by M C Beaton
“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 t
heatre 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.
