Death of a Dentist

∨ Death of a Dentist ∧

6

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.

“So how did you get on?” asked Hamish, privately glad that Jenkins had given their order to a humble waitress to deal with and had taken himself off, not because he was intimidated in any way by Jenkins, but because the butler reminded him of happier days when he had been so much in love with Priscilla. He gave a little sigh. He wouldn’t like any of that pain back again. People babbled on about love in song and verse. Hamish thought love should come with a government health warning. Love seemed to mean a short period of rosy elation followed by months and years of dark agony and worry and tearing jealousy.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Sarah.

Hamish pulled himself together. “I was thinking of the day I’ve had. There’s something there that I’m missing.” He told her about Kylie, about the Smiley brothers, and then asked, “And how did you get on?”

Sarah carefully repeated her conversation with Mrs. Macbean, ending with, “I was glad to get out of there, Hamish. The very air had become threatening.”

“That’s interesting. Villainy can produce that sort of atmosphere.”

“It could be. On the other hand, I got the impression that Mrs. Macbean was a bitter and unbalanced woman. I think her shrinking away from me when I mentioned Gilchrist was caused by nothing more sinister than a sort of paranoid secrecy. Women will tell you about their private lives and then suddenly resent you bitterly for having been the recipient.”

“It could be. I didn’t order any wine and that sour-faced Jenkins didn’t even offer us the wine menu.”

“I don’t feel like drinking wine. Do you?” asked Sarah.

“Not really. After that headache-inducing hooch, I don’t feel like any more alcohol. Now one thing did come up today. The CID will have gone through the contents of Gilchrist’s house, his papers, photographs, bankbooks, things like that. I would dearly like to know what they found out.” He looked at her quizzically.

Sarah laughed. “You want me to have another go at hacking. But how on earth are we both to get to the police station in this weather?”

“Priscilla has a computer in her apartment at the top of the castle.”

“Wouldn’t Mr. Johnson think it odd if we asked for the key? I assume it’s locked up when she is away.”

“You could say she had asked you to collect something for her. I know, an address logged in her computer.”

“I’ll try.” She stood up. “You wait here. I’ll ask the manager myself.”

After only a few minutes she came back and placed a key on the table. “Very trusting of him,” said Sarah, sitting down. “I mean, I could be some con pretending to be a friend of Priscilla’s.”

“Priscilla often phones up the hotel to make sure everything is still running smoothly. That’s a point. What if she phones up tonight?”

“You are friends, or so I gather. I will just tell her the truth.”

“Aye, that would do.” Hamish leaned back in his chair and looked at her thoughtfully. He was grateful to her, for her help, but more for her beauty and charm, which banished any wistful thoughts about the absent Priscilla. “How can you be sure you will be able to hack into the police computer this time?” he asked. “Blair will have changed his password.”

“I can only try,” said Sarah. She hesitated and then said, “Let me put this dinner on my bill. It’s very pricey and you can’t earn that much as a village policeman.”

“That’s kind of you, but – ” He broke off as Mr. Johnson came up to them.

“Priscilla’s on the phone,” he said, “and you going up to her apartment to look for an address seems to be the first she’s heard of it.”

Hamish stood up. “Is she still on the phone?”

“Yes.”

Hamish smiled at Sarah. “I’ll chust be having a wee word with her.”

“You can talk to her on the phone at reception,” said Mr. Johnson, following him out and then standing next to him when he picked up the phone.

“Priscilla?”

“Yes, Hamish, what’s all this about you and Sarah wanting the key to my apartment?”

Hamish hunched over the phone, his back to the manager.

“You’ve forgotten,” he said. “You know you asked her to look up thon address for you.”

There was a silence and then Priscilla said, “As you very well know I did nothing of the kind. You want to use my computer for something.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got a computer at that police station.”

“Aye, the weather’s that bad, I don’t think I’ll make it back to the police station tonight.”

Another silence. Somewhere behind Priscilla, a man’s voice, lazy and amused, said, “Are you going to be on that phone all night, darling?”

Hamish’s heart lurched.

“Oh, go ahead,” said Priscilla. “I trust Sarah even if I don’t trust you, Hamish Macbeth. You obviously can’t tell me about it. Phone me sometime when you can. Bye. You’d best put Johnson back on the phone and I’ll tell him it’s all right.”

Hamish silently handed the phone back to the manager and trailed back to the dining room.

“What’s the matter, Hamish?” demanded Sarah sharply. “Was she furious?”

Hamish forced a smile although his hazel eyes were bleak. “No, no, she said it wass all right. But we’ve got to phone her when Johnson isn’t listening and tell her all about it.”

“Did Priscilla help you with any of your investigations?”

“Yes, quite a few, some of them verra dangerous, too.”

“You must have been very close.”

“Aye, you could say that.” There was an awkward silence. The shutters were down over Hamish’s eyes.

“So,” said Sarah brightly, “do you want coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Mr. Johnson approached them again. “Priscilla says dinner is on the house.”

“That’s very good of her,” said Hamish, while all the time he was wondering furiously – who was that man?

After the manager had left again, Hamish wrenched his mind back to the case. “The thing about all mis that bothers me is that I get mis mad feeling that the burglary and the murder are connected in some way.”

“I don’t see how they could possibly be,” remarked Sarah.

“Nor me. Chust an intuition.”

Sarah privately noticed the sibilance of Hamish’s Highland accent. It always seemed to become more marked when he was upset. Speaking to Priscilla had upset him. Of course it could be simply because she had ticked him off for trying to lie his way into her apartment, but that would hardly allow for the bleakness of his eyes.

“So tell me again about this still,” she said aloud. “When will they appear in court?”

“They won’t,” said Hamish. “I’ve given them a warning and time to close it down.”

“But what they are doing is illegal! Why didn’t you arrest them?”

“There iss something in the Highlander that does not regard the illegal making of whisky as a crime,” said Hamish. “Out in the Hebrides, there was a new policeman, new to the area, and he arrested two of the locals and charged them with running an illegal still. He had to take refuge on the roof of the police station as the locals tried to burn it down. There are chust some things a Highland policeman has to turn a blind eye to. Even farther south, they can get a bit vindictive.”

“You’ve heard of the RSPB – the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds?”

“Of course. In fact, I used to be a member but I cancelled my subscription.”

“Why?”

“They wrote to me appealing for funds and pointing out that they had the means to be a political force. I did not want to be associated with anything that wanted to be a political force.”

“Aye, well, down in Perthshire, the gamekeepers get really tired of birds of prey and that includes golden eagles. You see, these protected birds of prey wreak havoc on stocks of young grouse and pheasant. A gamekeeper was fined £2,500 at Perth Sheriff Court after he admitted placing six hen’s eggs laced with poison in an area that is home to golden eagles and other birds of prey. After that, an estate belonging to a former employee of the RSPB was vandalised. The estate has the British national collection of thousands of rare and valuable plants imported from the Himalayas. They were doused in weedkiller and ‘RSPB’ etched in nine-foot letters on the lawn with herbicide. Although nothing could be proved, it was believed to be a revenge attack connected to the sentencing of the gamekeeper.”

“Now, I am not condoning it, for it was a wicked and nasty piece of vandalism. On the other hand, there is a great deal of frustration felt among gamekeepers at the attitude of what they privately damn as a lot of moronic townees. Many in the Highlands owe their livelihood to the great shooting estates, and there’s not much work anywhere else.”

“It certainly feels like another part of the world up here,” said Sarah, “and not like part of the British Isles at all. Sutherland. Someone told me that was the southland of the Vikings.”

“I believe so,” said Hamish, who in fact did not know much of Sutherland’s history.

“So,” said Sarah, beginning to rise, “if you’ve finished, let’s start on a life of crime.”

Hamish led the way upstairs to Priscilla’s apartment With an odd feeling, a mixture of guilt and loss, he turned the key in the lock, swung the door open and switched on the light. Everything in the living room was as cool and ordered as Priscilla herself. Sarah went straight to the computer, which sat on a desk at the window. She sat down in front of it.

“I suggest you read something, or think about something,” she said over her shoulder. “This might take some time.”

Hamish wandered over to the bookshelves, and suddenly conscious again of his lack of knowledge of his home county, he took down The Sutherland Book, edited by Donald Omand, and settled down to study it.

Sutherland, is an immense District lashed by the waves of the Minch in the west, where the legendary blue men ride the Atlantic waves ready to lure unwary sailors to their doom, by the cold North Sea where the Vikings of old landed their longships, in the north-east by the fertile lands of Caithness, in the south-east by the waters of the Moray Firth, while in the south Sutherland melts into the beauty of Ross. They are a mixed bag of Celts, Scots, Rets, Vikings, and since the Clearances, with not an inconsiderable leavening of Lowlanders brought in to look after the sheep. Wherever they came from, the low-lying mists, the dark lochs and tarns, the dreary moors and the towering mountains were bound to have added to the superstitions they already held and accentuated their fear of the unknown.

The landscape still works on the imagination, thought Hamish, raising his eyes from the printed page. People come up here from the cities and begin to believe in ghosts and fairies before they’ve settled for very long.

Sarah gave a little sigh. “Nothing yet?” asked Hamish.

“Not yet. Need more time.”

Hamish began to read about water horses.

Of all the supernatural creatures flitting through the pages of folklore, none was so feared as the water horse, in Gaelic, Each Uisge. In my own childhood, we were forbidden to go near certain lochs which were dark and dangerous because they were said to be the haunts of water horses. In the Highlands with stormy seas, wave-lashed islands, short and rushing rivers and deep dark lochs, water power was feared and looked on as malignant. This malignancy often took the form of a horse that could change shape into a handsome young man or even an old woman. Indeed the water horse or kelpie as it was sometimes called could change form at will to lure its victims to their deaths.

“Got it! We’re in!” cried Sarah.

He went over to join her. “Blair’s new password?”

She nodded.

“What is it?”

“Shite. I thought it might be shit, but in Scotland people use the old form and say shite.”

“Nasty bugger.”

“Bring a chair over and we’ll see if we can get a report on Gilchrist’s belongings.”

Hamish obediently carried a hardback chair and placed it next to her and sat down. She flicked busily through various reports and then said, “Here we go.”

They eagerly read the contents of the dentist’s home. He had not left a will and police were still searching for any living relative. There was no evidence of a wife before Jeannie in Inverness. There had been no photographs at all. Odd that, thought Hamish. There was a bar in the living room stocked with the finest malt whiskies. Clothes were listed as tailored and expensive, silk shirts, handmade shoes. His car was a BMW only a few months old.

“Obviously earned a mint and spent it,” murmured Hamish. “But no photographs! Passport, birth certificate, school certificates, university and dental college, but no personal records of the holiday snapshot kind. Not even a wedding photograph. Damn, this iss not helping. I wish I could see the place.”

“There’ll be a policeman on duty outside the place. Couldn’t you just go over and chat to him and ask him if you could have a look around?”

“I could try. That’s if the roads are passable in the morning.”

“Will you be able to get home tonight?”

Hamish went to the window and looked out. In the hotel’s floodlights, he could see white sheets of snow savagely tearing across the courtyard below.

“Might have to stay the night,” he said slowly.

She looked at him. Their eyes locked. The air was suddenly charged with sexual tension. He took a half step towards her and then the door swung open and Mr. Johnson came in. “Weather’s terrible, Hamish,” he said. “I’ve arranged a wee room for you down by the office so you can stay the night. In fact, if you’ve finished here, I’ll take you down.”

“I don’t know,” said Hamish reluctantly. He looked hopefully at Sarah, but she was already switching off the computer. That air of sexual excitement had gone, not even a frisson.

“As a matter of fact, I am pretty tired,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning, Hamish.”

“Story of my life,” muttered Hamish as he followed the manager downstairs.

“What?” asked Mr. Johnson.

“Nothing,” said Hamish crossly. “Nothing at all.”

♦

He awoke in the morning to white stillness. The room allocated to him was one of the ones given to hotel servants. It contained the narrow bed on which he was lying, a wardrobe, chair and nothing else, not even a handbasin.

He got up and went to the window. The room was on the ground floor. He looked out at a wall of white. That was all he could see. A huge drift was blocking the view.

He took his underwear off the radiator – he had washed it and put it there to dry – and then wrapped the bedcover around his nakedness, went along to the narrow bathroom used by the staff, and took a shower. By the time he was fully dressed, he could hear the scrape of shovels outside the hotel in the courtyard and the roar of tractors as the outdoor staff began to dig paths around the hotel to free the snowbound cars.

There was a smell of frying bacon. He went through to the dining room where he found Sarah eating toast and marmalade. He felt suddenly shy of her, but she smiled at him in a friendly way and said, “How are we to get anywhere today?”

“We, Sherlock?” he asked, sitting down opposite her.

“I thought that if perhaps we went to Gilchrist’s house, two of us could charm our way past the policeman on duty, but I don’t see how we are going to be able to move.”

He looked out the long dining room windows. “It’s stopped snowing, and they’re better up here than they are in the cities at getting the roads cleared. As long as the snow stays off, we might be able to move. After breakfast, I’ll get my snowshoes on and go back to the police station and collect the Land Rover.”

“And you’ll take me with you?”

“Against police regulations, but I could always explain that I found you stranded and gave you a lift. I wonder if I could ask you a favour?”

“Go on.”

“Could you get back into that computer and see if there’s any reference to Gilchrist’s bank accounts?”

“I could, but I can tell you now, there was no reference to his finances.”

Hamish banged the table in frustration. “It’s aye the same,” he complained. “I cannae get the full picture because I’m nothing more than the village bobby.”

“You could change that.”

“Och, it would mean living in Strathbane and I couldnae bear that.”

Hamish relapsed into a moody silence.

The waitress came up to them. “More coffee?”

They both refused. Then she said, “Oh, Mr. Macbeth, Mr. Angus Macdonald was on the phone. He says not to forget the salmon.”

“How did he know I was here?”

“Mr. Macdonald always knows.”

“Who’s Mr. Macdonald?” asked Sarah.

“He’s the local seer. He claims to have the second sight.”

“And does he?”

“I think he’s a verra clever old gossip.”

“So what’s this about a salmon?”

“He wanted a river salmon, but chust look at the weather. I bought him one in the fishmongers in Braikie and the auld beast sussed out it wass a farm salmon and threatens me with all sorts of bad luck unless I get him the right one.”

Sarah looked at him curiously. “How did he know it was a farm salmon?”

“He waved his damn crystal ower it, but I think one o’ his gossips phoned him from Braikie.”

Sarah looked out at the white wilderness outside. “You certainly won’t be able to catch anything in this weather.”

“Well, let me get my snowshoes and see if I can make it back to the police station.”

When Hamish emerged from the hotel, a couple of tractors with snowploughs attached had cleared the hotel forecourt and even the narrow road outside had already been ploughed and salted. The sky above was steel grey but no snow fell. He trudged down into Lochdubh through the frozen landscape. Everything was still, everything was quiet. No bird sang. Not even a buzzard sailed up to the cold sky. The tops of the twin mountains above Lochdubh were hidden in mist. Fortunately, there was no wind to whip up the snow into another land-blown blizzard.

He checked his sheep and put out their winter fodder. Then he got out a snow shovel and cleared the short drive at the side of the police station so that he could get the Land Rover out.

He then made a thermos of coffee with plenty of milk and sugar, placed it in the Land Rover and drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel.

He was glad to have Sarah’s company.

“I hope the road’s clear all the way to Braikie,” he said. They were driving along beside the sea as the one-track road twisted and curved. Sarah looked out in amazement at the fury of the green-grey Atlantic. Waves as huge as houses pounded the rocky beach.

“Stop for a moment,” she urged.

She looked out of the window in awe at the stormy sea.

“It’s all so still on land,” she marvelled, “and yet the sea is so…furious.”

“All the way from America,” said Hamish.

“Is it always so rough?”

“No, sometimes in the summer it’s like glass. But it’s a treacherous climate up here.”

He let in the clutch and moved off slowly. It was so bitterly cold that despite the salt on the road, he could feel ice under the wheels.

“Where did Gilchrist live?” asked Sarah.

“This end of the town – Culloden Road. Here we are.” The Land Rover rolled to a stop after he had made a right turn. “And here we stay.” The road was blocked by drifts. “You’d best stay here, Sarah, while I make my way to the house on foot.”

“I’ll be all right. The snow is so cold and powdery, I won’t get wet.”

They climbed down. Hamish went ahead, forging a way through the drifts. There was no one on duty outside Gilchrist’s house. He correctly guessed that the roads around Strathbane would still be blocked. The further one got from the towns, the better the road-clearing services. It was a Victorian villa of the kind that line so many of the roads in Scotland’s towns. After Queen Victoria made the Highlands fashionable, even the lowliest tried to emulate her and so all these villas with grand names like Mount Pleasant, The Pines, The Firs and The Laurels had sprung up. Gilchrist’s house was called Culloden House, no doubt allowing anyone who had not seen the villa but only the address on his stationery to envisage a country mansion.

Hamish ploughed his way up the short drive. “Now what are we going to do?” he said, half to himself.

“Let’s go round the back,” urged Sarah. “There might be something open.”

They went round the side of the house, which had been sheltered from the blizzard and so the path was relatively clear.

Hamish rattled the back door. “Of course it’s locked and sealed,” he grumbled. “And we’ll have been seen from the houses around.”

“You could say you were investigating a break-in,” said Sarah.

He looked down at her and suddenly smiled. “So I could,” he remarked cheerfully. He took a short truncheon out of his coat pocket and with one brisk blow smashed the glass panel of the back door, leaned in and unfastened the lock. “So there’s the break-in,” said Hamish, “and here am I investigating it. And we’re shielded from the other houses by the trees and bushes and that high fence. No one will have seen us and och, the sound of glass could have chust been us clearing up the pieces.”

They entered the house and found themselves in a modern kitchen. The air was very cold and stale.

“Let’s try the living room first.”

Hamish walked through to the living room and stood looking around. There was an expensive, white, fitted carpet under his feet. A three–piece suite covered in white leather looked as frozen in all its glacial pristine newness as the snow outside. There was a coffee table with old coins let into the surface. A wall unit contained a stereo, a television set, a few paperbacks and a selection of videos.

A bad oil painting of a Highland scene hung over the fireplace, which had been blocked off and was now fronted by an electric fire with fake logs. There was a desk over at the window. Hamish substituted his thick leather gloves for a pair of thin plastic ones which he had drawn from his pocket and put on. “Don’t touch anything without gloves on,” he ordered Sarah. He gently drew open the drawers of the desk. There were various letters and bills. The letters were from uninteresting bodies such as the local Rotary Club and from drug suppliers.

He searched on, carefully replacing everything exactly as he found it. “That’s odd,” he muttered, “no bankbooks, no statements, no credit card records.”

“Try the bedroom,” whispered Sarah. “Sometimes people keep that sort of stuff beside the bed in a drawer or maybe in a suitcase under the bed.”

They went quietly upstairs. One bedroom proved to be a spare one, but the other, containing a large double bed covered with a shiny green silk quilt, had an inhabited look. Hamish opened the wardrobe. Yes, there were the suits and shirts itemised in the report. He turned his attention to the bedside table. He slid open the drawer. There was a Gideon Bible and, underneath it, a few pornographic magazines and a sealed packet of condoms, blackberry flavour.

“They have to be somewhere. Let’s see if there’s a box room or something like that,” said Hamish.

“Don’t be long,” urged Sarah. “If one of the neighbours heard the breaking glass, we’ll soon be in trouble.”

Hamish went back out onto the small landing. There were two doors he had not tried.

One proved to be the bathroom and the other, yet another bedroom.

He scratched his fiery hair.

“Wouldn’t there be a cellar in a house like this?” asked Sarah behind him.

“Aye, let’s go and look. But bank statements and things like that would hardly be put away in a basement.”

They went back down to the kitchen and then into the hall. There was a low door under the stairs. Hamish opened it. A narrow wooden staircase led downwards. He made his way down, followed by Sarah.

The detectives for some reason had not thought to write down that in the basement was a well-equipped gym full of expensive weightlifting and exercise equipment. And what was more important, an old–fashioned rolltop desk in one corner.

Hamish made a beeline for it. “Here we are at last,” he said. “Accounts, credit card statements, bankbooks.” He sat down in front of it. Sarah waited nervously, expecting to hear the wail of a police siren at any moment.

“Now here’s a thing,” said Hamish after what Sarah felt to be an agonisingly long time. “The man was in debt and bad debt at that. He’s got an overdraft of fifty-five thousand pounds at the National Highland, and twenty-five thousand with Tay General. His credit card bills, Visa and Access, are high. I’ll just note down which restaurants he went to and maybe we can call there and see who it was he was entertaining. Well, well, well, last o’ the big spenders.”

“Hamish,” pleaded Sarah, “if you’ve found out what you want, let’s get out of here.”

“Aye, we’d better move. But I’d better get a glazier to fix thon door.”

“But getting a glazier without telling the police first will let them know when they learn of it that you were the one who broke in.”

“The man I’m going to ask won’t talk. And if he’s caught, he can say I broke in because I thought I saw someone moving about inside.”

Sarah was glad when they left the house and ploughed their way back to the Land Rover. Hamish drove off and then stopped at a cottage on the outskirts. “You wait here and I’ll tell the glazier what to do. Keep the engine and heater running.”

After some time he rejoined her. “He’ll fix it. He says it was on the radio that all the roads about Strathbane are still blocked so he should have plenty of time.”

“Now what?”

“Maggie Bane, I think. That’s if the lassie hasnae been arrested.”

♦

Maggie Bane answered the door to them. She was dressed in a black sweater and skirt and her face was puffy with crying. Hamish had wondered whether to leave Sarah in the Land Rover, but had decided to take her with him. If Maggie objected to her presence, he could tell Sarah to wait outside.

“I was passing,” said Hamish in his light, pleasant Highland accent, “and I wondered how you were getting on. This is not really a police call, more in the way of a friendly call.”

“Come in.” She led the way to her sterile living room. “Sit down,” she said wearily.

Sarah studied Maggie’s beautiful face. How on earth could such a good-looking girl become involved with a middle-aged dentist in a bleak Highland town?

“Did you have a hard time at police headquarters?” asked Hamish.

“It was terrible. That brute Blair shouted and yelled at me. I tried to tell him that I had been trying to protect my reputation. This isn’t Glasgow or London. This is the Highlands of Scotland.”

“If it doesn’t distress you too much, could you tell me what the attraction was?” Hamish leaned forward, looking the picture of sympathy.

“He was glamorous.”

“A middle-aged dentist?”

“You didn’t know him,” she said wearily. “I met him in St. Andrews. I was just finishing at university, had just passed my finals. I’m…I’m not good at making friends. I went off to a bar to have a drink to celebrate. He was at the bar and we fell into conversation. Then he suddenly said, “I’m going to Paris tomorrow. Come with me. I’ll get your air ticket.”

“And I said, ‘Yes,’ just like that and it was wonderful. We stayed at the George V and we walked along the quays and looked at the bookshops and he insisted on buying me a hat covered with artificial flowers at the Galerie Lafayette, although I told him no one wore hats anymore.” She gave a choked little sob. “I’ve still got that hat.”

There was a silence. Outside, the frozen branch of a tree rapped against the window with monotonous regularity, like an impatient finger.

“And why did your relationship with him break up?”

“We went on holiday to Provence, to Agde and Sete and along that coast. It rained every day. The clouds were so low they seemed to lie on the sea. We were staying at some old château which had been turned into a hotel. It was very expensive but the roof leaked and everything smelled of damp. He became irritable and tetchy and began to pick quarrels. We were meant to be away on holiday for three weeks, but he suddenly cut the holiday short after a week. I cried and cried, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

Hamish took a deep breath. “Did it no’ dawn on you, lassie,” he said gently, “that Mr. Gilchrist might be worried about money?”

Her amazement seemed genuine. “But he earned a very good pay as a dentist. He always had the latest car, dined at the best restaurants.”

“Was there another woman?”

“I think there was. I took to following him. Oh, it was silly. He found out right away and said if I didn’t give him space, he would have to get rid of me. He went down to Inverness a lot. I’m sure there was someone there.”

“If you can think of anything at all,” said Hamish, “just phone me. I’ll come over right away.”

Maggie sniffed miserably. “You’re very kind, not like those dreadful policemen in Strathbane.”

“Have the press been bothering you?”

“Yes, but this weather will keep them away, and they seem to have lost interest anyway.”

“Did Mr. Gilchrist have any particular friends?”

“No, for a time there was just me. Neither of us had any friends up here. We were all we needed.”

“And relatives? I mean, as far as I know, no relative has come forward.”

“He said he was an only child and that his parents were dead.”

“Odd that. You would think there would be a cousin or someone.” Wedding photographs; thought Hamish. Jeannie Gilchrist would have wedding photographs. Must see her.

He rose and said goodbye. He was grateful that Maggie had not commented on Sarah’s presence.

Once back in the Land Rover, he said, “I’ll drop you back at the hotel and go to Inverness. I want to talk to Gilchrist’s ex-wife again.”

“Take me with you,” said Sarah. “I’m not doing anything else.”

Hamish looked out at the steel grey sky. “The wind’s rising,” he said. “It might be a hairy journey.”

“Then let’s be hairy together.”

Hamish smiled at her suddenly. “Inverness it is.”