Hamish Macbeth 13 (1997) - Death of a Dentist (20 page)

“I must warn you that you will be subjected to more questioning,” said Hamish.

He said goodbye to them and then drove as fast as he could to Strathbane. He was anxious to sit in on the questioning of Kylie.

He was lucky in that the detectives sent to get her had not found her at home and had finally run her to earth in the pub and that Blair had radioed them by that time with instructions not to say anything to her. Ignoring a filthy look from Blair, he took a chair in the corner of the interrogation room, just in time to hear Kylie, who was fed on a regular diet of American movies, plead the Fifth Amendment.

“This is Scotland,” growled Blair, “and no’ Chicago.”

“What’s it about?” asked Kylie, her eyes flickering to where Hamish sat in the corner.

“Fred Sutherland has been murdered.”

“What! Thon auld fellow what lived above Gilchrist?” Her face went white under her makeup. “What’s that to do wi’ me?”

“Mr. Sutherland left a message on PC Macbeth’s answering machine tonight, saying that he had found out something about you. When PC Macbeth went to see him, he found he had been brutally murdered.”

“But I was in the pub all evening. Ask anyone. Ask the barman.”

“We will. But we hae a fair idea what it was that Sutherland wanted tae tell Macbeth. You had a fling wi’ Gilchrist.”

He shouted this last accusation in her face.

To Hamish’s surprise, the colour began to come back into Kylie’s cheeks. She gave a resigned little shrug. “Well, you knew about that.” She jerked her head in Hamish’s direction. “He knew about that.”

Blair took her all through her date with Gilchrist, about the promise of the car. He accused her of having got some of the young hoodlums she hung out with to murder the dentist. He ranted and raved, but Kylie remained immovable. She had a cast-iron alibi for the whole evening and that was that Sutherland had probably found out about her going down to Inverness with Gilchrist and that was what he wanted to tell Hamish. Why he had been murdered, she had no idea. It was up to them to find out who did it. In fact as the wearisome questioning continued, Kylie became more relaxed as Blair became more furious and frustrated.

At last she was warned to keep herself in readiness for more questioning and a policewoman was told to escort her back to Braikie.

Hamish went wearily back to Lochdubh to type up his reports—first the one on Kylie and Gilchrist which he had said he had already done, and then of his interview with Mr. Cody.

He finally went to bed and fell asleep and dreamed guilty dreams of a dead Fred Sutherland reaching up from an open grave and crying, “You could have saved me. It’s all your fault, Hamish Macbeth.”

His first thought the next morning was that he should start off at the Old Timers Club that Fred had talked about. He had said he would ask questions there. Perhaps he had a particular friend he had confided in.

His heart was heavy as he took the road to Braikie. He stopped abruptly outside the road leading up to the Smiley brothers’ croft A troll-like figure was repairing the fencing. He got down and walked up, wondering if Blair had gone mad and released the brothers.

But as he drew closer, he saw the man was neither Pete nor Stourie but of similar build and appearance and just as hairy.

“Who are you?” asked Hamish.

The man glowered at him. “I’m Jock Smiley, their cousin. Are you the bastard what put them away?”

“Me and others,” said Hamish, “and they were prepared, to murder me.”

“They neffer harmed a fly in their lives. All they did was make a wee bit o’ whisky which is every Highland-man’s right.”

“Oh, come on. Pull the other one. They had a major business. This was the bootlegging on a grand scale.”

“It’s got nothing to do with me anyway,” said Jock. “Bugger off.”

Hamish walked back to the Land Rover. What a pity there had not been proof that the Smileys had killed Gilchrist. They were the only suspects who had the strength, character and expertise to do it.

The Old Timers Club was in a smart new community centre opened, said a plaque on the front, by Princess Anne in 1991. Marvelling not for the first time at the energy of the Princess Royal, Hamish pushed open the door and went in.

Various people were sitting around, watching television, playing cards, or gossiping.

An elderly woman came forward to meet him. “Can I help you, officer?”

“I would like to talk to someone who knew Fred Sutherland well.”

“Oh, poor Fred. That’s young people for you these days. They would kill a man for twopence.”

Hamish reflected that as far as anyone had been able to judge, nothing had been stolen from Fred’s flat.

“But Mr. Tarn Carmichael was a great friend of Fred’s,” she went on.

“Is he here?”

“No, it’s a wee bit early for Tarn. But I can give you his address. He lives above the bakers just along from the chemists in the main street.”

Hamish thanked her and left. He walked along to the bakers and up a stone staircase at the side of the shop. MR. T. CARMICHAEL was on a neat name plate outside the door of a first floor flat. He knocked and waited. A little gnome of a man answered the door wearing a dressing gown over striped pyjamas. Tufts of grey hair stuck up on his head. His nose was very large and his eyes very small and sharp.

“You’ve come about Fred,” he said heavily. “Come in. You’re Macbeth.”

Hamish followed him into a cosy little living room where a coal fire blazed on the hearth.

They both sat down. “Last night,” began Hamish, “Mr. Sutherland left a message on my answering machine saying he had found out something about Kylie Fraser and then he was murdered. Did he tell you what it was?”

Old Tarn shook his head. “He was that excited, I can tell you that. He fancied himself as Inspector Poirot. Questions, questions, questions. He was so proud you had told him to help.”

“I think I helped to kill him,” said Hamish miserably.

The sharp old eyes looked at his distressed face. “Now, then, laddie,” said Tarn, “don’t be getting yourself in a bind. We’ve all got to go sometime. Fred was so happy and interested and he’d been gloomy and distressed of late. He smoked about eighty a day and I don’t think he would have kept his health much longer. I’ll miss him. There’s not that many men around the club. It’s aye the ladies who outlast us. So that made the pair of us great favourites. An interest in the ladies is something you dinnae lose with age although you can do damn all about it.”

“Was there any particular lady he was friendly with?” asked Hamish.

“Aye, Annie Tame. She’ll be in a sore state over his death.”

“And where does she live?”

“She’s got a wee bit o’ a croft house out near Mrs. Harrison, her what was soft about Gilchrist. It’s called Dunroamin, right on the road. You can’t miss it.”

“I wonder why Mr. Sutherland didn’t tell you what it was he found out,” said Hamish.

“All he said was, “I think I’m on to something, Tarn, but I’ll let you know after I’ve had a word with that policeman.” I’m telling ye, he had the time of his life.”

Hamish stood up. “I only wish he were still alive. I think I’ll have this on my conscience till the end of time.”

Tarn put one old gnarled hand on a large Bible on the table next to him. “You cannae criticise the ways o’ the Lord. If Fred had been meant to live, then he would have lived on. I gather he was hit on the head.”

“Yes, I should think he died instantly.”

“Look at it mis way, a short sharp death was a kinder way for old Fred to go than coughing out his life.”

Hamish thanked him and left. As he drove out on the road to where Annie Taine lived, he thought again about Mrs. Harrison. Perhaps he should see her again. But he went straight to the cottage called Dunroamin first.

Mrs. Annie Taine was a well-preserved seventy-something with hair of an improbable blonde. Her eyes were red with weeping. “Poor Fred,” she said when she saw Hamish. “What a dreadful thing to happen.”

She invited Hamish in. How independent these old people were, thought Hamish, the ones who managed to keep fit enough to manage a home of their own. Everything in her little living room was neat and sparkling.

“I have just come from Mr. Tarn Carmichael,” began Hamish, “and he told me you were a particular friend of Mr. Sutherland. He was interested in the death of Mr. Gilchrist and I gather he was asking questions. He left a message for me last night to say he had found out something about Kylie Fraser. Did he tell you what that something was?”

She shook her head. “He was so excited. I think he dreamed of standing up in court and giving evidence. He asked me to repair a small tear in his best suit for him because he said that would look grand in front of the television cameras. We didn’t take him seriously. I suppose we all seem a bit gaga at times. And men are such little children. Always living in Walter Mitty dreams. Let me think. He did say something.”

Hamish waited.

“He said, “The things middle-aged men get up to wi’ wee lassies, you’d never believe.””

Hamish gave a little sigh. “I suppose he was talking about Gilchrist.”

“You mean Mr. Gilchrist and Kylie. My!”

“He didn’t get anywhere with her but I suppose Fred Sutherland found out and that’s what he wanted to tell me.”

“But don’t you see,” cried Annie, “that must have been the reason Fred was killed! Kylie hangs out with some awful fellows at the pub.”

“There was no reason for Kylie to worry. I already knew, you see, and she knew that.”

She clasped her hands and looked at him beseechingly. “You must find out who did this wicked thing. Mr. Gilchrist was a nasty man and no one really mourns him, but everyone loved Fred.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Hamish, “but if you find out anything or remember anything, please let me know.”

She promised she would. He then went to Mrs. Hamson’s but she was not at home. He then remembered he had asked Mrs. Edwardson of the dress shop to ask about Kylie as well and thought he had better warn her.

She was there as usual in her empty shop among the droopy dresses and china dummies with 1930 faces and improbable wigs.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said in answer to Hamish’s warning. “I haven’t been asking about although I did warn Kylie you’d been asking about her. I’ve got so much to do here, you see.”

“Such as what?”

She bridled. “Serving customers, of course, making alterations, and taking inventory of the stock.”

Hamish’s Highland curiosity almost prompted him to ask her when she had last sold anything at all.

“So you haven’t heard anything that might be of help to me?”

“Not really, and I do not see why I should do your job for you, Officer.”

“I’ll leave you to all your customers,” said Hamish with a flash of Highland malice. “I’ll chust be fighting my way to the door through them all.”

He stood outside the shop, irresolute. Then he saw Jimmy Anderson loping down the street.

“Just the man,” hailed Jimmy. “Let’s go for a dram.”

They walked in silence to The Drouthy Crofter. The bar was empty.

Hamish knew Jimmy had to be fueled up with whisky before he could get any information out of him and so he bought him a double and said, “Let’s sit down over there. What’s the latest. Was anything stolen from Fred Sutherland’s flat?”

“No sign of it. He wasnae the type o’ old boy to keep it under the bed either. How did you get on with Kylie’s boss?”

“Not very far. He kept her on because she was a steady worker and the customers liked her. I see his point. The young people up here like to go on the dole and do a bit of moonlighting. They’re hardly the workers o’ the world. This is the second time someone has gone up that stair to commit murder and no one’s seen anyone. Certainly the lights were out on the stair but there was a streetlight outside.”

“I’ll tell you something about Braikie,” said Jimmy. “Has it ever dawned on you how dead it is, even in the middle o’ the day? What am I talking about? Especially in the middle o’ the day. Down south the supermarkets are open the whole time and some o’ the Asian shops are open round-the-clock, but up here everything closes down as tight as a drum at lunchtime. Then any other wee town in Scotland, you’ll aye see groups o’ people standing about talking. Not here. It’s as bad as that other hellhole, Cnothan. I’ve been watching. About nine in the morning, everyone goes to the shops, get what they want and disappear. By ten o’clock, the place is as dead as anything. Around five o’clock, just before the shops close, they all come out again. The young people spend their day in this pub after they awake about two in the afternoon, and the old people go to that club of theirs. A special bus goes round and collects them at nine in the morning. The middle-aged stay at home and watch the soaps. I’m telling you, Hamish, if I had to live in Braikie, I’d cut my wrists.”

“What’s happened to Kylie now?”

“Back at Strathbane for questioning. She’s got a lawyer now.”

“Who’s she got?”

“Mr. Armstrong-Gulliver.”

Hamish raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That’ll cost her a pretty penny. How can she afford him, and where are her parents and who are her parents?”

“Mother. Single mother in Inverness. On the game. Hasn’t seen Kylie for two years. Broken home. Violence.”

“What do you make of Kylie?”

“Sexy little piece, but as hard as nails. I’ve seen strong men crumble before Blair. But not our Kylie.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair. “If Gilchrist were still alive, I would be suspecting him o’ the murder of Fred to keep the old man’s mouth shut about him and Kylie. There’s something verra obvious we’re missing, Jimmy.”

“The fact is,” said Jimmy, “we’re cluttered up wi’ crime and suspects. There’s that robbery at the hotel and Mrs. Macbean being an auld flame o’ Gilchrist. There’s the Smileys and their illegal still. You said they were going to drop you in a peat bog? Do that to a copper and you’ll murder anyone.”

“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “There’s something about that mad couple that belongs to the Highlands long gone. I don’t think mentally that they’d got as far as the nineteenth century let alone the twentieth.”