Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

McLeods.’
    ‘You’ve spoken to him?’
    ‘Phoned him last night around midnight. Said he couldn’t speak, his wife was asleep. I pissed him off a touch. But he agreed to meet. If anyone can remember what went on back then, he can.’
    Stan’s bacon roll was served, and Gilchrist poured two cups of tea, recalling what he could of Douglas Ewart MD.
    Dougie once worked with Bert Mackie as assistant police pathologist in Ninewells, but left in the early eighties to set up a private practice in Cupar. Apparently the sight of one too many dead bodies forced him to change career, and as coincidence would have it, it had been the bodies of the Bingham children that caused him to move. Though he had no children of his own, he had found the task of performing a post-mortem on their mutilated and decomposed bodies too much to stomach. Two weeks rotting in the stinking mud of an abandoned well would do that to human flesh.
    As far as Gilchrist knew, Dougie was a private man who went through life with the minimum of fuss, never ruffling feathers, doing his job to the best of his ability. He was not a high-flyer, more of a plodder, and someone you could trust.
    ‘He said he had a break in his morning schedule at nine thirty, which gives us . . .’ Stan looked at his wristwatch, ‘. . . ten minutes to finish breakfast.’
    They arrived at Ewart’s surgery five minutes late. The building looked drab and uninviting, a box extension on to an old stone complex. The receptionist led them down a hallway that ended at a white door. She knocked, pushed the door and stepped to the side.
    Ewart crossed the room with the single-mindedness of a lion chasing a gazelle. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, and shook Gilchrist’s hand. ‘Good to see you again, Andy.’
    Gilchrist introduced Stan, and Ewart grabbed his hand.
    Ewart’s office was small and square and uninteresting. Two windows, framed by white venetian blinds, kept out the sunlight. Glossy prints of various parts of the human anatomy hung in a haphazard arrangement on walls that could have used a coat of paint. Ewart appeared to be a man who wasted no money on luxuries, which matched Gilchrist’s earlier memories of him. Ewart drifted behind his desk and gestured at the seats.
    ‘Right,’ Ewart began. ‘How can I help?’
    ‘Apologies for calling so late last night,’ said Stan. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
    ‘Afraid Millie was not a little displeased, I have to say. Beauty sleep, and all that.’
    Gilchrist thought he caught a hint of annoyance in Ewart’s eyes, nothing much, but enough to pique his interest. ‘Your wife?’
    ‘Second wife. Nothing like Megs. Different animal altogether. Day and night.’
    Gilchrist nodded. ‘Of course.’
    ‘No problem. I’ll prune the bushes at the weekend. Keep her sweet.’ Ewart rattled out a laugh. ‘Millie loves the garden. Keeps me on my toes.’ He wrung his hands. ‘So, what’s this all about?’
    ‘We want to ask you about Hamish McLeod’s funeral,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Back in February ’69. I believe you were there.’
    Ewart’s gaze settled on something over Gilchrist’s shoulder for a long moment, then returned. ‘What about it?’
    ‘How well did you know Hamish?’
    Ewart frowned, shook his head. ‘Hardly at all. He was a friend of my parents. Worked in the Post Office with my father. For some reason, neither he nor my mother wanted to go to his funeral.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘No idea. Never asked. Just did as I was told. Went along to represent the family.’
    ‘Your parents still alive?’ Stan asked.
    ‘No. Both gone over ten years now. Within a year of each other.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gilchrist.
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Did you know Mrs McLeod died three days ago?’
    ‘No. I didn’t.’
    ‘Can you remember who was at Hamish’s funeral?’
    ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘They were mostly friends of my parents, and older than me. I didn’t want to go. But duty called. It was a miserable affair. And a miserable day, too. Dull and raining. Umbrellas up. I can still see Mrs McLeod standing at the graveside. She seemed strong, in control of her emotions. Not crying. And her daughter, too. She was there.’
    Gilchrist paused. ‘The McLeods didn’t have any children.’
    ‘They didn’t?’ Ewart frowned. ‘Well, that goes to show how well I knew them.’
    ‘Why did you think she was her daughter?’
    ‘She had dark hair, dark eyes and looked Italian. So naturally I assumed she