Death of a Dustman

∨ Death of a Dustman ∧

7

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death.

—William Shakespeare

As Hamish returned to the police station, he could hear a whirring sound coming closer. He shielded his eyes and looked up at the sky. A helicopter was coming in to land behind the hotel. There was only the pilot in it.

He phoned Jimmy Anderson. “Look, there’s been a bit of a new development. Is there any chance of getting a search warrant for the new hotel?”

“You’d need a rock solid reason. What is it?”

“It’s just that I’ve been given the impression that Fergus thought he was onto big money, and the only big money around is Ionides, the new owner.”

“And that’s all you’ve got?”

“Well, not only that, but he’s got a shady record.”

“But nothing criminal. We went into all that. I told you, Hamish, you’re that desperate it should turn out to be an outsider that you’re clutching at straws. The answer is no, sonny, and there’s something else you should be thinking of.”

“What’s that?”

“If he thought he had a big cheese to blackmail, why aren’t you thinking of Colonel Halburton-Smythe?”

Hamish fell silent.

“Well?” demanded Jimmy. “Or is it that your girl friend’s father is beyond suspicion?”

“She’s not my girl friend,” said Hamish hotly. “I am looking into all aspects of the case, that’s all.”

“Get me something concrete on Ionides, and I’ll have your search warrant. There’s something wrong about you and this case, Hamish. I think your mind’s beginning to wander. Not holding out on me, are you?”

“No, no,” lied Hamish, now anxious to get off the phone. “I’ll let you know if there’s anything further.”

He sat chewing his knuckles in a sudden fit of nerves. What if he really was clutching at straws? What if Priscilla’s father should turn out to be guilty?

There was a knock at the kitchen door. Hamish went to answer it, sure that it would not turn out to be any stranger. They always knocked at the front door.

Josie Darling was standing there when he opened it.

“What is it?” asked Hamish.

“Can I come in?”

He stood back. She hobbled into the kitchen on stiletto heels and sat down in a chair. “You’ve been asking people if they remembered anything?”

“Aye.”

“Well, I didn’t think much of it cos I was so terrified about everyone finding out about me and Murdo. But there was one little thing.”

“What?”

“I was down on the waterfront…”

“When?”

“Two days before Fergus disappeared.”

“And…”

“I saw him with Callum McSween.”

“So?”

“He was jeering at Callum and saying he knew Callum would soon be broke, and Fergus was bragging about his new salary and saying that he bet Callum would like some money like that, and Callum said, “Get away from me or I’ll break your neck.””

“And you never thought to tell me afore this!”

“Like I said, I was frightened that folks would find out my wedding was off. I remembered and told Mother, and Mother said it was funny Callum hadn’t gone for work at the new hotel like a lot of other people because they were paying labourers good money.”

“Thanks, Josie, I’ll look into it.”

“Do you think Callum killed Fergus for his job?”

“I doubt it. Callum was recommended by me. But I’ll have a word with him. He should have told me about the row with Fergus.”

Hamish saw her out. Then he got into the Land Rover and drove up to Callum’s croft.

Callum and his wife were sitting in their kitchen eating steak and chips. The kitchen door was open so Hamish walked in.

“Welcome, Hamish,” said Callum. “Would you like some food?”

Hamish’s stomach gave another rumble. “No, I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an appointment.”

“So what brings you? Sit down, man, and take the weight off your feet.”

Hamish removed his peaked cap and sat down.

“Callum, why didn’t you tell me you had a row with Fergus?”

Callum looked awkward. “Care for a dram?”

“No, Callum. What was it about, and why didn’t you tell me?”

Callum looked down at the table and pushed his food around his plate with his fork.

“Somehow he’d found out I was in financial trouble, and he knew I’d failed to get a job at the hotel.”

“Wait a bit. You didn’t get a job at the new hotel? Why? A lot of it is chust plain labouring.”

“I don’t know why. I was interviewed by that Greek.”

“Ionides?”

“Yes, him.”

“Funny, you’d think he’d have a manager or have got that secretary of his to do the hiring.”

“It was himself. And he said he was pleased to be giving work to the locals knowing how we’d all suffered with the drop in the price of sheep.”

“And then?”

“He said he didn’t want any of the carpets or furnishings or building materials wandering off. He said he knew us Highlanders had a reputation for theft. I got a wee bit angry. I said I had never taken anything in my life that didn’t belong to me. I said if there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it wass a crook. I said, furthermore, if I knew of anyone getting up to any crookery. I would report that man to the police.”

“And he said?”

“He said he had other people to see, and he would let me know. I wrote down my name, address and phone number. I neffer heard a word after that. I went to the hotel and that Miss Stathos told me they already had enough employees. Man, I wass sick to my stomach. When you got me the dustman’s job, it seemed like a miracle.”

“Look here, Callum. You should ha’ told me this afore.”

“I didn’t want to,” Callum mumbled. “It might look bad for me, me having had words with the man and then him getting murdered. That Fleming woman might have sacked me. Do you need to put in a report, Hamish?”

Hamish buried his head in his hands. He had kept secrets from headquarters before, but never so many. He raised his head. “I’ll let you know, Callum. I’ll let you know.”

♦

Hamish then drove to the Tommel Castle Hotel. Priscilla met him at the entrance. “He’s up in my apartment,” she said. “Follow me.”

Priscilla had an apartment at the top of the hotel. The one concession to modernity the colonel would not make was installing a lift, and so they trudged up the stairs. “Has he said anything?” asked Hamish.

Priscilla shook her blonde head. “Not to me. He’s waiting for you.”

In her small sitting room, the colonel was waiting, tweedy and defiant. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” he growled. “I thought the man was poaching and gave him a bawling out.” But his eyes shifted away from Hamish’s face.

Hamish took a gamble. “I have to hear it all from you in your own words. You were overheard.”

The colonel turned red and stared at the floor.

“So you’d better tell me,” said Hamish gently.

The colonel raised his head and became all man–to–man bluff geniality. “You’re a friend of the family, Hamish. There’s no need for this to go any further.”

“Tell me.”

“That new hotel,” said the colonel. “Fergus told me he had proof that they were going to poison my river, take my staff, things like that.”

“What proof?”

“He said he had a fax from someone in London to Ionides.”

“So why did you not come straight to me?”

There was a silence. The colonel stared at his highly polished shoes.

“Come on,” urged Hamish. “Out with it!”

“He offered to sell me the fax. I told him to get lost. I told him he could rot in hell.”

“But why didn’t you come to me with this? And if Fergus had such proof, why didn’t he demand money from Ionides to keep quiet?”

“I’m coming to that,” said the colonel sulkily. “I went straight to see Ionides. Seems a charming chap. He said that Fergus had already been to see him. He said there was no such fax and that Fergus was a fantasist, his brain addled by the drink. He took me on a tour of the hotel and pointed out mine was more a country house place, and, besides, he didn’t have the fishing or shooting that I had. He said he was going in for tourists, conventions, coach parties, stuff like that. We got on very well. I mean, who was I going to believe? A reputable hotel owner or a drunken dustman?”

Hamish stared at him, amazed. “But didn’t you think, when Fergus was murdered, that he might be onto something?”

“But I couldn’t say anything then,” said the colonel. “The police would have wondered why I didn’t come forward. Also, I didn’t think for a minute it could be anything to do with Ionides. Men of his substance don’t need to go round bumping off people. I thought it was probably Fergus’s wife. Anyway, I decided to sit tight.”

“By sitting tight,” said Hamish wrathfully, “you may have caused the death of Angus Ettrik.”

“That’s a bit far-fetched.”

Hamish clutched his head.

“Look,” he said, “I’m going to have to put in a full report. I wanted a search warrant for Ionides’s office, and you have given me reason to get one.”

“Couldn’t you keep it quiet?” pleaded the colonel. “You’ll make me look like an awful fool. I mean, do you think Fergus really had such a fax?”

“Yes, I do, and I wonder what became of it. I’m sorry. I have a whole lot of stuff to tell headquarters in the morning, and a lot of people are going to get hurt.”

The colonel got to his feet and marched to the door. “Your trouble, Hamish Macbeth,” he said, “is you have no loyalty.”

When her father had gone out, slamming the door behind him, Priscilla sank down wearily into an armchair and groaned. “What a mess. Do you really have to report him, Hamish?”

“There’s a lot more than your father I have to report, Priscilla.”

“The thing is,” said Priscilla, “why did Fergus go to Father?”

“That’s easy. He tries to blackmail Ionides and is told to get lost. Maybe he finds Ionides a bit frightening. So he tries to get money out of the colonel. He may have taken a copy of the fax. He may have thought he’d hit the jackpot and that he could get money out of both. The thing that worries me is that I’m pretty damn sure there’s not an incriminating piece of paper in that office of his. It’s no use getting Callum to search through all the hotel rubbish for papers. After Fergus’s approach, they probably learned to burn anything incriminating. Och, what a mess!”

“Who else are you covering up for?”

“Priscilla, I’m that hungry. I’ll tell you if you get me some food.”

“Wait there.”

Hamish lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. He was depressed and weary. I’m losing my touch, he thought. Dammit, I’m losing my brains. Where have I got for covering up for people? What if it isn’t Ionides? But it’s bound to be.

He fell into a light sleep and jerked himself awake when Priscilla came in bearing a tray of sandwiches and a pot of coffee.

“Your policeman is doing wonders in the kitchen. He’s a natural. He must be earning a bit as well. Three of the diners have sent him their compliments along with a tip. I’ve never known that to happen before.”

She sat down and waited until Hamish had wolfed down all the sandwiches.

“So what’s been going on?” she asked.

Hamish began at the beginning, telling her all about the letters, all about the blackmail, about how the new schoolteacher had lied.

Priscilla waited until he had finished. He had expected her to call him a fool, forgetting that his lingering resentment at Priscilla often put words into her mouth that she never used.

Then she said calmly, “I don’t really see what else you could do.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I mean, think about it, Hamish, you’ve always managed to succeed by using your intuition rather than your brain.”

Hamish winced.

“You know what I mean. You must have had a gut feeling that no one in this village would kill one of their own. I’m thinking of Angus. But I see your dilemma. You really can’t hold out any longer. But when you get permission for this police search, a whole team will come from Strathbane, and we can leak it to the press. A stink like that will hurt Ionides’s trade and might make any of the staff who’ve decided to leave us think again.”

Hamish’s face brightened and then fell. “But I can’t help thinking of poor Mrs. McClellan and Mrs. Docherty, dragged off to Strathbane to be grilled by Blair.”

“Someone told me he was ill.”

“I’ll bet he’s back on duty and nastier than ever. That man’s got the most resilient kidneys and liver in the world. If he dies and there’s ever an autopsy and they take those organs out, they’ll be able to bounce them along the floor like rubber balls.”

“We must try to think of something,” said Priscilla.

Despite his worry, Hamish was warmed by that ‘we.’

“Somehow,” Priscilla went on, “we’ve got to think of a way of finding a bit of proof within the next few hours.”

“It is a self-imposed deadline, Priscilla. I could always put it off for another day.”

“I don’t think you can put off Father’s bit of proof. I know he’ll be in trouble, but Ionides mustn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

They sat in silence. If only this case were solved, thought Hamish. If only we could sit here like in the old days.

Priscilla sat up straight. “The bottle bank,” she said. “The one with the paper.”

“What about it?”

“I went to Patel’s last Sunday to buy the papers, and you know what the Sunday papers are like, full of stuff nobody wants to read, supplement after supplement. They’ve got as big as American papers. I remember reading once that there was a newspaper strike in New York, and they sold the British papers on the street, and one man lifted a whole pile thinking it must be like The New York Times, and the bundle he took must be all the one paper. Anyway, I put the papers in the car and took out all the bits I didn’t want to read to put in the bottle bank. There was even an article in one about saving the forests, and yet I had a whole tree’s worth to throw away.”

“Where’s this leading, Priscilla?”

“The bottle bank was full. It hadn’t been emptied.”

“You mean, any stuff from the hotel might have been shoved in there?”

“It’s a long shot.” Priscilla sank back in her chair. “But the bottle bank weighs a ton. How could we ever get the stuff out?”

“Tarn Gillespie over at Braikie’s got a crane.”

“The phone’s over there, Hamish. Let’s get started.”

“Won’t Ionides smell a rat when he sees all the activity?”

“Someone said he took off in his helicopter. With any luck, he won’t be back until morning at the latest.”

“Right!” Hamish sat down at Priscilla’s desk and pulled the phone towards him. He phoned Tarn Gillespie. “Tarn, it’s Hamish here. It’s an emergency. I need you to bring your crane down to Lochdubh to lift up the bottle bank. There’s evidence in there that might save some people in the village from a lot of trouble.”

A voice quacked at the other end. Hamish turned to Priscilla. “He says he can lift it up, but we’ll need something to open it at the bottom.”

“A crowbar,” said Priscilla calmly. Hamish turned back to the phone. “Chust bring the crane along, Tarn. We’ll do the rest.” He replaced the receiver and then said, “Now we need searchers.”

“Let’s go for broke and get out the whole village,” said Priscilla. “Move over. I’m going to phone Mrs. Wellington.”

“She’ll never go for anything illegal like this!”

“She will if I ask her.”

Priscilla changed places with Hamish and dialled the number of the minister’s wife. “Mrs Wellington,” began Priscilla. “We – that is, Hamish Macbeth and myself – are having the bottle bank with the papers opened up. We need to collect any correspondence to the new hotel for evidence.”

Hamish heard Mrs. Wellington’s booming voice asking questions. “If we don’t,” said Priscilla when the voice at the other end of the line had finally fallen silent, “then some of our own could be under suspicion. I feel we all have a God-given duty to help the righteous.” Priscilla winked at Hamish.

Then Hamish heard her say: “That’s very good of you. The fishermen? But they’re out at the fishing. Oh, I’ll tell Hamish.”

When she rang off, she said, “We’ll need to be quick. The fishermen haven’t gone out because there’s a storm forecast.”

“Good, let me have the phone, and I’ll call Archie and get the men rounded up.”

After Hamish had given Archie instructions, he said, “I’d better get going.”

“I’m coming with you. Wait till I find a sweater.”

When Priscilla and Hamish drove down into Lochdubh, figures were appearing at doors of cottages. Other figures were making their way along the waterfront towards the bottle bank. It looked as if the whole village was on the move.

They gathered around the bottle bank. Hamish stood up on the seawall beside the bottle bank and said, “I am looking for any correspondence to do with the new hotel. I need your help to go through everything and give me anything you can find.”

In the faces looking up at him in the starlight, he saw Mrs. McClellan, Mrs. Docherty and Josie Darling. He had a momentary pang of doubt. But then he steeled himself. It must be Ionides.

They waited in silence. Hamish began to fret. “Where is that crane?” he asked Priscilla.

“It’ll be here soon,” said Priscilla in a comforting voice. “Remember, his top speed is probably ten miles an hour.”

Archie Maclean looked up at the starry sky. “I think that forecast got it wrong,” he grumbled. “Not even a breath of wind.”

Still they waited. The crowd began to murmur and shift restlessly.

Then they could hear the drone of an engine coming over the hills and soon the small crane driven by Tarn came into view, its long neck nodding like some prehistoric creature.

Tarn jumped down and surveyed the bottle bank. “It’s a big beastie,” he said. “You break my crane, Hamish, and you’ll have to pay for a new one.”

They all waited while Tarn started to operate the crane. “You’ll need to reach up and fix the ring o’ the bank to the crane.”

Hamish leapt up on the harbour wall again and fixed the hook of the crane on to the ring on the top of the bottle bank. The bell-shaped bank swung up and over. Tarn switched off his engine. “Now what?” he called.

Hamish stood on tiptoe and studied the underside of the bank. “We need a crowbar.”

“Here,” said Priscilla, handing one up to him. “I put it in the car before we left.”

Hamish was always amazed at Priscilla’s efficiency. “I’ll need something to stand on,” he called, almost as if he expected Priscilla to produce a ladder from her handbag.

“I’ll get a ladder,” shouted Archie. They waited until he came back with a metal stepladder. Hamish climbed up. Callum didn’t have the necessary tools to release the bottom of the bottle bank. The bank was to be cleared separately by men from Strathbane. He sweated and strained until Geordie Liddell, champion caber tosser, shouted, “Gie me a try, Hamish.”

Hamish relinquished his place to Geordie.

Geordie climbed up the stepladder, which creaked under his great weight. He gave a gigantic thrust at the crowbar. There was a crack. The bottom of the bank opened and papers hurtled down to the ground.

“Don’t rush!” shouted Mrs. Wellington, coming forward. “We’ll put all this stuff into bundles, and then we’ll all start searching.”

“A bottle of whisky to anyone who finds hotel correspondence,” said Hamish.

They all crowded forward, paying no heed to Mrs. Wellington, and began searching. “Can’t see a thing,” someone said. People left for their cottages and returned carrying torches and hurricane lamps. Some women carried a trestle table out from the church hall and other women started laying out cups and cutting sandwiches.

“It’s getting like a party,” mourned Hamish to Priscilla.

“Just keep searching,” said Priscilla.

Time passed. After an hour, Hamish looked up at the sky. Black clouds were beginning to stream across the stars, although there was still no wind at ground level.

The papers that had been searched were being laid aside, newspapers, letters, comics, but nothing from the hotel.

“It was a good idea, Priscilla,” groaned Hamish. “But there’s practically nothing left, and now I’m in bad trouble for having wrecked a bottle bank.”

“That bottle bank swung out in an arc,” said Priscilla. “Maybe some of the stuff went over the harbour wall.”

Hamish thrust his torch in his pocket and vaulted over the harbour wall and down onto the stony shore of the sea loch. He took out his torch and swung it in a wide arc.

Then he saw a large manila envelope lying near the water. He walked to it and picked it up. Holding his torch under his armpit, he opened the envelope. It was stuffed with letters and faxes, headed IONIDES PLC. He sat down on the shingle and began to go through them.

Then he found one from Ionides’s London office. “Dear George,” he read. “How’s the work on the hotel going? I mean, your rival. I know you’re mad about fishing, but it’s an expensive gamble, and what if them up at the Tommel Castle carry on regardless, even after you’ve pinched their staff and poisoned their water? Besides, you’ll be stuck with two hotels in the back of beyond. Then what about that other business? Are you sure the police aren’t sniffing around? To risk so much just for fishing! Anyway, let me know if I can help. Your loving brother, Harry.”

He tucked it carefully into his pocket and read the others. There was a fax. “Dear Harry. Everything is OK. Don’t worry. The police here are morons and the one in this village is subnormal. Come up, soon. Once I get the Tommel Castle, I can restock the river. Love, George.”

“Gotcha!” said Hamish.

He ran to the wall and heaved himself up over the top. “It’s all right, folks,” he called. “I’ve got what I wanted.”

“What did you find?” asked Priscilla.

“One incriminating letter. One incriminating fax. I’ll have Jimmy and the boys up here in the morning.”

People were yawning and drifting away.

“What about all this paper?” demanded Mrs. Wellington.

“We’ll see to it in the morning,” said Hamish.

Tarn released his crane from the bell bank and then backed off, shouting a warning. The great bell bank fell to the ground with a hollow clang and rolled on its side and then lay there, mouth gaping.

“I’ll be down in the morning,” said Priscilla. “Don’t worry about running me home, Hamish. Mrs. Wellington says if you want to phone, she’ll take me back.”

Hamish nodded and then sprinted for the police station. He phoned Jimmy at home and rapidly described what he had found. “Grand!” said Jimmy. “Got the bastard. I’ll be along with the men in the morning, and I’ll hae a search warrant.”

“I don’t think Ionides is back yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll get that secretary of his to open up everything.”

“What time will you be here?”

“The earliest I can manage.”

“I’m beat. I’ll set the alarm.”

Hamish stretched and yawned. There was a pile of fax paper lying by the machine. He could see it was headed STRATHBANE COUNCIL. That damn woman again. She could wait.

♦

As Hamish slept with Lugs curled against his side and through the wall Clarry, unaware of the drama, slept as well, the wind of Sutherland rose outside. It hurtled down the waterfront. Paper danced elaborate entrechats in the air. Paper stuck to fences and garden walls. Paper hung from lamp standards. And then, as if satisfied with the chaos it had caused, the wind roared away to the east and a quiet dawn rose above Lochdubh.

♦

Mrs. Freda Fleming sat at her dressing table in the morning, anxiously surveying her makeup. It was certainly very heavy, but she would look all right on camera. She had tried to contact Hamish Macbeth the day before but had failed to get him. She had then phoned Callum, who had reported that the village looked clean and neat. Anyway, she had faxed Macbeth exact instructions of what was to be expected. She hoped he had found a photogenic child to present the bouquet. It was a pity the London papers had shown no interest, but Grampian television had said they would cover the Greening of Lochdubh. The local papers were coming, and some of the Glasgow newspapers were sending their local men. She had memorised her speech over and over again. She had been worried about the weather, but it was a beautiful morning.

♦

Hamish was awakened by a ferocious knocking at the door. He opened it and found an excited Jimmy Anderson on the step. “Come on, Hamish, and see the fun. That secretary, Miss Stathos, is yelling and shouting in Greek.”

“Be with you in a minute.”

Hamish washed and dressed. He went out of the station and then blinked at the mess of paper all over Lochdubh. Well, they could all clear it up later.

♦

Tom Stein groaned as his alarm clock went off. He covered the Highlands for the Glasgow Morning News. He had a sour mouth and a blinding hangover, and he remembered he was supposed to get over to Lochdubh and cover some dreary cleanup campaign thought up by that poisonous Fleming woman. He shaved and dressed and then drank two Alka Seltzers, wincing at the noise as the tablets fizzed in the water. In this modem age, he thought bitterly, Alka Seltzer should by now have invented a silent tablet.

He was a middle-aged man with a thin face marred by lines of disappointment. As an elderly actor will take part in yet another crowd scene and dream of glory, so Tom dreamed of having a scoop, having his name on the front of the London papers. But he suffered disappointment after disappointment. Hadn’t he sent the first reports of the murder in Lochdubh? But the Glasgow Morning News had sent up their own man, and anything he had written had been incorporated into the staff man’s story. Tom was a freelancer. He sometimes got a few items in the other papers, but only the Glasgow Morning News paid him a retainer.

He drank a cup of black coffee and shuddered. He certainly wasn’t going to hit the headlines with this one. There was a knock at the door of his little bungalow, situated in what had once been a respectable suburb of Strathbane but which was going rapidly downhill.

It was his photographer, an equally tired and perpetually disappointed man called Paul Anstruther.

“You ready to go?” asked Paul.

“May as well, but if they publish one line, I’ll shoot myself in surprise.”

♦

“Nothing,” said Jimmy in disgust. “But thanks to you, Hamish, we can charge him with intent to ruin the Tommel Castle. But, man, we cannae charge him with murder.”

A crowd had gathered to watch the police activity. Jimmy had actually arrived at six in the morning. It was now eight and Lochdubh was coming alive.

Josie Darling noticed Geordie Liddell standing at the edge of the crowd in full Highland regalia. She went up to him. “You off to the Games?”

“Yes,” said Geordie. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know. Will you be tossing the caber?”

“Aye, and throwing the hammer.”

“Is the hammer very heavy?”

“Weighs a ton,” said Geordie. “I’ve got it in the Jeep. I’ll show you.”

He went to his Jeep and returned swinging the long, heavy, metal hammer. “Try lifting it, Josie.”

“I can’t.” She giggled. “My, but you’re strong!”

Geordie grinned and flexed his muscles under his green velvet jacket. Then he heard Hamish shouting, “I hear a helicopter.” The crowd fell silent.

♦

“It’s so damn early in the morning,” groaned Tom Stein as he and his photographer got into a minibus marked PRESS.

“Are we the only ones?” asked Paul Anstruther.

“Looks like it,” said Tom wearily. “That biddy Fleming is trying to plead with them to wait for more, but it’s just you and me.”

The cavalcade moved off. In the front limousine, Mrs. Freda Fleming was doggedly trying to look on the bright side. “I know that at the moment we only have the representatives from the Glasgow Morning News,” she said to the small figure of the provost, who was sitting next to her. “But mark my words, the others will be making their own way there.”

The provost, Mr. Jamie Ferguson, shifted uneasily. “It’s an awful lot of money we’ve been putting out on this. The Labour Party is cracking down on wasteful councils. They’ll have something to say about this.”

“It isn’t really costing anything,” said Mrs Fleming. “I mean, I sent the constable full instructions. Lochdubh will bear the expense of the celebrations.”

“If I know Lochdubh,” said the provost gloomily, “then they’ll send us a bill.”

“They can try,” snapped Mrs. Fleming. She rapped on the glass. “Go faster, driver, we’re running late.”

“I’m in trouble, Freda,” said the provost. “The other members of the council want rid of you.”

“They cannot sack me. I am an elected Labour representative.”

“Aye, but they want to give the job of environment officer to someone else.”

“That is ridiculous. To whom?”

“To Jessie Camber.”

“What? That blowsy blonde who goes around flashing her tits? Over my dead body.”

The provost sighed and settled down into an escapist dream in which the murderer of Lochdubh, who everyone knew was still at large, would murder Mrs. Freda Fleming. But the dream didn’t last very long and reality set in. What on earth had ever possessed him to spend a night with her? She would never let him forget it. He shuddered at the thought of his wife finding out. His wife was remarkably like Mrs. Fleming, being well-upholstered and domineering.

♦

In the press bus, the photographer, Paul, was saying to Tom, “The next time I’m sent on a job like this, I won’t even bother to put film in the camera.”

“Come on,” said Tom. “Something could happen.”

“You’re always saying that,” replied Paul. “You’ve been saying it for years.”

“Look, there’s been two murders in Lochdubh. Maybe we could find out a story.”

“Huh,” snorted Paul. But he checked his camera and, by force of habit, focused it out the window. A dismal-looking sheep stared back.

♦

The crowd on the waterfront at Lochdubh stared up at the helicopter. It came lower. They could clearly see Ionides sitting beside the pilot. The pilot pointed down.

“They’re getting away,” shouted Hamish as the helicopter rose and began to head out over the loch.

“Stand back!” yelled Geordie in a great voice.

He began to swing his long hammer. Round and round he went, faster and faster, the skirts of his kilt swinging out. Then he let go.

The hammer sailed up and towards the helicopter in a great arc. It was a throw that was to be talked about for years to come. The hammer sheered straight through two of the rotary blades on the helicopter.

The helicopter spiralled down over the loch. Hamish could see the sheer terror on Ionides’s face as the craft struck the black waters of Lochdubh. The pilot got his door open just before the helicopter struck the water, Ionides seemed trapped in his seat. The last they saw of him he was struggling frantically with the door as the water flooded in.

Hamish pulled off his navy blue police sweater and shirt and dragged off his trousers and unlaced his boots and dived into the loch.

Then Jimmy Anderson could see Hamish struggling with the pilot. “Help him,” he shouted to his men. But at that moment Hamish rose in the water and punched the pilot full on the chin and then dragged the unconscious body towards the shore, where five policemen ran down to help him.

“What about the other one?” panted Hamish.

“We’ll need to get the divers down,” said one.

“What’s going on?” shouted Tom as their minibus stopped on the waterfront. Paul darted out the bus with his camera. He pushed and elbowed his way through people in the crowd, who were staring up at a helicopter. Then he saw them back off as Geordie began to swing his hammer. He clicked and clicked. His heart beat with excitement. Then he took the picture that was to go right round the world as the hammer sailed through the rotary blades of the helicopter.

Behind him, Tom’s impeccable shorthand was flying across the pages of his notebook.

Paul was now clicking away at Hamish and the pilot in the loch. He ran down the beach to catch pictures of Hamish landing the unconscious pilot on the beach. As Hamish wearily turned to walk up the beach, in his vest and underpants, Paul, who had moved behind him to get another shot of the pilot, suddenly saw that Hamish had a large hole in the back of his underpants. That photo was to appear on the front of a London tabloid under the heading, ARE WE PAYING OUR POLICE ENOUGH?

Tom ran up to him. “Get up there,” he shouted. “Get the Fleming woman’s face.”

Screams were sounding along the waterfront. Mrs. Freda Fleming was blind to the mayhem that was going on around her. She was staring at the mess that was Lochdubh. Paper was festooned everywhere.

She saw Hamish approaching and ran up to him, screaming, “You bastard! You did this deliberately!” As Paul gleefully raised his camera, she smacked Hamish Macbeth full across the face. With a reflex action that Hamish was to regret for a long time, he smacked her back, and she burst into noisy sobs.

♦

It was to be a long day. Geordie was under arrest. “Why?” demanded Hamish furiously. “All he did was stop a murderer from escaping.”

“Hamish,” said Jimmy patiently, “we still have no proof that Ionides murdered anyone.”

“I ordered Geordie to throw that hammer,” said Hamish.

“You what?”

“I ordered Geordie to throw that hammer,” lied Hamish stubbornly.

“Man, do you know what you are saying? I’ll need to suspend you from your duties, and Blair will have you off the force.”

The two were in police headquarters in Strathbane.

“Get back to your police station,” said Jimmy. “We’re about to grill the Stathos woman, and you’d better pray she cracks and comes up with something.”

Priscilla called round at the police station that evening to find Hamish moodily sitting in his living room with his dog on his lap.

“I did knock,” said Priscilla.

“Sit down,” said Hamish wearily. “I’m in bad trouble.”

“But you got that pilot, and the divers fished Ionides’s corpse out of the water.”

“There’s no proof he committed either of the murders. Blair’s interviewing the pilot and that secretary. I hope one of them comes up with something. It’s the first time in my life I’ve prayed that Blair is at his nastiest. Then that Fleming woman. God, she lands in the middle of a police operation, and all she can do is scream about the mess of paper in Lochdubh. What’s that box?”

“It’s my sewing kit. Hamish, television wasn’t there but a photographer was. So television news has been showing still photographs of Geordie throwing the hammer, but there was another photograph of you on the beach with your bum hanging out of your underpants.”

Hamish covered his face with his hands. “What next?”

Priscilla laughed. “Didn’t Mrs. Macbeth always tell you to wear decent underwear in case you had an accident? Bring your stuff in and let’s go through it.”

“I am not in the mood to haff my underwear examined,” said Hamish huffily.

“Oh, go on. We’re not doing anything else. I’m afraid to tell you that Clarry is up at the hotel. I think you’ve lost a policeman.”

“What does it matter? I’ve lost my job.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got the croft and my sheep.”

“That won’t support you, and you’ll need to leave the police station. You can stay at the hotel if you like until you figure something out.”

“That’s good of you, but I think your father will have something to say about that.”

“He’s so relieved you didn’t tell the police about him that he’ll be happy to let you sleep anywhere. You didn’t, did you?”

Hamish shook his head. “I’m glad I’m popular with someone. Someone’s at the door. Could you see who it is and send them away, Priscilla?”

“Right. Wait there.”

He could hear the murmur of Priscilla’s voice and then the shutting of the kitchen door. She came back bearing a parcel and a large card. Hamish nudged Lugs off his lap and took the card and parcel. The card had a picture of an improbable Highland scene which looked more like Brigadoon than reality. The message simply said, “To Hamish, from the villagers of Lochdubh.”

Hamish opened up the parcel and found himself looking down at six sets of clean underwear.

“Well, well,” said Priscilla. “I won’t be needing my sewing kit after all!”