Hamish Macbeth 13 (1997) - Death of a Dentist (13 page)

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?”