DEATH of a
DUSTMAN
The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip
Death of a Cad
Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife
Death of a Hussy
Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster
Death of a Glutton
Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man
Death of a Nag
Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist
Death of a Scriptwriter
Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas
Death of a Dustman
Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer
Death of a Maid
Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch
DEATH of a
DUSTMAN
A Hamish Macbeth Murder Mystery
M. C. BEATON
ROBINSON
London
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the USA by Grand Central Publishing,
a division of Hachette Book Group USA, Inc.
This edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
Copyright © M. C. Beaton 2002, 2009
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978-1-84901-078-8
Printed and bound in the EU
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
For Olivia and Gwenda Peters
with much love
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Chapter One
Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is – Love, forgive us! – cinders, ashes, dust.
– John Keats
They are still called dustmen in Britain. Not rubbish collectors or sanitation engineers. Just dustmen, as they were called in the days of George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion and Charles Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend.
Lochdubh’s dustman, Fergus Macleod, lived in a small run-down cottage at the back of the village with his wife, Martha, and four children. He was a sour little man, given to drunken binges, but as he timed his binges to fall between collection days, nobody paid him much attention. It was rumoured he had once been an accountant before he took to the drink. No one in the quiet Highland village in the county of Sutherland at the very north of Scotland could ever have imagined he was a sleeping monster, and one that was shortly about to wake up.
Mrs Freda Fleming had recently bullied her way on to Strathbane Council to become Officer for the Environment. This had been a position created for her to shut her up and keep her out of other council business. She was the only woman on the council. Her position in the chauvinist Highlands was due to the fact that the ambitious widow had seduced the provost – the Scottish equivalent of mayor – after a Burns Supper during which the normally rabbity little provost, Mr Jamie Ferguson, had drunk too much whisky.
Mrs Fleming nursed a private dream and that was to see herself on television. Her mirror showed a reflection of a well-upholstered woman of middle years with gold-tinted hair and a pugnacious face. Mrs Fleming saw in her glass someone several inches slimmer and with dazzling charisma. Her husband had died three years previously. He had been a prominent businessman in the community, running an electronics factory in Strathbane. His death from a heart attack had left Mrs Fleming a very wealthy widow, with burning ambition and time on her hands. At first she had accepted the post of Officer for the Environment with bad grace but had recently woken to the fact that Green was in – definitely in.
She figured if she could think up some grand scheme to improve the environment, the cameras would roll. She firmly believed she was born to be a television star. Strathbane was much in need of improvement. It was a blot on the Highlands, a sprawling town full of high rises, crime, unemployment and general filth. But it was too huge a task and not at all photogenic. She aimed for national television, and national television would go for something photogenic and typically Highland. Then she remembered Lochdubh, which she had visited once on a sunny day. She would ‘green’ Lochdubh.
One hot summer’s morning, she arrived in Lochdubh. The first thing she saw was smelly bags of rubbish lined up outside the church hall. This would not do. She swung round and glared along the waterfront. Her eye fell on the blue lamp of a police station, partly obscured by the rambling roses which tumbled over the station door.
She strode towards it and looked over the hedge. Hamish Macbeth, recently promoted to police sergeant, was playing in the garden with his dog, Lugs.
‘Ahem!’ said Mrs Fleming severely. ‘Where is the constable?’
Hamish was not in uniform. He was wearing an old checked shirt and baggy cords. The sun shone down on his flaming red hair and pleasant face.
He smiled at her. ‘I am Sergeant Macbeth. Can I help you?’
‘What has happened to Lochdubb?’ she demanded.
‘Lochdubh,’ corrected Hamish gently. ‘It’s pronounced Lochdoo.’
‘Whatever.’ Mrs Fleming did not like to be corrected. ‘Why is all that smelly rubbish outside the church hall?’
‘We had a fête to raise money for charity,’ said Hamish. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Mrs Freda Fleming, Officer for the Environment in Strathbane.’
‘Well, Mrs Fleming, like I was saying, it’s because of the fête, all that rubbish.’
‘So why hasn’t it been collected?’
‘Fergus Macleod, that’s the dustman, doesn’t collect anything outside collection day. That’s not for a couple of days’ time.’
‘We’ll see about that. Where does he live?’
‘If you go to Patel’s, the general store, and go up the lane at the side, you’ll find four cottages along the road at the back. It’s the last one.’
‘And why aren’t you in uniform?’
‘Day off,’ said Hamish, hoping she wouldn’t check up.
‘Very well. You will be seeing more of me. I plan to green Lochdubh.’ With that, she strode off
along the waterfront, leaving Hamish scratching his fiery hair in bewilderment. What on earth could she have meant? Perhaps trees or maybe gardens?
But he had enough problems to fill his brain without worrying about Mrs Fleming’s plans. Behind him and, he hoped, manning the police office was his new constable, Clarry Graham. Clarry was a lazy slob. He had never progressed from the ranks. He rarely washed and slopped around in a shiny old uniform.
Then there was the problem of the new hotel. The Lochdubh Hotel at the harbour had stood vacant for some years. It had recently been bought by a Greek entrepreneur, George Ionides. This meant work for the villagers and Hamish was glad of that, but on the other hand he was aware that a new hotel would take custom away from the Tommel Castle Hotel, run by Colonel Halburton-Smythe, whose glamorous daughter, Priscilla, had once been the love of his life.
He went into the police station followed by Lugs. Lugs is the Scottish for ‘ears’, and he had called the dog that because of its large ears. In the police station, the fat figure of Clarry was snoring gently behind the desk.
I should wake him up, thought Hamish, but what for? It’s as quiet as the grave these days. Clarry had strands of grey hair plastered across his pink scalp and a large grey moustache which rose and fell with every somnolent breath. He had a round pink face, like that of a prematurely aged baby. His chubby hands were folded across his stomach. The only thing in his favour was that he was a good cook and no one could call him mean. Most of his salary went on food – food which he was delighted to cook for Hamish as well as himself.
Oh, well, thought Hamish, closing the office door gently. I could have got someone worse.
Fergus was in the middle of one of his binges, and had he been at home Mrs Fleming would have seen to it that he lost his job. But Fergus was lying up in the heather on the moors, sleeping off his latest binge, so it was his wife, Martha, who answered the door. Martha had once been a pretty girl, but marriage, four children and multiple beatings had left her looking tired and faded. Her once thick black hair was streaked with grey and her eyes held a haunted look.
Mrs Fleming questioned her closely about her husband and fear prompted Martha to protect the horrible Fergus, for what would they live on if he lost his job? She said he was a hard worker, and the reason he collected the rubbish only once a week was because he had one of those old-fashioned trucks where everything had to be manually lifted into it by hand. Mrs Fleming was pleased by Martha’s timid, deferential air. She gave Martha her card and said that Fergus was to report to the council offices at eleven the following morning. ‘We must see about getting him a new truck,’ she said graciously. ‘I have plans for Lochdubh.’
After she had gone, Martha told her eldest, Johnny, to take care of the younger ones, and she then set out to look for her husband. By evening, she had almost given up and was leaning wearily over the hump-backed bridge over the River Anstey.
She found herself hoping that he was dead. That would be different from him losing his job. She could get her widow’s pension, and when the third child, Sean, was of school age, she could maybe work a shift at the new hotel if she could get someone to look after the baby. Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, had challenged her with the unsympathetic, ‘You must have known he was a drunk when you married him,’ but she had not. Certainly he seemed to like his dram like a lot of Highlanders. She had met him at a wedding in Inverness. He had said he was an accountant and working over at Dingwall. He had courted her assiduously. It was only after they were married and he had moved into the cottage she had inherited from her parents that it transpired he had no job and was a chronic drunk. It also transpired he really had been an accountant, but he had seemed to take a savage delight in becoming the village dustman. Then she sensed, rather than saw, his approach.
She swung round, her back to the parapet of the bridge. He came shambling towards her with that half-apologetic leer on his face that he always had when he had sobered up between binges.
‘Looking for me?’
‘Aye, a woman from the council in Strathbane called. Wants to see you in Strathbane on the morrow.’
‘Whit about?’
‘Didnae say. She left her card.’
‘You should’ve asked.’ Fergus had become wizened with drink, although only in his mid-forties. He had a large nose and watery eyes and a small prissy mouth. He had rounded shoulders and long arms, as if all the lifting of dustbins had elongated them. It was hard for Martha to think that she had loved him once.
‘I’d better go and see her,’ grumbled Fergus.
Martha shivered although the evening was balmy and warm. She had a feeling the bad times were coming. Then she chided herself for her fancies. How could the bad times come when they were already here?
Clarry slid a plate of steaming bouillabaisse in front of Hamish Macbeth. ‘Try that, sir,’ he ordered. ‘Nobody can make the bouillabaisse Strathbane.’
‘Aye, you’re a grand cook, Clarry,’ said Hamish, thinking he would settle for fish fingers and frozen chips if only Clarry would turn out to be a good policeman instead.
But the fish stew was delicious. ‘Did you ever think of going into the restaurant business?’ asked Hamish. ‘A genius like you shouldnae be wasting your talents in the police force. The Tommel Castle Hotel could do with a good chef.’
‘It’s not the same,’ said Clarry. ‘You go to them grand hotels and they would want ye to cut corners, skimp on the ingredients to save money.’ He ate happily.
‘There was a woman here from the council in Strathbane. Wanted to see Fergus.’
‘The drunk?’
‘Himself. Maybe you could do something for me, Clarry. I’ve tried, God knows. I’m pretty sure he beats that wife o’ his. Go along there tomorrow and see if you can get her on her own, and tell her she doesn’t need to put up with it.’
‘Domestics were never my scene,’ said Clarry, tearing off a hunk of bread and wiping the last of the soup from the bottom of his plate.
‘You’re a policeman,’ said Hamish sharply. ‘We don’t leave wives to be battered by their husbands any more.’
‘I’ll give it a try,’ said Clarry amiably. ‘Now when you’ve finished that, I’ve got a nice apple pie hot in the oven.’
Fergus drove over to Strathbane the following morning in the refuse truck. He was dressed in his only suit, a dark blue one, carefully brushed and cleaned by his wife. His sparse hair was brushed and oiled over his freckled pate.
He could feel anger rising up in him against the villagers of Lochdubh. One of them must have reported him for something. He would try to find out who it was and get even.
And so he drove on, one sour little cell of blackness hurtling through the glory of the summer Highlands, where the buzzards soared free above and the mountains and moors lay gentle in the mellow sun.
In Strathbane, he parked outside the square, concrete Stalinist block that was Strathbane Council offices. He gave his name at the reception desk and asked for Mrs Fleming.
A secretary arrived to lead him up the stairs to the first floor. Mrs Fleming had commandeered one of the best offices. Fergus was ushered in. His heart sank when he saw Mrs Fleming. Like most bullies, he was intimidated by other bullies, and in Mrs Fleming’s stance and hard eyes and by the very way those eyes were assessing him, he recognized a bully.
‘Sit down, Mr Macleod,’ said Mrs Fleming. ‘We are to discuss the greening of Lochdubh.’
Fergus’s now sober brain worked rapidly. This woman was one of those Greens. Very well. He would play up to her.
‘I’m aye keen of doing anything I can to protect the environment, Mrs Fleming.’
‘Splendid. Why then, however, did you not collect the rubbish piled up outside the church hall?’
‘If you take a look down from your window, missus, you’ll see my truck. It’s one o’ thae old ones with the sliding doors at the side.’
Mrs Fleming walked to the window, and he joined her. ‘Now, I hae to lift all the
rubbish into that myself. No help. I’m getting treatment for my back. I can manage fine if I keep to the collection day, which is Wednesday.’
Mrs Fleming scowled down at the old truck. Not photogenic.
She strode back to her desk. ‘Sit down, Mr Macleod. That truck will not do. I plan to make an example of Lochdubh.’ From beside her desk she lifted up a black plastic box. ‘Boxes like these will be given to each householder. Waste paper, bottles and cans will be put into these boxes and not in with the general rubbish. Wheelie bins will be supplied.’
Fergus thought of those huge plastic bins on wheels. ‘I couldnae lift those,’ he protested.
‘You won’t need to,’ said Mrs Fleming triumphantly. ‘Your new crusher truck will have a mechanism for lifting the bins in. We will also put large containers on the waterfront at Lochdubh. One will be for wastepaper, the other for cans and the third for bottles.’
‘But if they’ve tae put the cans and bottles and stuff in the black boxes, why will they need the extra bins?’
‘So that they have no excuses for not separating their rubbish if they’ve got extra stuff. The hotels and boarding houses will need to use the larger bins.’ She leaned forward. ‘We are going to put Lochdubh on the map, Mr Macleod. How much do you earn?’
Fergus told her. ‘We will double that. You are now promoted to Lochdubh’s own environment officer. What do you wear while working?’
‘Overalls and old clothes,’ said Fergus.
‘No, that won’t do for the television cameras.’
‘Television cameras?’ echoed Fergus.
‘Yes, when you have succeeded in making Lochdubh a model village, I will come with the provost and various dignitaries. Press and television will be there. You must have an appropriate uniform.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Now, if you will be so good, I would like you to wait here. I have a meeting with the other members of the council.’
Clarry, with his broad pink face sweating under his peaked cap, ambled up to Fergus’s cottage. He knew Fergus had four children because Hamish had told him, and because it was the school holidays, he expected to see them playing around. There was a baby in a battered pram outside the door. He waggled his fingers at the baby, who stared solemnly back. Clarry knocked at the door.
Death of a Dustman Page 1