‘Then someone’s put something nasty in ours.’
‘Call Hamish Macbeth, Hamish Macbeth.’
‘I saw him pass the window an hour ago. He’s probably gone to the Italian’s. I’ll just go along and get him. It’s his job to look for nasty things.’
Hamish was just finishing his meal when Nessie arrived. He listened to her tale of the smelly bin and said, ‘I’ll be along in a minute. Have a torch ready. It’ll save going back to the station.’
Hamish paid for his meal and then walked out. It was a warm, balmy evening. The reflections of stars shimmered on the black waters of the loch.
He walked round to the side door of the Currie sisters’ cottage. Nessie was waiting for him with a large electric torch. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got,’ said Hamish, taking the torch from her.
The minute he opened the lid of the bin and the horrible smell engulfed him, he felt a lump of ice settling in his stomach. He knew that smell.
Tall as he was, he nonetheless climbed up on the chair and shone the strong beam down into the bin. The dead face of Fergus Macleod stared up at him. Hamish took out a handkerchief and put it over his hand and turned the head slightly. There was a large gaping wound in the back of it. There was a sudden sickening sound of buzzing. The light from the torch was awakening the flies, fat bluebottles. He slammed down the lid and climbed down from the chair.
Nessie and Jessie were both standing together now, staring at him in the starlight.
‘What is it?’ asked Nessie.
‘Fergus. It’s Fergus. Don’t touch anything, ladies. It’s murder.’
Chapter Three
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
– Book of Common Prayer
The next day dawned, still and pale and milky, all colour bleached out of the landscape. The striped police tape hung outside the Currie sisters’ cottage. Little groups of villagers stood outside, as motionless as the heavy air.
Clarry stood on duty, his usually cherubic face heavy and sad. The party of last night seemed light years away. Hamish had sent him to break the news to Martha. She had shrunk from him, her eyes dilated with shock. Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, alerted by the news which had spread like wildfire through Lochdubh, had arrived to sit with Martha.
Clarry would have liked to talk, to banish the fright he saw in Martha’s eyes which seemed to stem from something other than the horror at learning of her husband’s death. He had an uneasy feeling that Martha, upset by the news, might think that he, Clarry, had bumped off her husband. Or was it something else? Could she have done it? He shook his head like a bull plagued by flies. That was ridiculous. He wondered how Hamish was getting on along at the police station. Detective Chief Inspector Blair had arrived.
Blair was the bane of Hamish’s life. He was a thick, vulgar, heavyset Glaswegian who loathed Hamish and did not bother to hide his loathing.
He was sitting behind the desk in the police station office, flanked by his usual sidekicks, Detectives Anderson and Macnab.
‘Now, from a preliminary questioning of the folks around here,’ began Blair, ‘there was one hell of a party going on in this station last night.’
‘This is also my home as well as a police station. I am allowed to throw a party,’ said Hamish defensively.
‘But it wasnae your party, was it?’ demanded Blair with a triumphant leer. ‘It was that fat, useless copper o’ yours. And who is he boogieing with? None other than Martha Macleod. Furthermore, Mrs Macleod’s neighbours heard Clarry Graham shouting at Fergus that he would kill him.’
‘A lot of people in the village have been overheard saying they would kill Fergus. It means nothing,’ said Hamish.
‘We’ll see aboot that. As far as I am concerned, Graham is a suspect so you get along there and send him along here.’
Hamish rose to his feet. ‘All right.’
‘All right, what?’
‘All right, sir,’ said Hamish wearily. He craved sleep. He had been up all night.
He went out and walked along to the Curries’ cottage. ‘Blair wants to see you,’ he said to Clarry.
‘Why?’
‘At the moment, you’re suspect number one.’
‘That’s daft!’
‘Maybe. But run along and get it over with.’
Clarry walked off just as the police pathologist, Mr Sinclair, appeared round the side of the house. ‘What’s the verdict?’ asked Hamish.
‘The body’s being moved to Strathbane for further examination,’ said Sinclair. ‘He was struck a smashing blow on the back of the head with something like a hammer and put in the bin.’
‘When?’
‘Can’t tell at the moment. I would hazard a guess that it was maybe a couple of days ago.’
‘Could a woman have done it?’
‘Easily. But although the man was small and slight, it would take a powerful woman to get him into that bin without tipping it over.’
They stood aside as two men in white overalls carried out Fergus in a body bag laid on a stretcher. They looked impatiently up and down the waterfront and then one put his fingers in his mouth and sent out a shrill whistle. An ambulance came cruising slowly up.
‘Sorry. We were just getting a cup of coffee,’ said the ambulance man. He jumped down with his partner and opened the back doors. Fergus’s body was lifted inside.
Hamish felt a pang of pity for Fergus. He had been an awful man, but the sheer indifference in the way his body was shovelled in and borne off went to his heart.
In all his easygoing life, Clarry had never before thought of leaving the police force. But he had never been one of Blair’s targets before. As Blair hammered into him over a sheaf of reports about the party and the boat expedition, Clarry could feel a rare rage mounting in him.
When Blair paused for breath, Clarry said, ‘Are you charging me with anything, sir?’
‘Not yet.’
‘This is police harassment,’ said Clarry.
‘Whit! You’re a policeman yourself.’
‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘It was my day off when I entertained Mrs Macleod and the children,’ said Clarry, hoping Hamish would back him up on that one. ‘I can do what I like with my free time. It’s a coincidence that the poor woman’s man got murdered.’
‘Oh, aye?’ sneered Blair. ‘And it’s just a coincidence, is it, that you were heard saying you’d kill the man?’
‘More than me said that,’ said Clarry, defiant. ‘Fergus had been beating that wife of his. It was enough to make the blood of any decent man boil.’
‘Did she make an official complaint?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then it was none of your business. For all you know, she might have deserved a beating. You Highlanders are all crazy,’ said Blair, who was a Glaswegian.
‘That remark is offensive,’ said Clarry, suddenly calm. ‘I’m going to report that remark to the Race Relations Board. Discrimination against Highlanders. Racial slurs. And while I’m at it, sir, I’ll tell them that you think a woman deserves a beating.’
‘You do that, and I’ll have ye out o’ the force.’
‘And by the time I’ve finished with you, I’ll have you out of the force.’
Blair stared at Clarry’s now impassive face in baffled fury. He had no doubt the Race Relations Board would listen to this idiot’s complaint. Recently, along with dealing with cases brought by Pakistanis, Indians, Africans and Jamaicans, they had been handling well-publicized cases from English residents in Scotland complaining about racial discrimination. And if that remark of his about Martha Macleod deserving a beating should come out . . .
‘Look, laddie, maybe I was a bit hasty. You go and question some of the folk and find out if anyone saw anything.’
Clarry stalked off. Blair mopped his brow. He turned and caught the grin on Jimmy Anderson’s face. ‘You!’ he howled. ‘Get up to that Mrs Macleod and question h
er.’
Jimmy Anderson stopped on his way to talk to Hamish and gleefully told Hamish about Clarry’s confrontation with Blair. ‘Good for old Clarry,’ said Hamish, amazed. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘To interview the widow.’
‘Let me know what you get, Jimmy.’
‘Aye, well, get some whisky in. I don’t think Blair will be hanging around much longer.’
‘He hasn’t met Mrs Fleming yet, has he?’
‘Who’s she?’
‘The environment woman from Strathbane who put Fergus in a stupid green uniform and put all these bins about the place. She’ll be here any moment, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘See you later.’
Jimmy walked off. Hamish took out his mobile phone and rang Callum McSween. ‘Listen, Callum,’ he said, ‘have you heard the dustman’s got himself murdered?’
‘Aye, it was on the radio this morning.’
‘Like the job?’
‘I could do wi’ the money, Hamish, and that’s a fact.’
‘I’ll be sending a Mrs Fleming from Strathbane Council along to see you. She’s the one who’ll be doing the hiring. I think the silly biddy wants to get herself in the newspapers by making Lochdubh an environmental friendly place, so all you have to do is go along with it. Tell her what a great idea all those damn bins are.’
‘I won’t have to wear that green uniform, will I?’
‘I can’t see them running to the expense of another horror. I’ll make sure Fergus is buried in it.’
‘Grand, Hamish.’
‘I can’t promise. Oh, here she comes.’
Hamish rang off and tucked the phone in his pocket just as Mrs Fleming drove up.
‘I heard the news,’ she said, lowering the car window. ‘This is dreadful.’
‘That it is,’ said Hamish seriously. ‘And rubbish all over the village. You’ll need to get another man on it right away.’
‘But who?’
‘There’s a crofter about a mile along the Braikie Road, Callum McSween, good worker, hot on the environment. He could start today.’
‘I’ll go directly.’ Hamish gave her directions. Then she asked, ‘Who is in charge of the case?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Blair. You’ll find him at the police station. But I’d get to Callum first.’
Callum McSween was dressed in a crisp white shirt and flannels with knife-edged creases when Mrs Fleming’s car drove up. His wife, Mary, had quickly cleaned the living room and was in the kitchen making a pot of fresh coffee.
Callum answered the door to Mrs Fleming. He was a very tall, well-built man with a craggy face permanently tanned with working outdoors.
‘I am Mrs Fleming from Strathbane Council,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I come in? I heard you might be prepared to take on the job of environment officer for Lochdubh.’
Callum, affecting surprise, invited her in.
His smiling wife came into the croft house living room bearing a tray with a pot of coffee, cups and homemade shortbread.
‘I first must ask you if you understand what I have been trying to do in Lochdubh,’ began Mrs Fleming when she had been served with coffee.
‘I think you are out to make an example of Lochdubh,’ said Callum. He leaned forward, his face serious. ‘If it works, you can get it into the newspapers and on television as an example to other villages. And I can tell you, I am all for that. There’s a real pleasure in seeing a clean place.’
Mrs Fleming smiled at him. She mentally judged that he would look well on television. ‘There would be the matter of a uniform, Mr McSween.’
Callum repressed a shudder. ‘As to that, missus, I haff been thinking that maybe white overalls would be fine. You must want to save a bit o’ money. I mean, poor Fergus’s outfit must have cost a mint. But the white overalls would look just grand.’
‘I’ll see to it. Ye-es, I can see white overalls.’ In Mrs Fleming’s busy mind, the cameras rolled. She raised her hands and made a frame of them and studied Callum through it. ‘When would you be able to start?’
‘Right away.
‘Good. I will get that policeman in Lochdubh to give you the keys to the truck. As to salary . . .’
She named a figure which made Callum’s eyes blink rapidly. He would never have dreamed a dustman could earn that much. He had an appointment with the bank manager on the following morning. The bank was trying to call in his loan, and he had been terrified of losing his croft house.
They amicably discussed the details. Then Mrs Fleming took her leave. Mary McSween, who had heard the size of the salary, just restrained herself from dropping a curtsy as Mrs Fleming majestically swept out.
Callum dialled 1-4-7-1 and then dialled 3 and got connected to Hamish’s mobile phone. ‘I’ve got the job, Hamish,’ he shouted.
Hamish held the phone away from his ear. ‘You didnae need to phone, Callum, wi’ a voice like that. You could have just stood outside your front door.’
‘It’s great, Hamish. I tell you, man, if there’s anything I can ever do for you, let me know.’
‘Just keep your eyes and ears open and let me know if you hear anything interesting.’
‘I’ll do that. Oh, I need the keys to the truck.’
‘I’ll go get them. Come by the station this afternoon.’
Hamish decided there was not much point anyone standing outside the Curries’ cottage any longer. The body had gone. The forensic team had finished their work and had left, taking the bin with them wrapped up in plastic.
Hamish walked up towards Martha’s cottage. He met Jimmy Anderson on the way. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Jimmy. ‘Mrs Macleod began to cry and that big tweedy woman, Mrs Wellington, sent me off with a flea in my ear. What sort of woman wears tweed in this weather?’
‘Mrs Wellington.’
‘So what are you up to?’
‘Going to collect the keys to the rubbish truck. Forensic don’t want it, do they?’
‘No, the neighbours say the truck was never moved from outside of the house.’
‘Fine. Call by later when you get rid of Blair.’
‘He doesn’t want this case, Hamish. He was working on some drugs bust, and he wants to get back to it.’
‘Let’s hope he does before he starts arresting everyone in the village.’
Hamish walked on. He saw Mrs Wellington walking towards him before she saw him. He leapt over a hedge and crouched behind it until he heard her go past. Then he leapt nimbly back over and walked to Martha’s cottage. Martha was keeping to the old tradition. All the curtains in the cottage were closed tight.
Hamish walked up the path and knocked on the door. There was a silence. He waited and knocked again. At last he tried the handle and opened the door and called, ‘Mrs Macleod.’
‘Go away!’ shouted a boy’s voice.
‘It’s me, Hamish Macbeth.’
Johnny appeared. ‘Oh, it is yourself, Mr Macbeth. The reporters have been around.’
‘Is your mother in?’
‘Come ben.’
Hamish walked into the living room. Martha was sitting there, dull-eyed, the baby on her lap.
Hamish removed his cap and sat down opposite her. Johnny joined the other children on the sofa. Their faces were white in the gloom.
‘I know you’ve got the curtains drawn as a mark of respect,’ said Hamish gently. ‘But it’s not good for the children. Do you mind if I let some daylight in here?’
‘Do what you like,’ whispered Martha.
Hamish jerked back the curtains.
Then he took five pounds out of his wallet and gave it to Johnny. ‘Take yourselves down to Patel’s and get yourself some ice cream. Put the bairn in the pram and take it with you. It’s no good to be locked up in here. Don’t speak to any reporters.’
Johnny looked at his mother, who nodded. Johnny took the baby from her and the children filed out of the room.
Hamish studied Martha
’s white face and wide frightened eyes. He said, ‘You must be feeling a great deal of guilt.’
‘I didn’t do it!’
‘But you wanted him gone, but not in this way. You’re relieved and ashamed of being relieved. You’re frightened that whoever did this might come for you. That won’t happen. It was Fergus who caused bad blood in this village, not you. You’re worried about Clarry Clarry when he wasn’t with me was either with you or in full view of the village. Can you remember exactly what happened the evening Fergus disappeared?’
‘He got a phone call and became very excited,’ said Martha.
‘Good, that’s a start. We’ll check your phone records. What time would that be?’
‘About six o’clock. He asked me to go and get him some whisky. I couldn’t help it. I said, what about your job? He told me to shut my mouth. He said there was more to life than being a dustman. I went down to Patel’s. I met Clarry and talked a bit and then went back with the whisky. He had a couple of drams and then he said he was going out. He put the whisky bottle in his pocket. He must have been going somewhere in the village because he didn’t take the truck.’
‘Aye, but when your man had the drink taken, he’d often wander up on the moors, so why would you think it was somewhere in the village?’
‘I think he must have been going to meet someone.’
‘Why?’
‘He put a clean white shirt on and a tie and his jacket. He liked his white shirts to be very white. That’s why I thought someone might have seen him, even in the gloaming.’
‘So when he didn’t return, weren’t you worried about him?’
‘No. Any time before he had started to drink, he would disappear for a few days.’
‘But you thought he had gone to see someone.’
Martha burst out with, ‘Don’t you see? I was just so damn glad he had gone, I didn’t think. I lived for his disappearances.’
‘Did he often get phone calls?’
‘No. He wasn’t popular.’
‘I think that’ll do for now.’ Hamish looked around the bleak cottage. ‘Have they been to search his things?’
‘Yes, the detectives were here, looking for letters or papers. But there wasn’t anything.’
Death of a Dustman Page 4