Death of a Dustman

∨ Death of a Dustman ∧

4

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,

Before we too into the Dust descend;

Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and – sans End!

—Edward Fitzgerald

Jimmy Anderson poked his head around the kitchen door. “Come in,” said Hamish. “Clarry, you’d best go and start typing up your notes, and I’ll do mine after.”

When Clarry had left, Hamish asked, “Well, what’s new?”

“What kind of whisky do you have?”

Hamish went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker. “That’ll do fine,” said Jimmy. He waited until Hamish had poured him a generous glassful. Then he said, “The autopsy report puts the death at about two days before he was found. Didn’t those Currie sisters notice the smell before then?”

“Can’t have. They only noticed when they lifted the lid.”

“You’re slipping, Hamish. Didn’t you ask them?”

“I should’ve. I was too concerned in stopping their gossip about Clarry and Martha Macleod.”

Jimmy sipped his whisky and then eyed Hamish speculatively. “Not like you at all. You’re that fat copper’s sergeant, not his father. I know he trounced Blair wi’ that threat o’ the Race Relations Board, but to my mind, he’s still a suspect.”

“If he wasnae wi’ me, he was with Mrs. Macleod.”

“Judging from the contents of the dead man’s stomach, he was killed sometime during the night. You don’t sleep wi’ your copper, do you?”

“It’s not him,” said Hamish stubbornly.

“Oh, well, Blair’s having a hard time wi’ that environment woman. But he’s not much interested in this case. He thinks he’s got the chance of making a drugs bust. Daviot told him to keep you informed, so he’s sulking and saying you can handle it. He’s trying to get me put in charge.”

“Can you get me the forensic report?”

“More whisky?”

“Help yourself. The bottle’s in front of you.”

“Thanks.” Jimmy poured a large amount into his glass. Then he dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced two sheets of paper. “One copy of a forensic report. Here you are.”

Hamish scanned it. “Could they judge if he had been killed far from the Curries’ bin?”

“No, not far. There was still some blood had leaked from his head into the bin.”

“The Curries live on the waterfront. I cannot believe that in this village, even in the middle of the night, someone carried a dead body and put it in that bin, without a soul seeing anything. Wait a bit. The bin’s round the side. The lane to Martha’s runs up the side of the cottage. And it’s a low fence. Did they find anything there?”

“They’re still working on it. But, say, two people could have done it. One to lift the body over the fence, another to catch it and put it in the bin.”

“But why the Curries?”

“I spoke to Nessie Currie. She seemed proud of the fact that she was the greenest person in Lochdubh, and Fergus didn’t appreciate it. Food refuse goes into the compost heap apart from the stuff they give to Mrs. Docherty next door for her hens. Jessie says they have the least garbage of anyone in Lochdubh. So whoever did it would guess the body wouldn’t be found for some time.”

“Ah, that’s daft. Anyone who didn’t want the body found could’ve weighted it down and dumped it in the loch. Or taken it up on the moors and sunk it into a peat bog. No, putting Fergus in a dustbin has an element of revenge and hatred in it, even after the man was killed. To tell the truth, I don’t know a soul in Lochdubh with that sort of character, or motivation. There is one odd thing. There’s a wee lassie up the back of the harbour, name of Josie Darling; getting married in two weeks’ time. Now she goes on as if she’s a glamour puss, but she’s just a wee village girl. But she was friendly with Fergus. And she’s hiding something. I’m going to have another go at her tomorrow.”

“Aye, well, you’d better concentrate a bit more. Forget about Clarry.”

They talked for some time, going over and over the case. Clarry came in. “Typed up my notes, sir. What about lunch?”

“That would be grand,” said Jimmy before Hamish could reply.

“I’ve nothing much in the house,” said Clarry, easing round them to the stove. “But I could make a cheese omelette.”

Jimmy drank, and he watched, amused as Clarry deftly whipped eggs. Soon he was placing three plates of fluffy omelette in front of them.

“Great,” said Jimmy. “You pair ought to get married.” He saw Lugs put a paw on Hamish’s knee. “Does your dog eat cheese omelette?”

“I’ve got something for him.” Clarry took down a bowl of chopped liver he had cooked earlier from a rack above the cooker and placed it on the floor.

“That’s an odd-looking dog,” said Jimmy. “But any dog that can attack Blair and tear his trousers deserves the best food.”

♦

After Jimmy had left, Hamish said to Clarry, “Check at that new hotel if there are any workers apart from the locals. I’ve got a call to make. Come on, Lugs. Walk.” With the dog trotting along beside him he walked to Mrs. Docherty’s cottage. He tied the leash to the fence and then knocked at the door.

Mrs. Docherty was a tired-looking middle-aged woman with grey hair and small eyes.

When she answered the door and saw Hamish standing there, a closed look came over her face, and she said primly, “What is it?”

“I wanted a word with you.”

“What about?”

“About the murder.”

“It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“I chust wanted to ask you a few questions. Is your man at home?”

“No, he’s working in Strathbane.”

“Can I come in?”

“No, I’m cleaning.”

“Then we’ll talk in the garden. I want to ask you if you saw or heard anything. Fergus’s body was put in the bin soon after he was murdered.”

“I didn’t see or hear anything. Why ask me?”

Hamish remembered Clarry telling him that the Curries had seen Mrs. Docherty walk across the road and stare at the loch and walk back again. It was just a small thing, and yet, Mrs. Docherty, like the rest of the locals, was so used to the magnificent scenery around her that she barely noticed. He’d had a mental picture of a worried woman going out to stare blindly at the loch. But maybe his imagination had run away with him.

“I heard that on the evening Fergus was found, you went out of your cottage and walked across and looked at the loch, and then walked back again.”

“So what’s up with that?”

“It struck me as the action of someone who was deeply worried about something.”

“Havers,” she said briskly. “I often go and have a look at the loch.”

“Why?”

“Why? Do I need a reason? Because it’s there.”

She was afraid of something, of that Hamish was sure, and it couldn’t be because she was being interviewed by a policeman. No one in Lochdubh was afraid of him.

“I’ll be back,” he said. He walked out of the small garden and unhitched Lugs and walked away. Mrs. Docherty stood watching his tall figure and clenched and unclenched her hands.

Hamish went back to the station and typed up his notes and then faxed the little he had, along with Clarry’s notes, to Strathbane.

Clarry came in just as he finished. “Anything?” asked Hamish.

“Apart from the secretary, a Miss Stathos, the rest are locals. Miss Stathos says Mr. Ionides plans to hire local staff as well when he’s ready to open, waiters and maids and manager and all that.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair. “Oh, my, that means he’ll go after the staff at the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

“Maybe they’ll stay loyal.”

“Times are hard. If he offers higher wages, then they’ll go.”

“There don’t seem to be any reporters left.”

“There’s a triple murder in Inverness. They’ll rely on the local man from now on. At least we should get a bit o’ peace.”

♦

Four more days went by, during which Jimmy Anderson, Hamish and Clarry assiduously interviewed the population of Lochdubh. Hamish went over forensic reports. The ground at the lane beside the Currie sisters’ garden had been hard with all the dry weather and had not yielded anything. The side of the house and at the back where the bin stood was covered in gravel.

Frustrated, Hamish decided to examine the place closely for himself. He realised that like everyone else these days, he had been blinded by the glories of forensic science and had assumed they had missed nothing.

He knew the Currie sisters had gone up to Martha’s cottage with Mrs. Wellington and Angela to clear out Fergus’s things.

He carried a large magnifying glass, and, feeling ridiculous, feeling that he looked like a stage detective, he began to go over every inch of ground along with the fence and the road at the side. The rain he had expected had not yet arrived although the air was moist and damp.

After two hours, he was about to give up, when he saw a little spark of colour between the fence posts. He took out a pair of tweezers and eased out a tiny little pink thread of material. It was so small that when he took the magnifying glass away from his eye, he could barely see it. He put it in a plastic envelope. He would wait until the Curries had finished cleaning and ask them if they had any idea where it might have come from.

♦

Angela was glad she had given the children some money for sweets and had sent them off, for Mrs. Wellington was trying to persuade Martha that some of Fergus’s clothes could be cut down for the boys.

Surprisingly it was Nessie who stood up to the domineering minister’s wife. “Leave her be,” said Nessie firmly. “She doesn’t want anything of her man left in the cottage.”

“Left in the cottage,” echoed Jessie, and both sisters glared at Mrs. Wellington.

“Well, let’s bag up the stuff, and I’ll take it into a charity shop in Strathbane,” said Mrs. Wellington, capitulating.

The women worked busily, bagging up suits and shirts, socks and underwear. Martha, finding Angela the most sympathetic, kept close to her. In the bedroom Martha had shared with Fergus, Angela said, “The rugs in here could do with throwing out. I’ve got a nice carpet in the loft at home. My husband didn’t like it because it’s bright red, but it’s warm and cheery. Where did you get these rugs?”

“They’re awful, aren’t they?” said Martha with a weak smile. “Fergus found them in someone’s rubbish at a croft house and brought them home. They’re all cigarette burns.”

“I’ll take them away and bring you the carpet,” said Angela. “No, please take it. It’s a waste of a good carpet if it stays in my loft. Let’s just roll up these dreadful rugs.”

Angela got down on her knees and started to roll up one by the window. “There’s a floorboard been sawn here,” she said. “Is this where you hide the family jewels?”

Martha walked over and stared down. One of the floorboards had been sawn to make a square like a lid. “I never really noticed that before,” she said. “I’m sorry the floor’s dirty. I was going to wash it, but Fergus shouted at me to leave it alone.”

“Mind if I have a look and see if there’s anything down there?” asked Angela.

“No, go ahead.”

“I need something to lift it, a screwdriver or something.”

“I’ll get one. There’s a toolbox under the bed.”

Martha came back after a few moments with a screwdriver. Angela prised up the sawn square of wood. She peered in the cavity. Then she reached down and pulled out a plastic envelope with what appeared to be several letters in it. Angela peered through the plastic. Some of the letters seemed to be covered in food stains and coffee stains.

“I think if you don’t mind, Martha, I’ll just take this along to Hamish Macbeth. I would let you look at it first, but it might be important, and I don’t want to get too many fingerprints on it.”

“Go ahead,” said Martha wearily.

♦

Angela hurried out and made her way to the police station. A light rain was beginning to fall. Oh well, thought Angela sadly, it’s not often we’ve had a summer like this one. It couldn’t last forever.

She saw the tall figure of Hamish in front of her and hurried to catch up with him.

“Hamish,” she said. “Look what I found under the floorboards in Fergus’s bedroom.”

He took the plastic envelope from her. “It seems to be letters, Hamish. There might be a clue.”

“Thanks, Angela. I’ll take it into the station and have a look at it.”

“I’d better get back before Mrs. Wellington bullies poor Martha to death!”

Hamish hurried into the police station, into the office, sat down at his desk and gingerly eased the letters out with the tweezers he had used earlier.

The first one had been written to Josie Darling. He read:

Dear Josie,

I just can’t go through with it. I’m sorry to let you down at the last minute, but I’ve met someone else, and it’s real love this time. If you need any help writing apology letters or returning the presents, let me know. You’ll hate me for a bit, but after time passes, you’ll come to realise I did the right thing. I hope you, too, will find someone.

Yours, aye, Murdo.

“The bastard!” said Hamish out loud. Lugs scrabbled at his knee. “Down, boy,” said Hamish sharply. He put the letter carefully to one side. Then he picked up the next.

Dear Helen, I’ll never forget our night in Strathbane. I’m still travelling around but I hope to be back in Strathbane soon. Any chance of you getting away from your old man? Give us a bell if you can, snookums.

Always your loving Pat.

Who was Helen? wondered Hamish. The next was a letter to crofter Angus Effrik. It was from his bank manager. Hamish scanned it rapidly. It was telling Angus that he could have no further credit.

The fourth was an old newspaper cutting. It read:

Mrs. Fiona McClellan appeared at Strathbane sheriff’s court yesterday charged with shoplifting. A psychiatrist, Dr. J. Arthur, testified that Mrs. McClellan was now undergoing treatment for kleptomania. Sheriff Paul Tampley gave Mrs. McClellan a suspended sentence of one year but told her that should she appear in his court again, then he would not be so lenient.

Hamish’s heart sank lower. Mrs. McClellan was the bank manager’s wife.

There could only be one explanation as to why Fergus had kept these items hidden under the floorboards. Blackmail.

Hamish groaned and put his head in his hands. He should phone Strathbane immediately and reveal the contents of what Angela had found. Blair would descend like the wrath of God. He was a great man for arresting first and asking questions afterwards. Four lives might be needlessly ruined.

He looked down at his dog, who stared back up at him with those odd blue eyes. “I’ll give it a day, Lugs. One day. Let’s see what they have to say for themselves. But who’s Helen?”

♦

Hamish started off by going to see Josie. When she opened the door to him, a mulish look settled on her face. “What is it now?” she demanded sharply.

“Can I come in?”

“No, I’m busy.”

“So do you want to tell me about the cancelled wedding and why Fergus was blackmailing you out here on the step?”

She burst into tears. Hamish put an arm round her and guided her into the living room. Her mother rose to her feet in alarm. “What have you said?” she shouted.

“Let’s all sit down and talk this over quietly,” said Hamish. He pressed the weeping Josie down into a chair and then sat down himself.

“While Fergus was going through everyone’s rubbish to make sure everything was in the right receptacle, he collected letters and things he thought might be useful. He kept a letter to you from your fiancé, Murdo, Josie. In it Murdo breaks off the engagement. For some reason, your pride wouldn’t let you tell anyone and it is my belief Fergus asked you for payment to keep his mouth shut.”

Josie scrubbed her eyes dry and glared at him defiantly. “Prove it!”

“If you are uncooperative, I will turn the letter over to police headquarters and Detective Chief Inspector Blair will haul you in for questioning. You’ll have a rougher time with him than you will with me. He may not arrest you, but it will be in the papers that a woman is helping police with their inquiries and everyone in Lochdubh will have seen you being taken off in a police car. Come on, now, be honest.”

Josie looked at her mother, who gave a little nod. “Yes, he asked for money,” she said wearily. “Oh, the shame of it. Him jilting me. I’d bragged to all my friends about getting married.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred pounds. He said if I gave him five hundred he would let me have the letter back. I told him I’d spent too much on the wedding, and he’d need to wait, but he would drop in on his rounds and ask for tea and sit there grinning at me. I could’ve killed him!” Josie gasped and put a hand to her mouth as if to stuff the words back in.

“A lot of people could,” said Hamish. “But, lassie, I know it was a sore blow, but you’d have had to tell folks finally. What about the presents?”

“I must have been mad,” said Josie, her eyes filling with tears. “I was going to go down to Inverness and stay with Auntie Margaret and get work. I was going to tell folks here that Murdo wanted a quiet wedding in Inverness.”

“And keep all the presents?”

“I was going to return them when she had gone,” said Mrs. Darling.

“So you didn’t pay the money?”

“Five hundred pounds is an awful lot of money. I was trying to string him along until something happened.”

“Something did happen. Someone murdered him. You’ll just need to tell folks you’ve been jilted and forget that silly pride of yours. People get jilted every day. I’ve been jilted so many times, I think it’s a way o’ life. Now I must ask you both what you were doing on the night of July twenty-second, that’s when Fergus was murdered.”

“We were watching a video together, me and Mum,” said Josie. “Then we went to bed.”

“No witnesses?”

They both shook their heads.

“Thank God it’s all over,” said Mrs. Darling.

“Aye, well let’s hope that’s an end to it. But I cannae sit on evidence like this forever. But I’ll try to keep it quiet for a bit.”

“Thank you,” breathed Josie, suddenly all seductive. “I know you’re doing it just for me.”

Murdo’s a lucky man, thought Hamish, getting to his feet. “I’m doing it for you and your mother and for the peace of the village. But don’t get too cocky with me, Josie Darling. Just pray I can find a murderer before your letter goes to police headquarters.”

♦

Hamish then walked down to the Bank of Scotland. The bank house stood next door, one of those whitewashed gothic villas that the Victorians had considered suitable to house bank managers.

The bank was still open, so the husband would be at work. He pressed the house bell. A voice called, “I’m in the garden at the back.”

Hamish walked along the path at the side of the house. Mrs. McClellan was standing in the garden at the back, a trowel in one hand. The rain had cleared, although the clouds were still low and heavy.

“Mr. Macbeth,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

She was wearing an old Laura Ashley print frock, faded by many washings. She had a small-featured face with only a few wrinkles around her dark brown eyes. Her thick brown hair was piled in a loose knot on top of her head.

“Can we sit down somewhere, Mrs. McClellan? You’re not going to like this.”

A bleak look settled in her eyes. “Come into the kitchen,” she said. “We can talk there.”

As soon as they were both seated at the kitchen table, she said in a quiet voice, “You know, don’t you?”

“I know Fergus kept an old newspaper cutting describing how you had been charged with shoplifting. When was that? There was no date on the cutting.”

“Twelve years ago.”

“And was he blackmailing you?”

“Yes.”

“Did your husband know?”

“No, I was terrified of him finding out. He was manager of the main bank in Strathbane when I was charged. He felt ashamed of me. He moved us here. I got treatment, and I haven’t lapsed since. I knew my husband couldn’t bear Lochdubh knowing about my past. He would have moved again, and this time, I don’t think he would have taken me with him.”

“How much did Fergus want?”

“One thousand pounds. I told him I couldn’t get that much together without my husband finding out so he said he would take it in installments. I had paid him two hundred by the time he was murdered. Now it’s all for nothing. You’re here and there is nothing to stop the misery happening all over again.”

“What were you doing on the night of July twenty-second?”

“I was chairing the Mother’s Union at the church. Then I came home and watched a bit of television with my husband. Then we both went to bed. Will you be taking me to Strathbane?”

“As to that,” said Hamish, “I will try to keep this quiet, for the moment. But I want you to let me know if you hear anything, however small, that might relate to the case.”

She looked at him, her eyes suddenly full of hope. “Are you saying you might be able to keep this quiet?”

“I’ll do my best for a few days.”

“But if you don’t find the murderer, then this will all have to come out?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then I will do my very best to find something out for you. Thank you.”

♦

Hamish, going towards Martha’s cottage, met Angela on her way home. “Did you tell the Currie sisters or Mrs. Wellington about the letters?” asked Hamish.

“No, and I don’t think Martha said anything either.”

“Angela, that wee scunner Fergus was using information he found in the garbage to blackmail a few people. I’ll need to let Strathbane know eventually. But if I can protect them for a few days, I will. I’ll speak to Martha. Get her to say she just found them when I tell her to.”

“That’s awful, Hamish. Fergus deserved to be murdered.”

“Nobody deserves to be murdered.”

“He did,” said Angela firmly.

Hamish was turning away when he turned back and asked, “Can you think of any Helens in the village?”

“Helen? Let me see, there’s Helen Macgregor out on the Braikie side, there’s Helen Jensen, but she’s just a wee schoolgirl, there’s Helen Docherty…”

“Mrs. Docherty? Her name’s Helen?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Hamish strode off and left Angela staring after him.

♦

Martha opened the door to him and invited him inside. The cottage had a polished and scrubbed look. “I only wanted them to take away Fergus’s things,” said Martha, “but they insisted on doing the housekeeping as well. Was there anything in those letters that Angela found?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Have you looked at your husband’s bankbook?”

“No, not yet.”

“Did he leave a will?”

“He did. He left everything to me, such as it is.”

“Good. Right. Here’s the problem. It is my belief your husband was a blackmailer.”

“Oh, no!” Martha wailed.

“He was using letters he found in the rubbish. I’m keeping it quiet at the moment, Martha. It’s all right if I call you Martha?”

“Yes.”

“We’re Hamish and Martha unless we’re being official. Now let’s see that bankbook.”

“It’s in a drawer in the sideboard.” Martha went to the sideboard which was one of those awful cheap thirties pieces of furniture made of yellowish wood and badly carved. She jerked one of the doors open and produced a Bank of Scotland bankbook.

Hamish studied it. There was the payment of two hundred, probably from Mrs. McClellan, then there was another payment of five hundred pounds, and everything else was Fergus’s salary.

“I may ask you to pay back the money he extorted from people, Martha. But I can’t do anything until I find the murderer. You see, the thing is, if I take the letters to the police, a lot of innocent villagers might suffer, get their reputations ruined. I must ask you not to talk about this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” gasped Martha. “Oh, the shame of it!” She suddenly turned a muddy colour. “But Hamish, what if one of them he was blackmailing killed him, and they think I’ve got the proof?”

“I’ve thought of that, believe me. Whoever did it will know your cottage has been searched from top to bottom. You were searched, weren’t you?”

She nodded dumbly.

“How they missed that bit in the bedroom floor is beyond me.”

“They weren’t looking for anything like that,” said Martha. “I mean, I showed them the will, the bankbook, but there was nothing else in that drawer, and they seemed satisfied with that. They were talking about some football match back in Strathbane and wondering if they could wrap things up and get back in time.”

Hamish reflected that people only read in their newspapers about murderers being caught by one hair or saliva on a cigarette and never heard about the ones where the investigating team wanted to get back in time for a football match and possibly missed something important. If Martha had killed her husband, whatever clues might have been left had been scrubbed away by the helpful ladies of Lochdubh.

“I’ll let you know how I get on,” he said. “But I can only keep this quiet for a few days.”

He was heading for the door when Martha asked, “How’s Clarry?”

“He’s fine.”

“Give him my regards.”

“Will do.” Hamish walked out. He had a sudden awful thought that a battered wife like Martha might have seen in Clarry the husband she had always wanted and had hammered her husband to death. He shook his head to clear it. He’d better interview the other suspects fast and trust to his instinct.

He walked down to Mrs. Docherty’s cottage and knocked on the door. Her husband, he remembered, worked at the fish counter in a supermarket in Strathbane. Mrs. Docherty opened the door. Her eyes dilated with fright, and then she masked it with fury. “This is police harassment.”

“You must have been expecting me to call for some time. How long was Fergus Macleod blackmailing you?”

She stood very still. Then she said wearily, “You’d better come in.”

She led the way into a tidy little living room. “I prayed he would have got rid of that letter. I knew the police had searched his cottage. When I didn’t hear anything, I thought I was safe. Will I be arrested?”

“Not yet,” said Hamish. “I’m trying to keep it quiet for a few days. But if I don’t find the murderer in that time, I’ll need to go to Strathbane. What happened?”

“I’m fifty-five.”

“I don’t see what…”

“Listen. Us women up in the Highlands don’t reach the menopause until fifty-seven. Sometimes the scientists say it’s the fresh fish and others say it’s the whisky. Anyway, I knew I hadn’t long. To be a real woman, that is. I was in Strathbane, shopping, and I decided to go to the bar of the Royal Hotel for a drink. That’s where I met Pat. You’re not taking notes.”

“Not yet,” said Hamish. “Just let’s hope it won’t be necessary.”

“Anyway, we got talking. I drank a bit too much. He made me laugh. Then he suggested I come back that evening to spend the night with him. Just like that. I said, why not? I didn’t really mean to keep that date. I mean, I knew I was a bit drunk and shouldn’t even be driving. When I got home, Roger phoned.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes. He said he was going to the Rotary Club. He said he would be staying the night with a friend of ours. I must have been mad. I decided to go for it. It wasn’t worth it. I felt miserable and ashamed in the morning. Just to get away nicely, like a fool I gave him my address. When I got that letter, I didn’t put it in one of the paper boxes, I put it in with the general rubbish. But that ferret of a man was sifting through everyone’s rubbish.”

“Why now?” said Hamish. “I mean, why did he suddenly start blackmailing? I mean, if that letter had been in the box for papers, I could understand it. I could understand him being tempted. But to suddenly take it out of the general garbage. Maybe he’d already stumbled onto something profitable.”

“I’m not the only one?”

“No. Where were you the night Fergus was murdered?”

“I went out to a meeting at the church, came home, watched a bit of television with my husband and went to bed. Oh, please, can you try to stop this getting out?”

“I’ll do my best. Let me know if you hear anything. Anything at all.”

“I must have been mad,” she said, half to herself. “I’ve always been respectable. The boys are doing well, both in jobs in Glasgow. I blame the television.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, women like me sit up here in the very north of Scotland, night after night, watching beautiful people. Morals never seem to bother them. Then the day comes when women like me think, I’ll have some of that. And some of that turns out to be a sordid night with a travelling salesman. Men sleep around, why shouldn’t women? That’s what they preach on the box. But to old–fashioned women like me, I can’t get rid of the old values of loyalty and modesty. Do you remember when modesty in women was considered a virtue?”

“I’m not old enough,” said Hamish ruefully.

♦

After he had left Mrs. Docherty, he went back to the police station. Jimmy Anderson was sitting in the police office, his feet on the desk.

“Where’s Clarry?” asked Hamish.

“I sent him off on a tour of the village, asking as many people as possible if they saw anything. I’ve got two coppers from Strathbane doing the same thing. Get anything?”

“Not much,” said Hamish.

“That’s not like you. Come on. You’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Not me. I’m off to check some of the outlying crofts. What are you going to do?”

“Coordinate,” said Jimmy vaguely. “Take that weird dog of yours with you. I thought he wasn’t going to let me into the station.”

“So how’d you get in?”

“One whole packet of chocolate wafer biscuits.”

“Whit? You’re a bad man, Jimmy. You’ll ruin his teeth.”

Hamish went into the bathroom and collected his toothbrush and toothpaste. Then he grabbed the unsuspecting Lugs from under the kitchen table and began to forcibly brush the dog’s teeth. Then he put the dog down in front of his water bowl. He drank thirstily and then looked accusingly up at Hamish.

“Come on, boy. It’s no use you looking at me like that. How can you bite Blair if your teeth fall out?”

Soon Hamish was driving off out of Lochdubh with a sulky Lugs on the seat beside him.

Angus Ettrik’s croft lay off the Drim Road. He turned up a narrow lane, stopping at one point to get down and shoo some of Angus’s sheep back into the fields.

Angus’s wife, Kirsty, was hanging out sheets in the garden, although it was not really a garden, more a dump for old machinery. A washing machine leaned against a television set. Two rusting cars and various bits of machinery stood testament to the Highland crofter’s weakness. Nothing was ever thrown away because it ‘might come in handy sometime.’

“What’s up?” asked Kirsty, coming towards him. She was a small, dark, gypsy-looking woman.

“Angus about?”

“He’s up at the peats. What’s it about?”

“Just asking everyone round about.”

“Oh, the murder. That was awful, so it was.”

Hamish nodded to her and got into the Land Rover and then drove as far as he could along a heathery track.

He finally got down and, followed by Lugs, walked the last half mile to the peat stacks. Angus was cutting peats. As Hamish approached him, he turned over in his mind what he knew about the crofter. He had a reputation of being lazy, but that wasn’t unusual in the Highlands where the doctor’s surgery was at its busiest on a Monday morning with men complaining of bad backs. He and Kirsty did not have children. He was a small wiry man with a thick shock of dark hair going grey at the sides. His face was permanently tanned from working outdoors.

He saw Hamish but continued to cut peats. He had a tractor and trailer beside him. The trailer was already loaded up with cut peats, like dark slices of cake.

“How’s it going, Angus?”

Angus paused and looked up at the tall policeman. “What do ye want?”

“I want to know if Fergus Macleod was blackmailing you.”

Angus looked down. “Havers,” he muttered. Then he raised his head. “Do I look like the sort o’ cheil that would let a dustman blackmail me?”

“He had found a letter from your bank refusing to let you have any more credit.”

“And do you think he would try to blackmail a poor crofter wi’ that? Man, you know the situation in the Highlands. It’s crawlin’ these days wi’ crofters getting letters like that. But I naff my pride, and I don’t want them at Strathbane pawing over letters to me!”

“I can’t suppress evidence – well, not for much longer, Angus. It’s probably of no importance and yet, why did he keep it? Did he call on you?”

“Chust to empty the bins, him and his silly uniform.”

“We’ll leave it for the moment. I still can’t figure out why Fergus would keep such a letter unless he hoped to get something out of it.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” sneered Angus. “Always looking for dirt. Well, good clean peat dirt iss all you’ll be finding here.”

“Think about it,” said Hamish. “Where were you the night Fergus was killed?”

“What night would that be?”

“July twenty-second.”

“I wass down on the waterfront having a jar wi’ some o’ the fishermen afore they went out.”

“The bar’s closed.”

“Aye, but we wass just sitting on the harbour wall, Archie Maclean, me and the others, having a smoke and a crack.”

“I’ll check that. Then what?”

“Then I walked home. I didnae want to drive so I hadnae the car.”

“And you didn’t see Fergus on that night?”

“Not a sight.”

“Right. But think again why he might have kept that letter.”

Angus bent to cutting peats and Hamish walked away, followed by his dog. When he got to the Land Rover, he drove back to Angus’s croft and called in at the kitchen door. “Anybody home?”

Kirsty appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’ve just been to see your man, Kirsty. I found a letter from your bank manager among Fergus’s effects, and I wondered if he had been trying to blackmail you.”

She looked shocked. “I neffer heard the like. Why blackmail us? That letter should’ve told him we didn’t have any money.”

“That’s what puzzles me,” said Hamish.

“He wass friendly enough,” said Kirsty. “We neffer had any trouble wi’ him taking our garbage, not like them in Lochdubh.” Her eyes fell to Lugs, and she gave a little shriek.

“What’s up?” asked Hamish.

“That dog of yours. You shouldnae hae a dog like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s got blue eyes.”

“So?”

Kirsty lowered her voice. “Animals wi’ eyes like that are people who’ve come back. Get it out of here. It’s bad luck.”

Lugs suddenly darted round Hamish and into the cottage. Kirsty let out a wail of terror and threw her apron over her head. “Get it out!” she screamed.

Hamish pushed past her into the kitchen and scooped up his dog, who was sitting under the stove, looking longingly up at a stew pot which was simmering on the hob.

Tucking the dog firmly under one arm, he marched out of the cottage. Kirsty was sitting on a rock, keening and holding her arms tightly about her body.

“Come on, Kirsty,” said Hamish. “It iss chust the wee dog.”

“Go away,” whispered Kirsty.

Hamish shrugged helplessly. Although he suffered from a fair amount of Highland superstition himself, he was still amazed at how extreme it could be in other Highlanders.

He carried Lugs back to the Land Rover. Better check with Archie whether Angus had been where he said he had been on the night Fergus had been killed.

“Aye, I mind fine he was here,” said Archie, sitting like a gnome on the harbour wall in the tight suit he usually sported and which the villagers swore his wife boiled, dried and ironed.

“A’ what time?”

“Early-ish. About seven o’ clock. We was just about to go out, but Niven had a bottle o’ whisky and we passed it around.”

“So what was Angus talking about?”

“Price o’ sheep. Usual crofter’s complaint.”

“Did he talk about Fergus?”

“Wait a bit. We was saying what a wee bastard the dustman was and Angus said something like, he was all right if you got on the right side of him.”

“Anything else?”

“No, then we had to go out to the fishing. He said he would walk home. I said, that’s a fair walk, and he said he was used to it and with petrol prices going up, we’d all have to learn to walk like in the old days. He left about seven o’clock.”

“They think from the contents of the stomach that Fergus was killed some time later that evening. Someone must have heard something. This is a village. Someone must have been looking out.”

“Inspector Morse was on television. That waud be from eight o’clock to ten.”

“The whole o’ Lochdubh can’t have been watching Inspector Morse.”

“If my ain wife wouldnae miss it, then no one else is going to.”

Momentarily amused by the fact that the Highland villagers should find murder and mayhem in the Oxford colleges so enthralling, Hamish then said, “So you got the impression that Fergus was friendly with Angus?”

“I couldnae say for sure. But he was the only one of us not to have a hard word to say for Fergus.”

“And how’s Callum McSween coping?”

“He’s different. He’s such a cheery man that we thought, well why not put the damn things in the right bins. If Fergus had been like him, we’d all have gone along with it.”

Hamish walked back to the police station. Clarry was out. Hamish hoped he was working and not wandering around the shelves of Patel’s store, planning elaborate meals. He fed Lugs and sat down in the police office, turning over and over the little he knew. If nothing broke, then he was going to be obliged to turn the letters over to Blair. Then he suddenly thought of Mrs. Fleming. To interfere at such cost in the sanitation of a small Highland village surely betrayed some fanaticism. He looked up as Jimmy Anderson strolled in.

“No Blair?” asked Hamish.

“No, and my feet are sore. It’s a small village. I decided to go round everyone myself, but your man, Clarry, always seemed to have been there just before me.”

“What about Mrs. Fleming?”

“That tart? What about her?”

“I keep wondering what’s behind all this greening o’ Lochdubh.”

Jimmy grinned. “I know, you think she thought Fergus wasn’t doing his job so she hit him with the hammer.”

“Sounds daft. But what do we know of her?”

“She was just an ordinary councillor. Then suddenly she gets promoted to Director of the Environment. Rumour has it the provost got into her knickers.”

“My, my. I might have a word wi’ her if it’s not interfering with your investigations.”

“Interfere all you like. I’m needed back in Strathbane. Let me know what you get.”

♦

Hamish left a note on the kitchen table for Clarry to walk his dog and then got into the Land Rover. He slowed to a crawl as he passed the schoolhouse. A beautiful vision was standing by a removal van supervising the arrival of furniture. Her lovely features were surrounded by a cloud of black hair. Her eyes were large and blue. She had a perfect figure and long, long legs. Hamish grinned. The new schoolteacher had arrived. If he got back early enough, he would invite her out to dinner and hope that word would get back to Priscilla.

♦

In Strathbane, he learned that Mrs. Fleming was too busy to see him for another hour. He passed the time wandering about, looking at the shops. He was heading back to the council offices when he suddenly saw Priscilla. She was looking in a jeweller’s window with Jerry. Hamish’s heart plummeted. Were they choosing a ring? He walked away quickly before they could see him. Then he glanced at his watch. Time to visit the formidable Mrs. Fleming.

“Sit down, Officer,” was her cold greeting. She eyed the tall, lanky sergeant with disfavour. “I have already spoken at length to your superiors from headquarters. What do you want?”

Hamish sat down opposite her and put his peaked cap on the desk. “I am examining all points of this case. To go back to the beginning, why did you choose Lochdubh for this greening experiment when Strathbane is more in need of it?”

“I am passionate about the environment. Strathbane is a massive project. I wanted to start the experiment with somewhere smaller. Somewhere that would look good on the television cameras.”

“Television?”

“Yes, don’t you see? It pays to advertise. Lochdubh is a picturesque village. When it appears on the screens, people in the Highlands will feel compelled to follow the good example.”

“They may have more important news to cover than the cleaning up of a Highland village,” said Hamish maliciously. “Like the odd war or two.”

“I thought of that,” she said, leaning forward. “We are now in August, and August is traditionally a quiet time for news. I have the press handouts ready. I will be arriving in Lochdubh with the councillors and provost, and I will make a speech to the cameras.”

Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. Oh my, thought Hamish, a star is born.

“Fergus Macleod was not popular,” said Hamish. “In fact, he was so unpopular that the villagers were not putting their garbage in the correct receptacles. They are now.”

Her eyes became steely. “Are you daring to suggest that I might have murdered some dustman because the project was not working out?”

“Of course not,” said Hamish quickly. “I’m just asking questions here and there and trying to build up a picture.”

“Then may I suggest you get back to your village where the murder took place and get on with your job in the right location? The murderer must be found. Fergus Macleod was as dedicated to the environment as I am myself.”

Hamish eyed her curiously. “If I may say so, Mrs. Fleming, it is my humble opinion that you would look well on television.”

She cast her eyes down in false modesty. Then she said, “Whether I look good or not, that is beside the point. I wish to do my best for the environment.”

Liar, thought Hamish. He stood up. “When is this ceremony to be?”

“Next week, on Wednesday. I hope the weather will be fine. Perhaps you could ask the fishermen to deck their boats with flags? And perhaps it might be in order to give me some sort of presentation from the grateful villagers. Just a large box. There doesn’t need to be anything in it. Just for the cameras. And perhaps a pretty wee lassie to give me some flowers.”

Hamish nodded and left. What a monumental ego, he thought with wonder. But would she kill just to get her face on the telly? Television seemed to affect people like a drug. Look at the Jerry Springer Show. How could people humiliate themselves in such a way, and all to get their faces in front of the cameras.

He realised he had not asked her where she was on the night Fergus was killed. He half turned and then turned back. She would rant and rave that he was accusing her and report him to Blair. He nodded to Mrs. Fleming’s secretary, who was sitting at a desk in an adjoining room. She was a small neat girl with a white face, small eyes and large red mouth.

Hamish paused in front of her desk and decided to take a gamble. “Must be awful, a pretty lass like you, working for that old dragon,” he said.

She let out a scared little giggle. “Shh, she’ll hear you!”

Hamish leaned over the desk. “Would you be free for a drink this evening?”

“Maybe.”

“When do you finish?”

“Five o’clock.”

“What about then?”

She giggled again. “Oh, all right.”

“I’ll see you in the cocktail bar of the Grand just after five.”

The phone on her desk rang. “All right,” she said again.

Hamish went off. It would be interesting to quiz the secretary and find out more about Mrs. Fleming.