with a feeling of anticipation. Then he remembered that dinner date. But work first. He set out on the Lairg road for The Scotsman Hotel. It had the deserted, shabby air of a second-rate Scottish hotel in winter. The wind was blowing again, sending the clouds racing across the sky, but it was unusually mild. The air felt damp against his cheek heralding the advance of rain.

He went into the hotel. The barman, Johnny King, was unloading crates of beer.

“Where’s Mr. Macbean?” asked Hamish.

Johnny jerked his head in the direction of the office. Macbean was sitting at his desk.

“Where’s the safe?” asked Hamish.

“Your boys took it away,” said Macbean. “Fat lot o’ good that’ll do.”

“You couldn’t have been thinking of repairing the back and using it again!”

“No,” said Macbean shiftily. “But I’m going down to Inverness tomorrow to get a new one. What do you want? I’ve been answering questions till I’m sick o’ them.”

Hamish removed his hat and put it on the desk and sat down on a chair opposite Macbean. “I’ve really called in the hope of seeing your wife and daughter.”

“Why?”

“Did you hear about this murder over at Braikie?”

“Aye.”

“Your wife and daughter went to see Gilchrist. I would be interested to hear what they thought of him.”

“They’re somewhere about. They cannae tell you anything.”

“I chust want an idea of what sort of man Gilchrist was.”

Macbean snorted with contempt. “When you’re in the dentist’s chair getting a tooth pulled, do you sit there and wonder what kind of man he is?”

“Yes,” said Hamish Macbeth, whose Highland curiosity prompted him to speculate on the character of everyone he came across.

“I’ll get someone to find them for you.”

“About the money,” said Hamish. “Were you insured against theft?”

“Yes.”

“To the tune of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?”

“Yes, I made a point of paying heavy insurance to cover any possible theft of the bingo money.”

“So that means you’ll be able to have the big night after all?”

“Sometime or another when the insurance company finishes its investigations and gets around to paying.”

“I should think,” said Hamish, “that they might consider a safe with a wooden backing an invitation to crime. Are you sure you’ll get your money?”

Macbean’s eyes blazed with anger. “I’d bloody well better get it. How will the insurance company know the safe had a wood back anyway?”

Was he really this stupid, wondered Hamish.

“They’ll get all the police reports and then they’ll send their own investigators. Then the company who owns this hotel will want to know why you had such an unsafe safe.”

The anger left Macbean’s eyes and he groaned. Then he said, “Look, if you want to talk to the wife, run along and do it, and stop worrying me with these questions. Ask Johnny to find them.”

Hamish rose and picked up his cap and put it under his aim and went out of the office to where Johnny was still unloading bottles of beer.

“I want to talk to Mrs. Macbean and her daughter,” he said.

“I’ll get them.”

The barman picked up a phone on the bar and dialled an extension number. “Police tae see you, Mrs. Macbean, and Darleen,” he said. The voice quacked on the other end of the line.

The barman replaced the receiver. “Give her a few minutes.”

“Any ideas about who might have stolen the money?” asked Hamish.

“Naw. Why shoulda?”

“You surely must have discussed it with the other members o’ the staff.”

“Let me tell you somethin’,” said Johnny, lifting a crate with strong tattooed arms, “I keep masel’ tae masel. You can ask the others if you want any gossip.”

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.