Hamish Macbeth - Death Of A Dustman Part 3

Curious village eyes watched the procession made up of Clarry and Martha, the children and the baby in the pram as they walked down to the waterfront.

"What's going on, going on?" asked Jessie Currie, standing outside Patel's store. "Have they found him, found him?"

"Shouldn't think so," said Nessie. "Martha's laughing. Never heard her laugh before."

Both sisters, the sun glinting on their thick spectacles, watched as Clarry stopped to speak to Archie Maclean. "He's giving him money," said Nessie. "Now they're getting into that rowboat. Michty me, doesn't that policeman have any work to do?"

"It's Hamish Macbeth, that's who it is, who it is," said Jessie. "Corrupted him in no time at all, no time at all."

They watched while Clarry pushed off and then jumped in, the boat swaying dangerously under his weight. Then he picked up the oars and began to row off towards the centre of the loch. The children began to laugh at something. Martha sat in the bow, the baby on her lap, smiling at Clarry.

"Trouble's coming out of that," said Nessie. "Mark my words."

Hamish Macbeth was tired and hot and thirsty. He had searched across the moors all day without finding Fergus or coming across anyone who had seen him.

At last he drove slowly back towards Lochdubh and then on impulse turned and drove up towards the Tommel Castle Hotel. The castle had been built in the last century by a beer baron with a taste for gothic architecture.

He parked and walked into the hotel. Priscilla came out of the hotel office and came forward to meet him.

"You look exhausted," she said. "Like a drink?"

"A long cold drink o' iced fizzy water would be grand."

"Come into the bar, and I'll get it for you." Hamish followed her into the bar. She was wearing a lime green cotton shirt worn loose over a pair of cream shorts. Her long tanned legs ended in low-heeled strapped sandals. A shaft of late sunlight striking through the mullioned windows of the bar turned her golden hair into an aureole.

Priscilla asked the barman for an orange juice for herself and a fizzy water for Hamish. They carried their drinks over to a table.

"What have you been up to?" asked Priscilla.

"Looking for our missing dustman."

"I hope you find him. We had to pay a contractor to come over from Strathbane and pick up ours. Surely he's just drunk again."

"Well, normally that would be the case. But the wee man has caused such hatred in the village wi' his bullying and his silly green uniform, I'm frightened someone lost their temper and hit him too hard."

"You're getting carried away, Hamish. Just think of everyone in Lochdubh. They always curse Fergus, some of the crofters might rough him up, but no one is going to kill him."

Hamish took a gulp of water and stretched out his long legs. "That's better. To tell the truth, Priscilla, I still fear someone may have gone too far. He's a wife beater and, if I'd got him on his own, I might have been tempted to give him a bit of his own medicine."

"That's not your style, Hamish!"

"Look, we're a laid-back, easygoing lot, and we don't like this wee monster disrupting our lives."

"Someone said he used to be an accountant. Is that true?"

"I believe so, before the drink got him. I'll put in a report tonight to Strathbane headquarters and then one to the council. We'll need a replacement."

"That'll be hard to find."

"Not in the least. The crofters all have some sort of part-time job, especially since the price they've been getting for sheep has slumped. Callum McSween up on the Braikie road is a nice man and could do wi' a bit o' extra money."

"Never mind, Hamish. It's the bad atmosphere Fergus has created in the village that's getting to you. Then this warm weather makes all the uncollected garbage smell so high that it gets on people's nerves as well."

Hamish finished his gla.s.s of water. "I'd best be getting back. Maybe Clarry's found something out."

"How's he getting on?"

"Oh, he's a nice chap and a grand cook. I don't mind so much just now. Things are pretty quiet apart from a burglary over at Braikie and this Fergus business." He stood up. "You going back to London soon?"

"I'll be staying on for a bit. Father's worried sick about this new hotel taking our custom away."

"Aye, well, maybe we'll have a meal some night."

Priscilla looked down at her gla.s.s. "I'll let you know. I've got a friend coming up from London tomorrow."

A man friend, thought Hamish, looking at her bent head.

"Yes, let me know," he said and walked off, feeling depressed.

He drove down to the police station and swung the Land Rover into the short drive beside the building. It was only when he cut the engine that he heard the noise. Music was belting out from the police station, disco music, loud and throbbing; so loud the police station seemed to be vibrating.

Instead of walking in the kitchen door as usual, he went quietly round to the front and looked in the living room window. Clarry was dancing, surrounded by laughing children. He was bopping about and waving his arms. Martha was watching them, her face lit up with amus.e.m.e.nt.

Hamish retreated quietly. He knew Clarry had no right to invite guests to the police station without permission and no right to throw a party. He should march in there like a good police officer and break up the party.

But instead he walked back along the waterfront to the Italian restaurant. He felt in his bones that something bad had happened. Let Martha enjoy herself while she could.

Nessie Curry carried a kitchen chair out to the wheelie bin beside the cottage she shared with her twin sister, Jessie. She placed the chair beside the bin and climbed up on it, holding a bag of rubbish. Fergus would just need to put up with the bottles and cans, for all the little plastic boxes were full. She raised the lid of the bin and then gagged at the smell and clung to the bin for support as she hurriedly dropped the lid.

She retreated back into the kitchen. "Oh, Jessie," she said. "There's the most terrible smell coming from our wheelie bin. What did you put in it?"

"All the papers and bottles and stuff I couldn't get into thae wee boxes, wee boxes," said Jessie. "I haven't put anything in there for a couple of days, couple of days."

"What about food sc.r.a.ps?"

"They went to the compost heap and the rest to Mrs. Docherty's hens next door, hens next door."

"Then someone's put something nasty in ours."

"Call Hamish Macbeth, Hamish Macbeth."

"I saw him pa.s.s 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 b.u.mped 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 h.e.l.l of a party going on in this station last night."

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

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

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

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

Hamish rose to his feet. "All right."

"All right, what?"

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

He went out and walked along to the Curries' cottage. "Blair wants to see you," he said to Clarry.

"Why?"

"At the moment, you're suspect number one."

"That's daft!"

"Maybe. But run along and get it over with."

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

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

"When?"

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

"Could a woman have done it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not yet."

"This is police hara.s.sment," 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."