“Probably nobody’s been near his records,” said Hamish. “I thought Blair didn’t know one end of a computer from another and was always getting one of the girls to type up his notes for him.”
“Aye, that’s what the super says so nothing’s being done about it this time.”
“What about the burglary at The Scotsman?”
“Dead full stop there as well, although it looks as if Macbean’ll probably get the insurance money anyway.”
“How come?”
“The company that owns the hotel have got hotshot lawyers who are pointing out that a robbery is a robbery: and even if the safe hadn’t had a wooden back, the burglar or burglars obviously knew what they were doing and that the money was there and so would have taken it anyway. Also the company has all their hotels insured with the same insurance company and they don’t want to lose their custom. Well, it’s not as if Macbean keeps the insurance money himself. It’ll go to a prize for the annual bingo night. So it’s not as if he stole the stuff himself and then meant to keep the insurance money.”
“Grant me patience,” moaned Hamish. “He could have stolen the money himself, kept it, reported the robbery, the company gets the money back from the insurance people and Macbean keeps the money he stole.”
“Aye, I suppose so. I wasnae thinking straight.”
“Have you gone thoroughly into Macbean’s background?”
“With a fine-tooth comb.”
“What about Mrs. Macbean, and the barman, Johnny King?”
“All there is tae know about Johnny King, I’ve already told ye.”
“And Mrs. Macbean?”
“Like I told you, born in Leith, bright at school, wouldn’t think it to look at her, would you? Used to be a looker, too. Policeman down there was questioning friends and relatives. Saw a photograph of her, Miss Leith 1970. He said she was a stunner.”
“What did she work at before she met Macbean?”
“Worked as a secretary.”
“Where?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, man. What does it matter? You’ll be saying next, a wee woman like that could murder a man like Gilchrist.”
“I know it seems daft. But Mrs. Macbean went to Gilchrist and got all her teeth removed.”
“So do a lot of people. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Hamish. That murder was committed by brutal men and strong men at that.”
“Someone did it,” said Hamish. “And that someone’s wandering about loose and may kill again. What about Gilchrist’s finances?” asked Hamish, as if he did not know the answer. “Was he well-to-do?”
“No, he was in deep debt. So what are you suggesting? That he went over to The Scotsman and pinched the money?”
“I know it seems daft. But I can’t help feeling there’s a connection somewhere.”
“Don’t worry, Hamish. We’ll get there. Someone’s bound to talk, sooner or later.”
“The thing that worries me,” said Hamish, “is that by that time whoever did the murder could be long gone.”
He rang off.
The evening before he was to meet Mrs. Wellington stretched out before him. He defrosted a salmon steak and grilled it for his dinner. Why did Sarah not want to see him? He could swear she had enjoyed her night with him. Perhaps she was just one of those women who wanted to sleep with a policeman out of curiosity. He should phone Priscilla and tell her about why they had needed her computer, but was reluctant to do so. For one brief glorious night, Sarah had seemed like his passport away from memories of Priscilla and feeling bound to Priscilla.
The wind moaned along the loch. He went back to the office and looked down at the silent phone. He suddenly wanted to call Sarah and ask her what she was playing at.
Then he gave a little shrug. Perhaps tomorrow.
Perhaps he would ask her tomorrow.
♦
Mr. Johnson looked up as Sarah came into the hotel office. “What can I do for you, Miss Hudson?”
“I suppose the gift shop is closed.”
“Yes, it’s after hours. Was there anything you wanted in particular?”
“I wanted to buy one of those mohair travelling rugs.”
Mr. Johnson reached behind him and took a key down from a board on the wall. “I’m not very busy. I’ll take you over to the shop.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Sarah. “And then I would like to borrow one of the hotel cars. I think I have done enough walking for one holiday.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Johnson. “First, let’s get that rug.”
Half an hour later, Angus Macdonald, the seer, heard the sound of a car engine and lumbered over to his cottage window.
Sarah Hudson was climbing out of a car, a mohair travelling rug over one arm.
The seer gave a satisfied little smile and went to open the door.
∨ Death of a Dentist ∧
8
“Yes.” I answered you last night; “No,” this morning, sir, I say. Colours seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.
—Robert Browning
Hamish drove out towards Braikie with Mrs. Wellington following in her Fiat. He hoped he was doing the right thing. If Kylie really had something important to tell him, she might not want to say anything in front of Mrs. Wellington. But he felt in his bones that Kylie had taken exception to his questions about her. Kylie was obviously used to thinking of herself as the glamour queen of Braikie, a sexy big fish in a very little pool. She did not know that her power came from her youth and when youth had gone, it would leave Kylie – like so many other Kylies he had known – a bitter and bad-tempered woman. He stopped at the end of the street where Kylie lived and Mrs. Wellington drew in behind him. He got out of the police Land Rover and walked back to the minister’s wife. “Why are we stopping here?” she asked.
“I don’t want her to get a look at you. Might scare her. Let me walk along first and follow me a few yards behind. Don’t let yourself be seen from the house. I’ll knock at the door. Then when I signal to you, you walk up quickly and go in first.”
“What is this? Are you expecting an armed ambush? It would be just like you to hide behind a woman. I’ve always said – ”
“Oh, shut up,” said Hamish crossly. “I am trying to help this wee lassie and you are the very person to do it. Like I said, I don’t want to frighten her off.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Wellington, straightening another of her formidable felt hats. “But never again tell me to shut up, Hamish Macbeth. I don’t know what has happened to manners these days.”
Hamish sighed. “Now, now, I’m sorry. Come along.”
He walked in front of her past a silent row of villas, most of them divided up into flats.
He turned in at Kylie’s gate and flashed his torch at the name plates. Kylie Fraser was on the ground floor. He rang the bell. A buzzer went and he entered a hall. The door to Kylie’s flat was on the left. He knocked at it.
“Who is it?” came Kylie’s voice.
“Hamish Macbeth.”
“Just walk in. The door isn’t locked.”
Hamish darted to the street door and signalled frantically. The bulk of Mrs. Wellington appeared from around the shelter of a hedge. She hurried up the garden path and joined Hamish in the hall.
Hamish indicated Kylie’s door. “Go straight on in,” he whispered.
Mrs. Wellington squared her shoulders and opened the door and marched in.
Kylie and the minister’s wife stared at each other in horror.
Kylie was wearing nothing but a black lace teddy and scarlet high-heeled shoes.
Her mouth fell open.
“Who are you?” she screeched. “Where’s Hamish?”