Hamish Macbeth 13 (1997) - Death of a Dentist Read online

  “No, I’ll be on my way.” Archie headed for the door. Nothing. He felt fine. Whistling cheerfully, he went out into the car park. Then he stopped and clutched his head as pain stabbed through it. He opened his car door and fished a half bottle of Bells that Hamish had given him out of the glove compartment and took a swig of it. The pain in his head miraculously disappeared. Archie drove off to Lochdubh and straight to the police station.

  “Grand,” said Hamish. “Don’t be telling a soul about this, Archie. I’ll bet those brothers haven’t destroyed the still at all.”

  “Are ye sure it isnae a wee bottle here and a wee bottle there, Hamish? If it were a big operation, someone would have talked afore this.”

  “If it were a big operation,” said Hamish slowly, “they’d be verra quiet about it, and those in the know wouldnae dare talk. I think those Smiley boys are nasty customers.”

  “So are ye going to raid them?”

  “I think I’d better get some more proof. Anyway, if I got that whole lot over from Strathbane, the Smileys would hear of their coming afore they even left the town.”

  “I’ll ask about, Hamish. Someone might let something slip.”

  “All right, Archie, thanks. But be careful.”

  Hamish then phoned Jimmy Anderson. “Are you any, farmer forward wi’ the investigations?” he asked. “Full stop, Hamish. Someone’s been at Blair’s computer again. But when he went to complain to the super about it, the super got a bit worried about Blair’s mental state because the man was reeking o’ whisky.”

  “Probably nobody’s been near his records,” said Hamish. “I thought Blair didn’t know one end of a computer from another and was always getting one of the girls to type up his notes for him.”

  “Aye, that’s what the super says so nothing’s being done about it this time.”

  “What about the burglary at The Scotsman?”

  “Dead full stop there as well, although it looks as if Macbean’ll probably get the insurance money anyway.”

  “How come?”

  “The company that owns the hotel have got hotshot lawyers who are pointing out that a robbery is a robbery: and even if the safe hadn’t had a wooden back, the burglar or burglars obviously knew what they were doing and that the money was there and so would have taken it anyway. Also the company has all their hotels insured with the same insurance company and they don’t want to lose their custom. Well, it’s not as if Macbean keeps the insurance money himself. It’ll go to a prize for the annual bingo night. So it’s not as if he stole the stuff himself and then meant to keep the insurance money.”

  “Grant me patience,” moaned Hamish. “He could have stolen the money himself, kept it, reported the robbery, the company gets the money back from the insurance people and Macbean keeps the money he stole.”

  “Aye, I suppose so. I wasnae thinking straight.”

  “Have you gone thoroughly into Macbean’s background?”

  “With a fine-tooth comb.”

  “What about Mrs. Macbean, and the barman, Johnny King?”

  “All there is tae know about Johnny King, I’ve already told ye.”

  “And Mrs. Macbean?”

  “Like I told you, born in Leith, bright at school, wouldn’t think it to look at her, would you? Used to be a looker, too. Policeman down there was questioning friends and relatives. Saw a photograph of her, Miss Leith 1970. He said she was a stunner.”

  “What did she work at before she met Macbean?”

  “Worked as a secretary.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, man. What does it matter? You’ll be saying next, a wee woman like that could murder a man like Gilchrist.”

  “I know it seems daft. But Mrs. Macbean went to Gilchrist and got all her teeth removed.”

  “So do a lot of people. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Hamish. That murder was committed by brutal men and strong men at that.”

  “Someone did it,” said Hamish. “And that someone’s wandering about loose and may kill again. What about Gilchrist’s finances?” asked Hamish, as if he did not know the answer. “Was he well-to-do?”

  “No, he was in deep debt. So what are you suggesting? That he went over to The Scotsman and pinched the money?”

  “I know it seems daft. But I can’t help feeling there’s a connection somewhere.”

  “Don’t worry, Hamish. We’ll get there. Someone’s bound to talk, sooner or later.”

  “The thing that worries me,” said Hamish, “is that by that time whoever did the murder could be long gone.”

  He rang off.

  The evening before he was to meet Mrs. Wellington stretched out before him. He defrosted a salmon steak and grilled it for his dinner. Why did Sarah not want to see him? He could swear she had enjoyed her night with him. Perhaps she was just one of those women who wanted to sleep with a policeman out of curiosity. He should phone Priscilla and tell her about why they had needed her computer, but was reluctant to do so. For one brief glorious night, Sarah had seemed like his passport away from memories of Priscilla and feeling bound to Priscilla.

  The wind moaned along the loch. He went back to the office and looked down at the silent phone. He suddenly wanted to call Sarah and ask her what she was playing at.

  Then he gave a little shrug. Perhaps tomorrow.

  Perhaps he would ask her tomorrow.

  Mr. Johnson looked up as Sarah came into the hotel office. “What can I do for you, Miss Hudson?”

  “I suppose the gift shop is closed.”

  “Yes, it’s after hours. Was there anything you wanted in particular?”

  “I wanted to buy one of those mohair travelling rugs.”

  Mr. Johnson reached behind him and took a key down from a board on the wall. “I’m not very busy. I’ll take you over to the shop.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Sarah. “And then I would like to borrow one of the hotel cars. I think I have done enough walking for one holiday.”

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Johnson. “First, let’s get that rug.”

  Half an hour later, Angus Macdonald, the seer, heard the sound of a car engine and lumbered over to his cottage window.

  Sarah Hudson was climbing out of a car, a mohair travelling rug over one arm.

  The seer gave a satisfied little smile and went to open the door.

  Chapter Eight

  “Yes.” I answered you last night; “No,” this morning, sir, I say. Colours seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

  —Robert Browning

  Hamish drove out towards Braikie with Mrs. Wellington following in her Fiat. He hoped he was doing the right thing. If Kylie really had something important to tell him, she might not want to say anything in front of Mrs. Wellington. But he felt in his bones that Kylie had taken exception to his questions about her. Kylie was obviously used to thinking of herself as the glamour queen of Braikie, a sexy big fish in a very little pool. She did not know that her power came from her youth and when youth had gone, it would leave Kylie—like so many other Kylies he had known—a bitter and bad-tempered woman. He stopped at the end of the street where Kylie lived and Mrs. Wellington drew in behind him. He got out of the police Land Rover and walked back to the minister’s wife. “Why are we stopping here?” she asked.

  “I don’t want her to get a look at you. Might scare her. Let me walk along first and follow me a few yards behind. Don’t let yourself be seen from the house. I’ll knock at the door. Then when I signal to you, you walk up quickly and go in first.”

  “What is this? Are you expecting an armed ambush? It would be just like you to hide behind a woman. I’ve always said—”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Hamish crossly. “I am trying to help this wee lassie and you are the very person to do it. Like I said, I don’t want to frighten her off.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Wellington, straightening another of her formidable felt hats. “But never again tell me to shut up, Hamish Macbeth. I don’t know
what has happened to manners these days.”

  Hamish sighed. “Now, now, I’m sorry. Come along.”

  He walked in front of her past a silent row of villas, most of them divided up into flats.

  He turned in at Kylie’s gate and flashed his torch at the name plates. Kylie Fraser was on the ground floor. He rang the bell. A buzzer went and he entered a hall. The door to Kylie’s flat was on the left. He knocked at it.

  “Who is it?” came Kylie’s voice.

  “Hamish Macbeth.”

  “Just walk in. The door isn’t locked.”

  Hamish darted to the street door and signalled frantically. The bulk of Mrs. Wellington appeared from around the shelter of a hedge. She hurried up the garden path and joined Hamish in the hall.

  Hamish indicated Kylie’s door. “Go straight on in,” he whispered.

  Mrs. Wellington squared her shoulders and opened the door and marched in.

  Kylie and the minister’s wife stared at each other in horror.

  Kylie was wearing nothing but a black lace teddy and scarlet high-heeled shoes.

  Her mouth fell open.

  “Who are you?” she screeched. “Where’s Hamish?”

  “So this is what you’re up to,” said Mrs. Wellington belligerently, putting her large handbag down on a table. “Trying to seduce a policeman.”

  “I never…”

  Hamish appeared behind Mrs. Wellington and grinned at the sight of Kylie.

  “So who’s hiding in here ready to rush out and cry Rape!?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Kylie, but her eyes flickered to a door at the other side of the room.

  Hamish strode across the room and jerked that door open. Kylie’s friend, Tootsie, and two youths nearly fell into the room.

  “Do you mean,” boomed Mrs. Wellington, “that this was meant to be some sort of entrapment?”

  “I think Kylie was going to rip open the little she has on and scream and her witnesses would then swear I had attacked her,” said Hamish.

  “If you knew this,” said Mrs. Wellington wrathfully, “then you should have brought in some backup.”

  All these police series on television, thought Hamish, had everyone talking a sort of bastard police lingo.

  “But as I am here,” said Mrs. Wellington, “I want you young people to sit down and listen to me. I am the minister’s wife and it is my Christian duty to bring the error of your ways to your attention. Sit down!”

  They meekly sat down while she proceeded to lecture them on the lack of morals in the younger generation until Hamish interrupted her. “I think they get the message,” he said. “Now, Kylie, what was there between you and Gilchrist?”

  “Nothing,” she said sulkily.

  “And yet the very fact that I have been asking questions about you and Gilchrist is enough for you to try to get me charged with rape.”

  “It was just a joke, that’s all,” said Kylie.

  “It’s a joke I don’t like, so I am about to drive you to police headquarters where you will be charged with wasting police time, attempting to coerce an officer of the law and God knows what else.”

  Kylie began to cry, her vamp makeup running down her cheeks.

  “Och, I’ll tell you,” said Tootsie, “if you promise not to charge her.”

  “I can’t promise anything,” said Hamish. “But if you are open and honest with me, I’ll think about it.”

  Mrs. Wellington snapped open her capacious handbag and produced a packet of tissues which she handed to Kylie.

  “Go on, Kylie,” urged Tootsie. “Tell him, or I will.”

  Kylie blew her nose and then scrubbed at her face. Clean of makeup, her face looked much younger and almost vulnerable.

  “Mr. Gilchrist took me out to Inverness a few times, posh restaurants. It was a bit o’ a laugh. Then the last time—”

  “When was that?” asked Hamish sharply.

  “A month ago. He stopped the car on the road back from Inverness and he was all over me. He said I had cost him enough and it was time to pay back. I told him to get stuffed and he slapped me across the face—hard. I said I would tell everyone in Braikie and he seemed to get frightened. He says to me, he says, that if I kept my mouth shut, he would buy me a car.”

  And where did he plan to get the money for that, wondered Hamish.

  “So I kept quiet, but when I called on him and I says, ‘Well, where’s the car?’ he told me, ‘What car,’ so I said I would tell everyone and he said I was the town tart and no one would believe me.”

  “So why didn’t you just tell me this?” demanded Hamish. “Why go in for this stupid trick?”

  Kylie and her friends, stared at him in mulish silence.

  “You should charge them,” said Mrs. Wellington.

  “I don’t think there’s any need for that, Mrs. Wellington,” said Hamish. “But these young people are in need of spiritual guidance, so I’ll just be waiting outside while you give them some.”

  Mrs. Wellington snapped open her huge handbag again and drew out a Bible. As Hamish left, he could hear her voice booming away.

  He stood outside the gate and looked up at the burning, bright Sutherland stars.

  Gilchrist had been a philanderer. Therefore it followed, it could have been a crime of passion, perhaps committed by some furious husband or lover. Could Kylie have got some of the local youth to do it for her? Hardly. They would have beat him up and spray-painted the walls of his surgery, that was more their style.

  He thought again about the Smiley brothers. Whether their still had been used to make nicotine poison was something to be considered. After he escorted Mrs. Wellington home, he would drive back to the Smileys’ croft and see if there was any sign of activity.

  After some time, Mrs. Wellington emerged. “I think I have talked some sense into their immoral heads. But how did you guess, Hamish, what she had planned for you?”

  “Just a feeling,” said Hamish.

  After he had followed her to the manse and seen her safely indoors, he went back to the police station and changed into a black sweater and black trousers and then set out on the Braikie road again.

  He parked the Land Rover some way away from the Smileys’ property and continued on foot.

  The night was very quiet. He went along the side of the new extension and stopped at the door. He flicked his pencil torch at the padlock. It was open. He quietly opened the door and let himself into the darkness of the shed. He flashed the torch around. It looked just as it had been before, but mis time he began to search the place inch by inch, pausing every so often to cock his head and listen in case he heard some movement from outside. He had almost given up when he impatiently kicked aside the straw in a pen in the comer. A large new-looking trapdoor was revealed underneath.

  With a smile of triumph, he lifted the heavy hasp and swung the trapdoor open. A flight of wooden steps led downwards. He went quietly down the stairs, stood at the bottom and flashed the light around.

  A huge still occupied one corner, pipes and vats and barrels and a whole bottling plant.

  Got you, thought Hamish.

  His torch flicked over the size of the still. It seemed too huge an apparatus to make a little nicotine poison.

  Satisfied, he backed towards the trapdoor. This could not wait until the morning. He would return to the police station and get a squad over from Strathbane.

  And then just as he had nearly reached the stairs, there was an almighty crash as the trapdoor was slammed down.

  He darted up the stairs. “Stourie! Pete!” he yelled. “Open this door at once!”

  But the only answer was the sound of retreating footsteps.

  He went up the stairs and pushed at the trapdoor above his head but he could not even budge it an inch. He shouted and yelled and banged. There was nothing now but silence.

  Hamish was suddenly frightened. Did the Smileys plan to leave him down here to rot? There was the police Land Rover p
arked down the road, but what if they knew how to hot-wire it to get it started. And no one knew where he was.

  Sarah Hudson banged on the door of the police station and then went round and knocked on Hamish’s bedroom window. She had been unable to sleep. She had felt that she had treated Hamish Macbeth very badly and had decided that as the night was cold but fine that she would go down and wake him up and take matters from there. But there was no reply and the police station had that empty atmosphere any building has when the resident is away from home.

  Feeling dejected, she turned and began to walk along the waterfront, keeping to the shadow of the cottages, for she suddenly wondered what any local might think of her, if she was seen.

  She heard the sound of a vehicle approaching and pressed back into the Currie sisters’ privet hedge.

  The police Land Rover passed her followed by a truck. So Hamish wasn’t alone.

  She waited in the darkness of the hedge. Then the truck, this time with two men in it, came past her.

  She watched it disappear and then headed back to the police station. The Land Rover stood at the side of the building. But there were no lights on in the police station. Surely Hamish wasn’t creeping off to bed in the dark.

  She went to the kitchen door and knocked. Silence.

  She stood mere, her hand to her mouth. What was going on? Was Hamish off on some secret assignment? Had two fellow officers driven the Land Rover back for him?

  She tried the handle of the kitchen door. Locked.

  But someone as easygoing as Hamish was the type of man who probably usually forgot his keys. Had he left one around under a flower pot or in the gutter the way country people often still did?

  She stood on tiptoe and ran her hand along the guttering on the low roof but found nothing. She dropped to her knees and peered around in the darkness and then lifted away the doormat and felt the ground underneath with her fingers.

  Those fingers closed on a key. “Now let’s see if I can find out what’s going on,” she muttered.

  She unlocked the door, went in and shouted, “Hamish!” at the top of her voice. No answer. She searched through the small station, ending up in the office and looking through the papers and notes on the desk for some clue.