‘Yes, it was on the radio this morning.’
‘They’ve got a mole at headquarters. The papers aye get something the moment it happens. Which reminds me. There’s something I’ve got to do.’
Hamish said goodbye to her and drove to the Old Timers Club where he found Tam.
‘I’m going to give you the name o’ a nice reporter on the Inverness Daily,’ said Hamish. ‘Do you have a photo of Fred?’
‘Aye,’ said Tam.
‘Give it to the reporter with a story about Fred Sutherland, detective, about how he broke the case. I think Fred would have liked that.’
‘Oh, my,’ said Tam, ‘he would hae been in seventh heaven.’
‘I’ll write out what I want you to say,’ said Hamish, ‘and bring it back to you.’
Hamish then went back to the dress shop and confronted Mrs Edwardson. ‘Do you know that it was Charles Cody who murdered Mr Gilchrist and Fred Sutherland?’
‘Yes, I heard it on the breakfast news. Who would have thought it? Such a pillar of the community and always a pleasant word for everyone. I mean, when I saw him that morning, I didn’t think anything of it.’
‘What morning?’ shouted Hamish.
‘There’s no need to take that tone of voice with me, officer.’ She flushed a mottled red. ‘If you must know, he passed the shop window on the morning of the murder and I think I heard him go up the stairs.’
‘You stupid auld bitch,’ roared Hamish. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘One doesn’t think. I mean such a respectable man. I mean . . .’
‘Fred Sutherland would have been alive if it hadn’t been for you,’ said Hamish bleakly.
He went out and slammed the door of the shop behind him.
And that, he thought, as he drove off, was what had contrived to make the case so baffling – a mixture of snobbery, amateurism and sheer luck. Cody must have thought the gods were on his side when he wasn’t accused of the murder of Gilchrist. But what passion Kylie must have fired in that respectable middle-aged bosom!
Lochdubh began to prepare for Christmas. Fairy lights were strung from the cottages to the standard lamps on the waterfront. Christmas trees appeared in cottage windows, fake Christmas trees. There were fir trees all over the surrounding hills but the housewives of Lochdubh did not want the business of vacuuming pine needles from their carpets and so there were plastic trees of silver and gold and of an improbable green.
Archie Macleod had a bright green plastic tree in his garden and was decorating it with Christmas lights as Hamish stopped for a chat.
‘Not allowed to have the thing indoors, Archie?’ said Hamish sympathetically.
‘No, herself would neffer allow a Christmas tree but I am having this one this year. A man must take a stand sometime, Hamish.’
Hamish grinned and moved on. He quickened his pace as he passed the Currie sisters’ cottage, not wanting to be waylaid. The Currie sisters alone did not have any Christmas decorations, following the old Scottish Calvinistic belief that Christmas decorations were sinful.
He then went into Patel’s store to see if there was anything he could pick up for Christmas presents for his family in Rogart to save him a journey to Strathbane. The shop smelled of Christmas pudding and spices. He could not see anything suitable and resigned himself to the thought of a trip to Strathbane.
When he walked back to the police station, he found Jimmy Anderson waiting for him.
‘I’ve brought the stuff this time,’ said Jimmy, clutching two carrier bags. Hamish let him into the kitchen. Jimmy put a large turkey on the table and two bottles of whisky. ‘Least I could do, Hamish,’ he said. ‘Blair tried to spoil things for me over Cody’s suicide but the super pointed out I’d done a smart bit of work and couldn’t be blamed for something the desk sergeant was guilty of. Mind you, the super’s pretty sure it was your doing but I’ve got a good success on my record and I’ll hae Blair’s job out from under his fat arse or my name isn’t Jimmy Anderson. I tell you, Blair’s on the wagon these days and he’s like a bear with a sore bum.’
‘Has he joined AA?’
‘Do you mean the Automobile Association or Alcoholics Anonymous?’
‘Alcoholics Anonymous.’
‘Naw, his doctor recommended it but Blair said he wasnae going to be seen dead with a lot of God botherers.’
‘Lucky for you,’ said Hamish.
‘Why?’
‘Och, it is just that the folks who go to AA in Strathbane seem to put down the drink and take up success like ducks to water.’
‘Jings, you’re right. Archie Pattock, the town drunk, him what used to be in rags and vomit, used to go about saying he was an electronics engineer, well the AA’s got hold o’ him and now he’s working for one o’ those big places over in Tayside and it turns out he was an electronics engineer right enough. Got a big car. Oh, my, I just pray Blair never gets to one o’ their damn meetings. And talking of AA, what about us opening one o’ these bottles?’
After Jimmy had left, Hamish went out again. A blazing sunset was going down over the hills and mountains. The loch was pink and gold. The fairy lights twinkled on along the length of the waterfront.
He stood breathing in the evening air scented with pine and felt at peace with the world.
And then as he looked along the waterfront, he saw Priscilla standing there, looking out at the loch. She was wearing a Christmas-red woollen coat and a tartan scarf. The lights shone on the golden bell of her hair.
Then she turned as if aware of his presence.
For one long moment, Hamish Macbeth and Priscilla Halburton-Smythe stared at each other down the length of the waterfront. From the church, children’s voices were singing ‘Come All Ye Faithful’.
Then Priscilla turned on her heel and walked away, got into her car and drove off.
Hamish Macbeth was not to be forgiven.
If you enjoyed Death of a Dentist, read on for the first chapter of the next book in the Hamish Macbeth series . . .
DEATH of a
SCRIPTWRITER
Chapter One
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
– Edward Fitzgerald
Patricia Martyn-Broyd had not written a detective story in years.
In her early seventies she had retired to the Highlands of Sutherland on the east side of the village of Cnothan, to a trim, low, whitewashed croft house. She had now been living on the outskirts of Cnothan for five years. She had hoped that the wild isolation of her surroundings would inspire her to write again, but every time she sat down in front of her battered old Remington typewriter, she would feel a great weight of failure settling on her shoulders and the words would not come. For the past fifteen years her books had been out of print. Yet her last detective story, published in 1965, The Case of the Rising Tides, featuring her Scottish aristocrat detective, Lady Harriet Vere, had been a modest success.
Patricia looked remarkable for her age. She had a head of plentiful snow-white hair, a thin, muscular, upright figure and square ‘hunting’ shoulders. Her nose was thin and curved like a beak, her pale blue eyes hooded by heavy lids. She was the daughter of a land agent, dead many years now, as was her mother. Patricia had been head girl in her youth at a school more famed for the titles of its pupils than for educational standards. A crush on her English teacher had introduced her to reading detective stories, and then, after an unsuccessful spell on the London scene as a debutante, she had decided to write.
She had never forgotten the thrill of having her first book published. Her plots were complicated and thoroughly researched. She was fond of plots involving railway timetables, the times of high and low tides and London bus routes. Her main character, Lady Harriet Vere, had grown up, as Patricia herself had grown up, in a world where everyone knew their place in society and what was due to their betters. Light relief was provided by a cast of humorous servants or sinister bu
tlers and gardeners and clod-hopping policemen who were always left open-mouthed by the expertise of Lady Harriet.
But as the world changed, Patricia stayed the same, as did her characters. Sales of her books dwindled. She had a private income from a family trust and did not need to find other work. She had at last persuaded herself that a move to the far north of Scotland would inspire her. Although her character, Lady Harriet, was Scottish, Patricia had never been to Scotland before her move north. There was a stubborn streak in Patricia which would not let her admit to herself that she had made a terrible mistake and added the burden of loneliness to the burden of failure.
She had recently returned from a holiday in Athens. The weather in Greece had been bright and sunny and, in the evenings, the streets of Athens were well lit and bustling with people. But all too soon it was back to London, to catch the plane to Inverness. The plane had descended through banks of cloud into Heathrow. How dark and dismal everything had seemed. How cold and rainy. How grim and sour the people. Then the flight to Inverness and down into more rain and darkness, and then the long drive home.
The county of Sutherland is the largest, most under-populated area in western Europe, with its lochs and mountains and vast expanses of bleak moorland. As she had unlocked the door of her cottage, the wind had been howling around the low building with a mad, keening sound. A brief thought of suicide flickered through Patricia’s weary brain, to be quickly dismissed. Such as the Martyn-Broyds did not commit suicide.
Patricia attended the local Church of Scotland, although she was an Anglican, for the nearest Episcopal church involved too long and weary a drive. She could have made friends, but the ones she considered of her own caste did not want to know her, and the ones who did, she considered beneath her. She was not particularly cold or snobbish, and she was lonely, but it was the way she had been brought up. She did have acquaintances in the village, the local people she stopped to chat to, but no close friends at all.
A week after her return from Athens, she still felt restless and so decided to treat herself to dinner at the Tommel Castle Hotel. The hotel had been the home of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, who had turned it into a successful hotel after he had fallen on hard times. Although a hotel, it still had all the air of a comfortable Highland country house, and Patricia felt at home there.
She began to feel better as she sat down in the dining room and looked around. The month was June, and after a grim winter and icy spring, when Siberian winds had blown from the east, bringing blizzards and chilblains, the wind had suddenly shifted to the west, carrying the foretaste of better weather to come.
The dining room was quite full. A noisy fishing party dominated the main table in the centre of the room, Patricia’s kind of people but oblivious to one lonely spinster in the corner.
Then waitresses came in and began to bustle about, putting the remaining tables together to form one large one. A coach party entered, noisy and flushed, and took places round this table. Patricia frowned. Who would have thought that the Tommel Castle Hotel would allow a coach party?
The fact was that the colonel was away with his wife visiting friends, his daughter was in London and the manager, Mr Johnson, had decided that a party of middle-aged tourists could do no harm.
Patricia had just finished her soup and was wishing she had the courage to cancel the rest of her order when a tall, lanky man came into the dining room and stood looking around. He had flaming red hair and intelligent hazel eyes. His suit was well cut and he wore a snowy-white shirt and silk tie. But with it, he was wearing a large pair of ugly boots.
The maître d’ went up to him and Patricia heard him say sourly, ‘We have no tables left, Macbeth.’
‘Mr Macbeth to you, Jenkins,’ she heard the man with the red hair say in a light, amused voice. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a table soon.’
They had both moved into the dining room and were standing beside Patricia’s table.
‘No, not for a long time,’ said the maître d’.
The man called Macbeth suddenly saw Patricia watching him and gave her a smile.
Patricia could not quite believe the sound of her own voice, but she heard herself saying stiffly, ‘The gentleman can share my table if he wishes.’
‘That will not be necessary . . .’ began Jenkins, but the red-haired man promptly sat down opposite her.
‘Run along, Jenkins,’ he said, ‘and glare at someone else.’
Hamish Macbeth turned to Patricia. ‘This is verra kind of you.’
She regretted her invitation and wished she had brought a book with her.
‘I am Hamish Macbeth,’ he said with another of those charming smiles. ‘I am the village policeman in Lochdubh, and you are Miss Patricia Martyn-Broyd and you live over by Cnothan.’
‘I did not think we had met,’ said Patricia.
‘We haven’t,’ said Hamish. ‘But you know what the Highlands are like. Everyone knows everyone else. I heard you had been away.’ He took the menu from a hovering waitress as he spoke. He scanned it quickly. ‘I’ll have the soup and the trout,’ he said.
‘I have just come back from Greece,’ said Patricia. ‘Do you know Greece?’
‘I don’t know much of anywhere except the Highlands of Scotland,’ said Hamish ruefully. ‘I’m an armchair traveller. I am surprised you stayed up here so long.’
‘Why?’ asked Patricia.
‘It can be a lonely place. Usually the English we get are drunks or romantics, and I would say you do not fall into either category.’
‘Hardly,’ said Patricia with a fluting, humorless laugh. ‘I am a writer.’
‘Of what?’
‘Detective stories.’
‘I read a lot o’ those,’ said Hamish. ‘You must write under another name.’
‘I regret to say my books have been out of print for some time.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Hamish awkwardly. ‘I am sure you will find the inspiration up here.’
‘I hardly think the county of Sutherland is overrun with criminals.’
‘I meant, it’s a funny landscape which can produce the weird fancies.’
‘My last detective story was set in Scotland, but the others, mainly in the south, were village mysteries.’
‘Like Agatha Christie?’
‘A little better crafted, if I may say so,’ said Patricia, again with that irritating laugh of hers.
‘Then it iss the miracle that yours are out o’ print,’ said Hamish maliciously.
‘It is not my fault. I had a useless publisher, who would not promote them properly, and a worse agent,’ snapped Patricia, and then, to her horror, she began to cry.
‘There, now,’ said Hamish. ‘Don’t greet. You havenae settled down after all the travel, and it’s been a grim winter. I would like to read one o’ your books.’
Patricia produced a small, white, starched handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
‘I think I am too out of touch with the modern world to write a detective story again,’ she said, all the time wondering why she was confiding in a village policeman.
‘I could help you wi’ a wee bit of information, if you like.’
‘That’s very kind of you. But I do not think it would do much good. I’ve tried to write another one with a Highland background, but my mind seems set in England.’
‘Perhaps you should get to know a few of us better,’ said Hamish, ‘and then it might come easier.’
‘Perhaps,’ she echoed sadly.
‘Although, if I may point out,’ said Hamish cautiously, ‘Cnothan is not the friendliest village in the place. In fact, I would say it’s a sour little dump.’
She gave him a watery smile. ‘Not like Lochdubh?’
‘There’s nowhere like Lochdubh,’ said Hamish stoutly. ‘Maybe if you stopped writing for a bit, it would all come back. Do you fish?’
‘I still have my rods, but I haven’t done any fishing for a long time.’
Somew
here in Hamish’s head a warning bell was beginning to clang, telling him to stay away from lame ducks in general and this woman in particular, who had been locally damned as an ‘awfy auld snob’. But he said, ‘I hae the day off tomorrow. I’ll take ye out on the Anstey if ye want.’
This met with Patricia’s ideas of what was right and fitting. Fishing on a Scottish river with a policeman as ghillie was socially acceptable to her mind.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I will need a permit.’
Hamish shifted uneasily. ‘Oh, I’ll see to that. Pick you up at nine in the morning.’
They chatted pleasantly through the rest of the meal, Hamish amiably but Patricia betraying with each further sentence the awful rigidity of her attitudes.
They separated at the end of the meal, each with different thoughts; Hamish regretting his generous gesture and Patricia feeling quite elated. Hamish Macbeth was really quite intelligent, she thought. It was a shame he was only a village policeman. Perhaps with her help he could make something of himself. And so Patricia drove happily homewards, not knowing she had joined the long list of women who thought they could change one contented, unambitious Highland constable.
She felt the glorious blustery morning that dawned was a good omen. But nine o’clock came and went and she began to feel panicky. If Hamish did not come, then it meant slipping back into that depressing isolation which had become her way of life.
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