Death of a Dustman

∨ Death of a Dustman ∧

3

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

—Book of Common Prayer

The next day dawned, still and pale and milky, all colour bleached out of the landscape. The striped police tape hung outside the Currie sisters’ cottage. Little groups of villagers stood outside, as motionless as the heavy air.

Clarry stood on duty, his usually cherubic face heavy and sad. The party of last night seemed light years away. Hamish had sent him to break the news to Martha. She had shrunk from him, her eyes dilated with shock. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, alerted by the news which had spread like wildfire through Lochdubh, had arrived to sit with Martha.

Clarry would have liked to talk, to banish the fright he saw in Martha’s eyes which seemed to stem from something other than the horror at learning of her husband’s death. He had an uneasy feeling that Martha, upset by the news, might think that he, Clarry, had bumped off her husband. Or was it something else? Could she have done it? He shook his head like a bull plagued by flies. That was ridiculous. He wondered how Hamish was getting on along at the police station. Detective Chief Inspector Blair had arrived.

♦

Blair was the bane of Hamish’s life. He was a thick, vulgar, heavyset Glaswegian who loathed Hamish and did not bother to hide his loathing.

He was sitting behind the desk in the police station office, flanked by his usual sidekicks, Detectives Anderson and Macnab.

“Now, from a preliminary questioning of the folks around here,” began Blair, “there was one hell of a party going on in this station last night.”

“This is also my home as well as a police station. I am allowed to throw a party,” said Hamish defensively.

“But it wasnae your party, was it?” demanded Blair with a triumphant leer. “It was that fat, useless copper o’ yours. And who is he boogie-ing with? None other than Martha Macleod. Furthermore, Mrs. Macleod’s neighbours heard Clarry Graham shouting at Fergus that he would kill him.”

“A lot of people in the village have been overheard saying they would kill Fergus. It means nothing,” said Hamish.

“We’ll see aboot that. As far as I am concerned, Graham is a suspect so you get along there and send him along here.”

Hamish rose to his feet. “All right.”

“All right, what?”

“All right, sir,” said Hamish wearily. He craved sleep. He had been up all night.

He went out and walked along to the Curries’ cottage. “Blair wants to see you,” he said to Clarry.

“Why?”

“At the moment, you’re suspect number one.”

“That’s daft!”

“Maybe. But run along and get it over with.”

Clarry walked off just as the police pathologist, Mr. Sinclair, appeared round the side of the house. “What’s the verdict?” asked Hamish.

“The body’s being moved to Strathbane for further examination,” said Sinclair. “He was struck a smashing blow on the back of the head with something like a hammer and put in the bin.”

“When?”

“Can’t tell at the moment. I would hazard a guess that it was maybe a couple of days ago.”

“Could a woman have done it?”

“Easily. But although the man was small and slight, it would take a powerful woman to get him into that bin without tipping it over.”

They stood aside as two men in white overalls carried out Fergus in a body bag laid on a stretcher. They looked impatiently up and down the waterfront and then one put his fingers in his mouth and sent out a shrill whistle. An ambulance came cruising slowly up.

“Sorry. We were just getting a cup of coffee,” said the ambulance man. He jumped down with his partner and opened the back doors. Fergus’s body was lifted inside.

Hamish felt a pang of pity for Fergus. He had been an awful man, but the sheer indifference in the way his body was shovelled in and borne off went to his heart.

♦

In all his easygoing life, Clarry had never before thought of leaving the police force. But he had never been one of Blair’s targets before. As Blair hammered into him over a sheaf of reports about the party and the boat expedition, Clarry could feel a rare rage mounting in him.

When Blair paused for breath, Clarry said, “Are you charging me with anything, sir?”

“Not yet.”

“This is police harassment,” said Clarry.

“Whit! You’re a policeman yourself.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“It was my day off when I entertained Mrs. Macleod and the children,” said Clarry, hoping Hamish would back him up on that one. “I can do what I like with my free time. It’s a coincidence that the poor woman’s man got murdered.”

“Oh, aye?” sneered Blair. “And it’s just a coincidence, is it, that you were heard saying you’d kill the man?”

“More than me said that,” said Clarry, defiant. “Fergus had been beating that wife of his. It was enough to make the blood of any decent man boil.”

“Did she make an official complaint?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it was none of your business. For all you know, she might have deserved a beating. You Highlanders are all crazy,” said Blair, who was a Glaswegian.

“That remark is offensive,” said Clarry, suddenly calm. “I’m going to report that remark to the Race Relations Board. Discrimination against Highlanders. Racial slurs. And while I’m at it, sir, I’ll tell them that you think a woman deserves a beating.”

“You do that, and I’ll have ye out o’ the force.”

“And by the time I’ve finished with you, I’ll have you out of the force.”

Blair stared at Clarry’s now impassive face in baffled fury. He had no doubt the Race Relations Board would listen to this idiot’s complaint. Recently, along with dealing with cases brought by Pakistanis, Indians, Africans and Jamaicans, they had been handling well-publicised cases from English residents in Scotland complaining about racial discrimination. And if that remark of his about Martha Macleod deserving a beating should come out…

“Look, laddie, maybe I was a bit hasty. You go and question some of the folk and find out if anyone saw anything.”

Clarry stalked off. Blair mopped his brow. He turned and caught the grin on Jimmy Anderson’s face. “You!” he howled. “Get up to that Mrs. Macleod and question her.”

♦

Jimmy Anderson stopped on his way to talk to Hamish and gleefully told Hamish about Clarry’s confrontation with Blair. “Good for old Clarry,” said Hamish, amazed. “Where are you off to?”

“To interview the widow.”

“Let me know what you get, Jimmy.”

“Aye, well, get some whisky in. I don’t think Blair will be hanging around much longer.”

“He hasn’t met Mrs. Fleming yet, has he?”

“Who’s she?”

“The environment woman from Strathbane who put Fergus in a stupid green uniform and put all these bins about the place. She’ll be here any moment, if I’m not mistaken.”

“See you later.”

Jimmy walked off. Hamish took out his mobile phone and rang Callum McSween. “Listen, Callum,” he said, “have you heard the dustman’s got himself murdered?”

“Aye, it was on the radio this morning.”

“Like the job?”

“I could do wi’ the money, Hamish, and that’s a fact.”

“I’ll be sending a Mrs. Fleming from Strathbane Council along to see you. She’s the one who’ll be doing the hiring. I think the silly biddy wants to get herself in the newspapers by making Lochdubh an environment friendly place, so all you have to do is go along with it. Tell her what a great idea all those damn bins are.”

“I won’t have to wear that green uniform, will I?”

“I can’t see them running to the expense of another horror. I’ll make sure Fergus is buried in it.”

“Grand, Hamish.”

“I can’t promise. Oh, here she comes.”

Hamish rang off and tucked the phone in his pocket just as Mrs. Fleming drove up.

“I heard the news,” she said, lowering the car window. “This is dreadful.”

“That it is,” said Hamish seriously. “And garbage all over the village. You’ll need to get another man on it right away.”

“But who?”

“There’s a crofter about a mile along the Braikie Road, Callum McSween, good worker, hot on the environment. He could start today.”

“I’ll go directly.” Hamish gave her directions. Then she asked, “Who is in charge of the case?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Blair. You’ll find him at the police station. But I’d get to Callum first.”

♦

Callum McSween was dressed in a crisp white shirt and flannels with knife-edged creases when Mrs. Fleming’s car drove up. His wife, Mary, had quickly cleaned the living room and was in the kitchen making a pot of fresh coffee.

Callum answered the door to Mrs. Fleming. He was a very tall, well-built man with a craggy face permanently tanned with working outdoors.

“I am Mrs. Fleming from Strathbane Council,” she said. “Do you mind if I come in? I heard you might be prepared to take on the job of environment officer for Lochdubh.”

Callum, affecting surprise, invited her in.

His smiling wife came into the croft house living room bearing a tray with a pot of coffee, cups and homemade shortbread.

“I first must ask you if you understand what I have been trying to do in Lochdubh,” began Mrs. Fleming when she had been served with coffee.

“I think you are out to make an example of Lochdubh,” said Callum. He leaned forward, his face serious. “If it works, you can get it into the newspapers and on television as an example to other villages. And I can tell you, I am all for that. There’s a real pleasure in seeing a clean place.”

Mrs. Fleming smiled at him. She mentally judged that he would look well on television. “There would be the matter of a uniform, Mr. McSween.”

Callum repressed a shudder. “As to that, missus, I haff been thinking that maybe white overalls would be fine. You must want to save a bit o’ money. I mean, poor Fergus’s outfit must have cost a mint. But the white overalls would look just grand.”

“I’ll see to it. Ye-es, I can see white overalls.” In Mrs. Fleming’s busy mind, the cameras rolled. She raised her hands and made a frame of them and studied Callum through it. “When would you be able to start?”

“Right away.”

“Good. I will get that policeman in Lochdubh to give you the keys to the truck. As to salary…”

She named a figure which made Callum’s eyes blink rapidly. He would never have dreamed a dustman could earn that much. He had an appointment with the bank manager on the following morning. The bank was trying to call in his loan, and he had been terrified of losing his croft house.

They amicably discussed the details. Then Mrs. Fleming took her leave. Mary McSween, who had heard the size of the salary, just restrained herself from dropping a curtsy as Mrs. Fleming majestically swept out.

Callum dialled 1-4-7-1 and then dialled 3 and got connected to Hamish’s mobile phone. “I’ve got the job, Hamish,” he shouted.

Hamish held the phone away from his ear. “You didnae need to phone, Callum, wi’ a voice like that. You could have just stood outside your front door.”

“It’s great, Hamish. I tell you, man, if there’s anything I can ever do for you, let me know.”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open and let me know if you hear anything interesting.”

“I’ll do that. Oh, I need the keys to the truck.”

“I’ll go get them. Come by the station this afternoon.”

Hamish decided there was not much point anyway standing outside the Curries’ cottage any longer. The body had gone. The forensic team had finished their work and had left, taking the bin with them wrapped up in plastic.

Hamish walked up towards Martha’s cottage. He met Jimmy Anderson on the road. “How did you get on?”

“Nothing much,” said Jimmy. “Mrs. Macleod began to cry and that big tweedy woman, Mrs Wellington, sent me off with a flea in my ear. What sort of woman wears tweed in this weather?”

“Mrs. Wellington.”

“So what are you up to?”

“Going to collect the keys to the garbage truck. Forensic don’t want it, do they?”

“No, the neighbours say the truck was never moved from the outside of the house.”

“Fine. Call by later when you get rid of Blair.”

“He doesn’t want this case, Hamish. He was working on some drugs bust, and he wants to get back to it.”

“Let’s hope he does before he starts arresting everyone in the village.”

Hamish walked on. He saw Mrs. Wellington walking towards him before she saw him. He leapt over a hedge and crouched behind it until he heard her go past. Then he leapt nimbly back over and walked to Martha’s cottage. Martha was keeping to the old tradition. All the curtains in the cottage were closed tight.

Hamish walked up the path and knocked on the door. There was a silence. He waited and knocked again. At last he tried the handle and opened the door and called, “Mrs. Macleod.”

“Go away!” shouted a boy’s voice.

“It’s me, Hamish Macbeth.”

Johnny appeared. “Oh, it is yourself, Mr. Macbeth. The reporters have been around.”

“Is your mother in?”

“Come ben.”

Hamish walked into the living room. Martha was sitting there, dull-eyed, the baby on her lap.

Hamish removed his cap and sat down opposite her. Johnny joined the other children on the sofa. Their faces were white in the gloom.

“I know you’ve got the curtains drawn as a mark of respect,” said Hamish gently. “But it’s not good for the children. Do you mind if I let some daylight in here?”

“Do what you like,” whispered Martha.

Hamish jerked back the curtains.

Then he took five pounds out of his wallet and gave it to Johnny. “Take yourselves down to Patel’s and get yourself some ice cream. Put the bairn in the pram and take it with you. It’s no good to be locked up in here. Don’t speak to any reporters.”

Johnny looked at his mother, who nodded. Johnny took the baby from her and the children filed out of the room.

Hamish studied Martha’s white face and wide frightened eyes. He said, “You must be feeling a great deal of guilt.”

“I didn’t do it!”

“But you wanted him gone, but not in this way. You’re relieved and ashamed of being relieved. You’re frightened that whoever did this might come for you. That won’t happen. It was Fergus who caused bad blood in this village, not you. You’re worried about Clarry. Clarry when he wasn’t with me was either with you or in full view of the village. Can you remember exactly what happened the evening Fergus disappeared?”

“He got a phone call and became very excited,” said Martha.

“Good, that’s a start. We’ll check your phone records. What time would that be?”

“About six o’clock. He asked me to go and get him some whisky. I couldn’t help it. I said, what about your job? He told me to shut my mouth. He said there was more to life than being a dustman. I went down to Patel’s. I met Clarry and talked a bit and then went back with the whisky. He had a couple of drams and then he said he was going out. He put the whisky bottle in his pocket. He must have been going somewhere in the village because he didn’t take the truck.”

“Aye, but when your man had the drink taken, he’d often wander up on the moors, so why would you think it was somewhere in the village?”

“I think he must have been going to meet someone.”

“Why?”

“He put a clean white shirt on and a tie and his jacket. He liked his white shirts to be very white. That’s why I thought someone might have seen him, even in the gloaming.”

“So when he didn’t return, weren’t you worried about him?”

“No. Any time before he had started to drink, he would disappear for a few days.”

“But you thought he had gone to see someone.”

Martha burst out with, “Don’t you see? I was just so damn glad he had gone, I didn’t think. I lived for his disappearances.”

“Did he often get phone calls?”

“No. He wasn’t popular.”

“I think that’ll do for now.” Hamish looked around the bleak cottage. “Have they been to search his things?”

“Yes, the detectives were here, looking for letters or papers. But there wasn’t anything.”

“I’ll arrange for someone to come and help you clear out his stuff. Best to get rid of the reminders.”

“Thank you.”

Hamish said good-bye and left. He made his way back to the police station. He walked into the kitchen. Clarry was sitting bouncing Martha’s baby on his knee while the children sat around eating ice cream.

Hamish addressed Johnny. “You’d all better get home right away and look after your mother. She’ll be beginning to wonder where you are, and I don’t want her pestered by reporters.”

Clarry carried the baby out to the pram. He would have gone with them, but Hamish ordered him to stay. When the children had gone, he said, “Clarry, you’ve caused enough gossip. Leave the poor woman alone for a bit.”

“She needs help!”

“I’ll get her help. Now I’ve got to make a phone call.”

Hamish went through to the police office and dialled Strathbane headquarters. He asked to be put through to Blair and to his surprise the phone call was answered by Superintendent Peter Daviot.

“I was trying to reach Mr. Blair,” said Hamish.

“I happened to be in the detectives’ room when the phone rang. There’s no one here at the moment. What’s it about?”

Hamish said, “I had a word with Martha Macleod, the dustman’s widow.” He told Daviot about the phone call, ending with, “So I thought headquarters could get on to tracing that call right away.”

“Good work, Hamish. I’ll let Blair know.”

Back in the kitchen, Clarry was producing out of the oven a steaming casserole of boeuf bourguignon.

“Smells great,” said Hamish, “but I’ve got to go out for a bit, and, when I get back, until we hear from Blair, we may as well start questioning everyone in the village, even if they have been questioned already.”

He made his way to Dr. Brodie’s house and knocked at the kitchen door. Angela, the doctor’s wife, answered. “Oh, come in, Hamish. Terrible business about Fergus.”

Hamish followed her into the kitchen. “I’ve come about Martha,” he said. “Perhaps you and some of the other women could call on her and give her a hand clearing out Fergus’s old stuff.”

“I was going to do that anyway. You’d best have a word with the Currie sisters.”

“Why? Are they terribly upset over the murder?”

Angela pushed a wisp of hair away from her thin face. “It’s not that, Hamish. It’s Clarry.”

“What about him?”

“Jessie overheard him in Patel’s on the evening Fergus disappeared threatening to kill him. Martha’s neighbours heard him before that threatening to kill Fergus. You’d better shut them up.”

“Like I told you, Clarry’s already been grilled by Blair and wonder upon wonders, he hasnae been arrested. And talking about shutting people up, I’d best go round to the Currie sisters.”

“What?” demanded Nessie Currie wrathfully. “Us gossiping? I thought it was too much to hope that a lazy loon like you might actually call to see how we were.”

“The situation is this,” said Hamish severely. “I sent Clarry up to Martha Macleod to look after her. If he wasn’t with her, he was with me.”

“Huh,” snorted Nessie, “and why would she need looking after?”

“This was afore the murder. Her husband had been beating her.”

“Beating her?” echoed Jessie. “But herself always said she was clumsy, was clumsy.”

“Well, he was beating her, and she’s a poor soul in need of friends. Angela Brodie’s getting some of the women together to help Martha clear out Fergus’s things.”

“And I suppose you want us to help?” demanded Nessie.

“It would be a Christian act.”

“But did I not hear Clarry Graham saying he would kill Fergus, would kill Fergus!” exclaimed Jessie.

“Come on. Half the village must have been heard saying they would kill Fergus.”

“And he was beating her?” said Nessie.

“That he was. Can you imagine what her life was like, ladies?”

“So she must be feeling glad that he’s dead.”

“Dead,” echoed her sister.

“It’ll be a long time afore she feels that way. She feels guilt, anger, remorse and fear. She’ll be worried sick about money.”

“She could get a job, get a job,” said Jessie.

“How? She’s got four young children.”

“Eileen, who works up at the Tommel Castle Hotel, told me she has an arrangement with the other workers. They work shifts, and the one that isn’t working at a specific time looks after the children of the others,” said Nessie.

“I’ll be looking into that. So you’ll help?”

“Yes,” said Nessie. “Only, if more women stayed unmarried like us, there’d be less grief in the world. And by the way, the new schoolteacher is arriving in a couple of days. I hope you’re not going to chase her like you did the last one.”

“Good evening,” said Hamish firmly, and made his escape.

♦

So Maisie, the previous schoolteacher, had decided not to come back. Hamish wondered what the new one would be like. Then he remembered Priscilla’s friend who would have arrived by now. He wished he had some lady friend to show Priscilla that he definitely did not care anymore who she invited or what she did.

But curiosity overcame him. He returned to the police station and got in the Land Rover. Before he switched on the engine, he heard Lugs scrabbling at the kitchen door. He sighed and got down from the Land Rover and opened the door. “Come on, boy,” he said. “I’ve been neglecting you.” When he straightened up after fastening a leash around the dog’s neck, he saw an empty plate on the kitchen table with a note beside it. It was from Clarry. “I heard you coming so I left your dinner on the table.”

Hamish looked down at his dog, who licked his lips and hung his head. “You’re full o’ boeuf bourguignon you lousy animal.” Lugs looked up at him imploringly out of his odd blue eyes.

“Oh, come on anyway,” said Hamish crossly. “But if you go on like this, you’ll be as fat as Clarry.” Hamish lifted his dog into the passenger seat, got in himself and drove off.

It took him just five minutes to drive to the Tommel Castle Hotel. The car park was full. He walked into the hotel foyer with Lugs on a leash. He looked in the bar and hurriedly retreated. It was full of journalists. One was trying to balance a glass of whisky on his nose and the others were cheering him on. Hamish retreated and then looked in the dining room. Priscilla was sitting at a table with a tall, good-looking man. She looked up and saw Hamish and waved him over.

Her companion, advertising executive Jerry Darcy, was a kind and amiable man. But the sight of the tall, gangly policeman with the flaming red hair leading an odd mongrel with big ears and blue eyes was too much for him. He began to laugh helplessly.

“Jerry, please,” admonished Priscilla. “This is our policeman, Hamish Macbeth. Hamish, Jerry Darcy.”

Jerry wiped his streaming eyes and got courteously to his feet. “Something amusing you?” demanded Hamish.

“Sorry,” said Jerry with a grin. “It was you and that dog.”

“And what iss up with my dog?”

“It’s an odd-looking animal, you must admit.”

“There iss nothing whateffer up wi’ my dog,” said Hamish, furious because he felt ridiculous, furious because Priscilla’s beau was handsome and well-dressed.

Lugs, sensing his master’s rage, grabbed hold of the tablecloth and began to back away, pulling it. Wineglasses and two plates of food tumbled onto the floor.

“Lugs!” shouted Hamish, his face red with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Priscilla. I’d better take him away. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Hamish dragged Lugs back into the foyer, only to find himself surrounded by reporters. To all their questions, he said, “Call Detective Chief Inspector Blair at Strathbane,” and made his escape.

Once in the Land Rover, he sat there for a few moments, cursing Lugs and cursing his own bad temper. Lugs let out a pathetic little whimper, and Hamish patted the animal’s rough coat. “It wasnae your fault, laddie. But he shouldnae have laughed at me.”

♦

Hamish had set the alarm and woke early and roused Clarry. “I want you to go to the Currie sisters and take them through their story again. I mean, that pair are always peering through their net curtains at what’s going on. I’ll start with the fisherman. Blair’ll be here soon so we’d best get out and about. I gather you got out of being arrested. How?”

Clarry told him how and Hamish laughed and laughed. “Man, I’d have liked to see Blair’s face when you threatened him with the Race Relations Board. Now let’s get a move on.”

Hamish headed for the harbour. He saw Callum McSween, who said he was ready to start work. Hamish gave him the keys to the garbage truck. Callum walked off. Hamish saw Archie, sitting disconsolately on the harbour wall.

“Nowhere to drink?” asked Hamish, who knew the fisherman usually headed for the Lochdubh bar after a night’s work.

“That foreigner bought it over,” said Archie, “and he iss going to turn it into the gift shop. So I’m stuck out here in the open where the wife can find me.”

“Archie, you didn’t like Fergus much, did you?”

“No, that I didn’t, and nobody else did either. We didnae notice him much until he got that stupid uniform and started bossing us all around. But none of us would ha’ touched him, Hamish. You know that.”

“Any gossip? Anyone see him around?”

“Well, there was one odd thing. One person seemed to like him.”

“And who was that?”

“Josie Darling.”

“Her? She’s getting all ready for her wedding.”

“Aye, she’s taken time off work, too.”

Hamish thought hard. Josie was young and frivolous. She lived with her mother in a cottage up a lane at the back of the new hotel. “I’ll go and see her.”

He walked towards Josie’s cottage, glancing up at the sky. It was a milky blue but there was a dampness in the breeze on his cheek. Rain coming soon, he thought.

He turned over in his mind what he knew about Josie. She worked in a bank in Strathbane and was engaged to someone from Inverness. Her father was dead. Her mother worked as a maid at the Tommel Castle Hotel. She planned to live in Inverness after her marriage. A big wedding was to be held in the Church of Scotland in Lochdubh, and, as was the tradition at Highland weddings, the whole village was going. The wedding was to be in two weeks’ time.

He knocked on the cottage door and then turned around and surveyed the view while he waited for someone to answer it. Down on the waterfront, he could see the white-overalled figure of Callum McSween working busily. He turned back as the door opened.

Josie stood there. She was a small girl with dyed blonde hair and a pug face. She had large, rather protruding eyes. She was wearing a short skirt which displayed fat legs to disadvantage and a low-cut blouse. Those eyes goggled when she saw Hamish.

“What is it?” she asked harshly.

“Can I come in?”

She backed away reluctantly. He followed her into the living room. On a coffee table were many glossy magazines, Brides, Your Wedding, Hair and Beauty.

“Getting ready for the wedding?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, that. I’m not having it in Lochdubh.”

“Why not? Everyone’s been looking forward to it.”

“Murdo wants to have it in Inverness.”

“Murdo being your fiancé?”

“Yes.”

“I thought the wedding was usually held in the bride’s parish.”

“Yes, but I’ve only got Mother. Murdo’s got loads of relatives, so we thought it would be more reasonable to have it in Inverness. Anyway, I’m sick of this place.”

“Lochdubh?”

“Where else?”

“Why?”

“It’s so provincial,” said Josie.

Hamish privately thought that Josie was hardly the picture of sophistication.

“Anyway,” said Josie, “is that why you came? To ask about the wedding?”

“No, it’s about Fergus.”

“The dustman? What about him?”

“I believe you were friendly with him.”

“Och, no. I just gave the wee man a cup of tea from time to time. That way he took all our rubbish.”

“Did you like him?”

Again that sort of false grande dame air. “He was just a dustman. I sometimes chat to the postman as well.”

“So is there anything you can tell me about him? Did he look frightened about anything? Did he say anyone was out to get him?”

“No, he just said they were all bastards, and he hated them. He didn’t say whether anyone hated him.”

“Well, if you remember anything, let me know.”

Hamish said good-bye. But as he walked down from the cottage, he thought, she’s lying. There’s something there. I’ll let her think she’s safe, and then I’ll go back. I’ll try Mrs. Darling up at the hotel.

He went to the police station to collect the Land Rover and was confronted by a raging Detective Chief Inspector Blair. He pointed to a torn trouser leg. “Look what your dog did!” he shouted.

“Did you just walk into the station?” asked Hamish.

“Yes!”

“Well, there you are. Lugs is a guard dog.”

“You’ll pay for this.” Blair was in a foul temper. Peter Daviot had called him in and had told him that Hamish had secured an excellent interview with the widow Macleod, much better than anything Jimmy Anderson had got out of her. Blair had gone in to see him with the full intention of asking that Hamish Macbeth be kept off the case. Instead, he had been told that Hamish had to be brought into everything.

“I’ve got someone to interview,” said Hamish, getting into the Land Rover. He drove off, leaving Blair glowering after him.

He stopped on the waterfront when he saw the foxy features of Jimmy Anderson. “I thought you were going to come and see me,” said Hamish.

“I did, yesterday evening, but there was no one there except that dog of yours up on the kitchen table scoffing something.”

“My dinner,” said Hamish.

“And now he’s ripped the boss’s trousers. Where you off to?”

“Tell you later if you come round.”

“Get the whisky ready.”

Hamish drove on to the hotel. The first person he saw when he parked the car was Jerry Darcy, who gave him a cheerful wave. Hamish scowled in reply, and then felt he was being petty. He got down from the Land Rover, meaning to chat to Jerry, but the man was driving off.

Hamish went into the hotel office where the manager, Mr. Johnston, was working on the accounts.

“What are you after, Hamish?”

“Mrs. Darling.”

“Heather Darling? Don’t tell me she’s a suspect.”

“No, I just want a wee word with her.”

“She’s just about to go off duty. Hang on here for a minute and help yourself to coffee, and I’ll fetch her for you.”

Hamish went over to the coffee machine and poured himself a mug of coffee. He had a sudden sharp longing for a cigarette although he had not smoked for some years.

The door opened and Heather Darling walked in, twisting her apron in red, work-roughened hands. She was a small, plump woman with greying hair and a round rosy face.

“Sit down,” said Hamish.

“What’s up? Is it Josie?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Fergus.”

“The dustman?”

“Yes, him. I believe he was on friendly terms with you and your daughter.”

He knew before she opened her mouth that she was going to repeat word for word what Josie had said. But unlike her daughter, who had a hard streak, Heather Darling was frightened and trying hard not to show it. He wondered whether to use Blair’s methods, accuse her of lying and try to break her down. But he had a feeling she would stick to that story through thick and thin. In some way, she was protecting her daughter. To try to put her at her ease, he asked about the wedding.

“It’s fine,” said Heather curtly. “What’s it got to do with the murder?”

“Nothing,” said Hamish. “Look, maybe when you’ve had time to think you’ll remember something.”

Her face set in stubborn lines. Hamish said, “You know where to find me. I’ll be calling on you again.”

“What about?”

“About Fergus’s murder. Think about it.” He wondered how Clarry was getting on.

♦

Clarry was at that moment wishing himself anywhere else but in the Currie sisters’ cottage, faced by two pairs of baleful eyes behind thick glasses.

“I am just trying to find out if you can remember anything else,” said Clarry.

“And we are wondering,” said Nessie severely, “what you, an officer of the law, were doing romancing a married woman.”

“A married woman,” muttered the Greek chorus that was her sister.

Clarry turned red. “I was acting under orders from my superior officer. Martha Macleod was being beaten by her husband. Sergeant Macbeth wanted me to try to get her to make a complaint.”

“And did that mean you should take them out in a boat and turn the police station into a disco?”

“Yes. Kindness towards a family which is in sore need of it may seem strange to you ladies.”

“We are not forgetting our duty,” said Nessie. “We’re going to help her clean up.”

“So now we’ve got that out of the way,” said Clarry. “Sergeant Macbeth tells me that you are a very noticing pair of ladies. I would like to ask you if you noticed anything strange the night Fergus was killed.”

“When was he exactly killed, exactly killed?” asked Jessie.

Clarry strove for patience. “I mean the night you found him in your bin.”

The sisters looked at each other. Then Nessie said, “It was a quiet evening. That Josie Darling went past…”

“At what time?”

“About eight o’ clock. Teetering along on a stupid pair of high heels. If I had legs like that I would cover them,” said Nessie, glancing down complacently at her own skinny shanks. “Before that, it was Mrs. Docherty who lives next door. She walked over to the waterfront and looked at the loch. Then she came back. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, went by, going to the school-house, I think. She’s supervising the arrangements for the new teacher, but that was earlier, about six o’clock.”

“Any strange noises?”

They both shook their heads of rigidly permed hair.

“Well, if you think of anything, let me know.”

Clarry made his way back along the waterfront. He was stopped by Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. “Could you give me a bit of help? I and some of the women want to go and help Martha clear out Fergus’s things. But we don’t want to call too soon and upset her. Do you think you could ask her, you being a friend of hers?”

Clarry’s round face brightened at the idea of a legitimate opportunity to go and call on Martha.

“I’ll go right away,” he said, touching the peak of his cap.

He swung round and with a light step headed towards Martha’s cottage. They were all sitting indoors, the old television flickering in the corner of the living room.

Martha had great dark shadows under her eyes, and she appeared to have lost more weight. Her clothes hung on her thin body.

“Had any supper?” asked Clarry.

“None of us are feeling very hungry.”

“Won’t do,” said Clarry. “You’ve got to keep your strength up for the children’s sake and for your own. Get ready. We’re all going down to the Italian restaurant. Dinner’s on me.”

Martha saw the way her children brightened up but she hesitated. “There’s the baby.”

“Put the baby in the pram and we’ll wheel the pram into the restaurant.”

“Won’t they protest, and I’m not properly dressed.”

“It’s not the Ritz,” said Clarry. “Come on.”

♦

Willie Lamont, who used to be Hamish’s constable and who now waited table at the restaurant, protested when Martha and Clarry lifted the pram with the sleeping baby into the restaurant.

Clarry took him aside and whispered fiercely, “They are all in need of a good meal so I won’t have any protests from you. That poor woman’s been stuck up there in that dingy cottage. The ladies of Lochdubh are going to help her clean up, so if they can help, so can you.”

“Clean up?” Willie’s eyes gleamed with an almost religious fervour. “Nobody can clean like me. Have you tried that new cleaner on the market, Green Lightning? Man, the way it cuts through grease is grand.” And before Clarry could stop him, he headed purposely towards Martha. “I hear some of the ladies are coming to help you clean. You just say the day, and I’ll be there.”

Martha looked at Clarry. “What’s all this about?”

“Angela Brodie and some of the others thought you would feel better if you had a bit of help to clean out your husband’s things. But if you’d like to wait a bit…”

“No, I don’t mind. Any time will do. I’d be glad of the help.”

Mr. Ferrari, the owner, joined them. “Ah, Mrs. Macleod,” he said. “My condolences on your sad loss. You are my guests for this evening. Have anything on the menu you want. Officer Graham, perhaps you would like to see our kitchens?”

Clarry wanted to stay with Martha, but on the other hand, cooking was in his blood. “Just a wee look,” he said. “I don’t want to leave Mrs. Macleod alone for long.”

Clarry was taken on a tour of the kitchens. He had always thought he would be unfit for the restaurant trade, but he could feel his enthusiasm growing. Mr. Ferrari crooned in his ear how easy the job of chef would be and how a man interested in food was wasting his time as a police officer.

“You don’t know if I can cook,” said Clarry.

“True. Why don’t you give it a try on your day off?”

“Maybe I’ll do that. Now I’d best get back to Martha and the children.”

Martha, with her wan face and well-behaved children, was creating a good impression among the other customers. In these days of spoilt, whining brats, even the sternest heart melts at the sight of a quiet well-behaved child. People had stopped by the table while Clarry was in the kitchen to give Martha their condolences.

Clarry sat down with them and picked up the menu. He planned to slim down, but a free meal was a free meal. He would diet tomorrow.

They had a simple meal of minestrone, ravioli and huge slices of chocolate cake. Clarry told tales of policing, all highly embroidered, and was pleased to notice that Martha was eating everything.

♦

When he returned to the police station, Hamish was waiting. “You’ve been away a long time,” he said.

“It happened like this.” Clarry described how he had ended up in the Italian restaurant.

“You should go carefully,” said Hamish. “Blair’s been round and he’s spitting bullets. Seems as if Fergus was killed somewhere else and carried to the bin.” Hamish knew the real reason Blair was furious. He had wanted Hamish off the case and had been told to keep him on.

“So what did you get out of the Currie sisters?”

“Not much,” said Clarry, fumbling for his notebook. “Do you want me to read out what I’ve got?”

“Go ahead.”

Clarry read out from his notes. “See,” he said. “Nothing there.”

“Yes, there is,” said Hamish Macbeth. “There’s something there that interests me a lot.”