Death of a Dentist

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘What are you having?’ he asked when they entered the smoky, dreary barroom of The Drouthy Crofter.

  ‘Same as you. Straight whisky. And make it a couple of doubles.’

  He went to the bar, collected their order and carried the glasses over to a corner table where Kylie was already seated. She shrugged off her coat. The yellow blouse had a deep V revealing that Kylie had the sort of cleavage only usually seen in the magazines on the top shelf of the newsagents. He dragged his gaze from it and raised his glass. ‘Let’s hope this works.’

  And it did, almost immediately. He blinked at her in relief. ‘Do you always join customers for a drink?’

  She giggled. ‘Only the sexy ones.’

  He was not surprised that despite the fact that the Smileys’ still was obviously pretty well known that no one had come forward to report it. There are some things in the Highlands which would be regarded as crimes anywhere else in Britain that people here regarded as quite respectable. Poaching, provided it was the occasional salmon or deer, was not regarded as illegal. It was every Highlander’s birthright to take a deer from the hill and a fish from the river, no matter who owned the land. And a whisky still was regarded as about as innocent as making homemade cakes.

  But as he surveyed sexy little Kylie, he began to wonder if Gilchrist had ever made a play for her. How Gilchrist had been able to attract such a beautiful young girl as Maggie Bane was beyond him. But he had, and so it followed that other women might have found him attractive – young women.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of the dentist,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, him.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t understand anyone going to that man. I went there once. I knew all I needed was a simple little filling, but he says it had to come out. No thank you, I said, and got the hell out of there.’

  ‘So that was the only time you saw him?’

  ‘You’re looking at me as if I’m the first murderer. Why on earth suspect me?’

  ‘I don’t suspect you. You’re a very pretty girl and Gilchrist liked the ladies.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with him.’ But that sexy aura had disappeared. It had been turned off somewhere deep inside her. Her eyes roved restlessly around the bar. ‘Headache better?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I see some of my friends over there.’

  And without waiting for his reply, she got to her feet and went over to join a group of men at the bar.

  I’d better ask around about that one, thought Hamish. She was all right until I started asking about Gilchrist.

  He left the pub and walked back towards where he had parked the Land Rover. He saw he was passing a fishmongers and stopped. ‘Special Offer. Fresh Salmon.’ The sign in the window caught his eye. Salmon was selling for £1.80 a pound. He decided it would be worth buying one for the seer. He was sure the salmon was farmed rather than wild, but he was equally sure that old Angus would not be able to tell the difference.

  He went in and bought a ten-pound salmon, big enough for that old leech, he thought crossly.

  He took the salmon back to the police station and threw away the fishmonger’s bag, wrapped it in kitchen foil, and drove this time up to the seer’s.

  He laid the salmon on the table in front of the seer. Angus studied it curiously after he had taken it out of its foil wrapper. Then he went off without a word into the nether regions and came back carrying a small stone on the end of a cord.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Hamish. ‘Your pet rock?’

  ‘Aye jeering at things you do not understand, Hamish. This iss my crystal.’

  He waved it over the salmon. The ‘crystal’ swung round over the fish like a pendulum.

  ‘This iss the farm salmon, Hamish.’

  ‘It is not!’

  ‘Aye, the pendulum sees it all. You forgot last night and it’s cauld the day and so you thought you could pass a shop-bought fish on poor Angus.’

  ‘Havers.’ Hamish wrapped up the salmon. ‘I’ll have it myself.’

  ‘If I were you, Hamish Macbeth, I waud be thinking of getting Angus the real thing tonight or something bad will happen to ye.’

  ‘You mean you’ll put a curse on me?’

  ‘Don’t sneer. There are mair things in heaven and earth . . .’

  ‘Horatio.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Never mind. I’m out of here.’

  Hamish drove off. What could the old phoney do to him? He was damned if he was going to take his rod out on the river in this weather.

  The wind had dropped and large Christmas card flakes of snow were spiralling down from a leaden sky. He went home and made himself a scrap lunch, that is, he ate tuna out of the can with a fork while leaning against the kitchen counter. Then he set out for Braikie again. He nodded to the policeman who stood on guard outside the dentist’s building and then went on up the stairs to the top landing and knocked on Fred Sutherland’s door.

  The old man answered his knock promptly and said, ‘You better come in.’

  Hamish followed him in and sat down. ‘I want to ask you about the murder.’

  ‘My, my. That was a thing. Poisoned him and drilled all his teeth. My, my.’

  ‘How did you hear all that? The method of killing was not in the papers.’

  ‘This is a small town. Everyone gets to hear everything.’

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

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

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

  ‘He was old enough to hae been her faither.’

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

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

  ‘Could you let me know if you hear anything?’

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

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sutherland. And I would be grateful if you would be discreet about it.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What do you know of Kylie Fraser?’

  ‘The tarty little piece of baggage that works for the chemist?’

  ‘Her, yes.’

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

  ‘Would Gilchrist have made a pass at her?’

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

  ‘If you hear anything let me know.’

  ‘I most certainly will.’

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

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Ever get drunk and disorderly?’

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

  ‘Let me know if you hear anything.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Just what I said.’ Mrs Edwardson stalked off, her back rigid.

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

  ‘Spiteful old twat,’ said Kylie viciously. ‘I could do with a drink.’

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

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

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

  ‘What is this?’ demanded Kylie angrily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Mrs Macbean walked over. ‘Were you looking at me?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘My husband’s the same,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t wear a wedding ring.’

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

  ‘Go on. Tell me.’ Mrs Macbean now looked positively friendly.

  ‘He beat me up.’

  ‘And you took it?’

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

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

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

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

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

  Sarah gazed at her in well-feigned admiration.

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

  ‘No!’

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

  ‘How? Gelignite?’

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

  ‘But he’ll get the insurance.’

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

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

  ‘That’s it. That’s what he did.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Teuchters?’

  ‘Highlanders. Sly, malicious and stupid. I hate the bastards.’

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

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

  ‘You are a philosopher.’

  ‘I’ve got my head screwed on.’

  ‘I did hear about a murder up here. Some dentist.’

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

  ‘Got to go,’ she muttered.

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

  The barman approached her. ‘Would you be wanting anything else?’ he asked truculently.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Right.’ He picked up her unfinished drink and walked off with the glass.

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

  Chapter Six

  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.’