“At nine o’clock.”
“And you?”
“The same.”
“And was he in a good mood? No signs of depression or distress?”
“What? Oh, do you mean would he have committed suicide? No. He was the same as ever.”
Hamish crossed to the outside door, opened it and hung a CLOSED sign which had been hanging on the doorknob on the inside of the door on the outside doorknob. “What I need at the moment before the contingent from Strathbane arrives is your appointment book. Who had the first appointment?”
“Someone from Lochdubh.” She pulled forward the book. She seemed unnaturally calm now. “Mr. Archibald Macleod.”
Archie, the fisherman, thought Hamish.
“And how long was he with the dentist?”
“He wasn’t. He didn’t turn up.”
“Who did Mr. Gilchrist see before his coffee break?”
“A Mrs. Harrison.”
“Mrs. Harrison from outside Lochdubh on the Braikie road?”
“Yes, her.”
“But she was spreading scandal that Mr. Gilchrist had sexually interfered with her.”
“She’s a nut case. She was always hanging around him.”
Hamish scratched his head in perplexity.
“Mr. Gilchrist must have known what she had been saying about him. Why on earth was he treating her?”
“She was a good-paying customer.”
“Now, let’s go over your own movements. When you came in at nine o’clock, Mr. Gilchrist was the same as ever. Mr. Macleod did not turn up. The next was Mrs, Harrison. What did she have done?”
“She had a tooth drawn.”
“How long was she with him?”
“Half an hour.”
“And so it was coffee break time. You took him in a cup of coffee?”
“Yes. At ten o’clock. I told him I was stepping out to buy a few things from the shops.”
“Show me where the coffee things are kept.”
She rose and went over to a low cupboard next to the tank of dead fish. “Why are these fish dead?” asked Hamish.
“I don’t know. I followed all the instructions properly but they died a week ago.”
Hamish looked into the depths of the murky tank. “You should have a filter and the tank should have been cleaned.”
“I didn’t want the things,” said Maggie, crouching down by the cupboard. “It was Mr. Gilchrist’s idea. When they died he ordered me to clear out the tank and throw the dead fish away but I told him to do it himself.”
“And he agreed?”
“What does it matter now?” demanded Maggie in that sharp, ugly voice of hers. “He’s lying dead next door.”
“We’ll get back to it later.” Hamish bent down in front of the cupboard. “So this is where you keep the coffee things.” There was a can of instant coffee and three cups and saucers and two spoons, a bowl of lump sugar, and a carton of milk. “I’d better not touch anything here until the forensic team arrives,” he said.
He was itching to go out and ask if anyone had been seen entering the surgery after ten o’clock. But he did not want to leave her alone. “How many lumps of sugar did Mr. Gilchrist take in his coffee?”
“Six lumps.”
“Six! There’s a packet of biscuits at the back,” he said, peering into the depths of the cupboard. “Gypsy Creams. Did he have any of them?”
“He usually had two with his coffee but he said he didn’t want any biscuits this morning.”
“Did he say why?”
Maggie Bane stood up and suddenly began to cry. Hamish got slowly to his feet. “You’d best go and sit down,” he said, although he could not help wondering whether the tears were genuine or not. Maggie’s ugly voice robbed her of femininity and any softness.
He went back into the surgery and stared down at the dead man. If he had been poisoned, and Hamish suspected he might have been, then the killer had waited in the surgery for him to die and then had taken the cup and saucer and washed both. Hamish shook his head. Had he been arranged in the chair after death? Surely a poisoned man would writhe and vomit, stagger to the door for help.
Wait a bit, he thought. He, Hamish, had arrived just after eleven. When he had felt the pulse, the body was still warm.
He went back to the reception. Maggie had stopped crying and had lit up a cigarette.
“You went out to buy some things,” said Hamish, “and yet you didnae get back here until after eleven. A long coffee break. Did you always go out?”
“No, hardly ever.”
“And was the coffee break always an hour?”
“No, half an hour.”
“So what kept you?”
“There wasn’t another patient expected until that woman and her child turned up, Mrs. Albert and wee Jamie.”
“But you gave me the impression when I phoned for an appointment that he was busy all day.”
“It’s business,” she said wearily. “Mr. Gilchrist didn’t like his clients to know that he wasn’t fully booked.”
Police sirens sounded, coming down the street. “This is the lot from headquarters,” said Hamish.
When Blair lumbered in, a heavyset man whose fat face always seemed to be sneering, accompanied by his sidekicks, detectives Anderson and MacNab, and then the forensic team, pathologist and photographer, Hamish hurriedly, outlined what he had found, and then suggested he should go out and try to find out if anyone had seen anything.
“Aye, all right,” growled Blair ungraciously. “We don’t want you getting in the way o’ the professionals.”
Hamish went out onto the landing. The staircase led to an upper floor. A man was leaning over the banister, looking down.
“Whit’s going on?” he asked.
Hamish went up the stairs. “There’s been a bit of an accident. I am a police officer.”
“Aye, I ken you fine. You’re thon Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh.”
He was an elderly man, small, gnarled, wearing the odd mixture of pyjamas, dressing gown and a tweed cloth cap on his head.
“Come ben,” he said as Hamish reached the upper landing. Hamish followed him into a small, neat flat.
“What is your name?”
“Fred Sutherland.”
“Right, Mr. Sutherland, the situation is this. Mr. Gilchrist has been found dead.”
“Murdered?”
“We don’t know yet. Now, did you hear any odd sound from downstairs between ten this morning and eleven?”
“Nothing oot o’ the way. Usual dentist’s noises.”
“But he didnae hae a customer between those hours. What do you mean, dentist’s noises?”
“Just that damn drill. I’ve got the dentures. Had them for years. But I tell you, laddie, every time that drill goes, my false teeth ache.”
“I’ll be back,” said Hamish and shot out the flat and hurtled down the stairs.
The surgery was crammed with police. Hamish shoved his way in and said to the pathologist, “Have you looked at his teeth?”
