Death of a Dustman hm-17

by M C Beaton

  And, followed by the sound of Fergus’s jeering laughter, he walked away.

  Clarry walked only as far as the waterfront. He leaned on the wall and stared down into the summer-blue waters of the sea loch. A yacht sailed past, heading for the open sea. He could hear people laughing and chattering on board, see the white sails billowing out before a stiff breeze. He suddenly wanted to see Martha. He turned his back to the wall, feeling the warmth of the stone through his uniform. While Hamish Macbeth watered his sheep and then returned to the police station to do some paperwork and wondered what was keeping Clarry, Clarry stayed where he was. Perhaps Martha might appear, perhaps she might go to the general store for something.

  With monumental patience, Clarry stayed where he was until the sun began to sink down behind the mountains. She might come down to the village to buy something. Patel, who ran the general store, like all good Asian shopkeepers, stayed open late.

  Suddenly he saw her hurrying down the lane that led to the waterfront, carrying a shopping basket. He went to meet her.

  “Oh, Mr. Graham!” exclaimed Martha. Her hand fluttered up to one cheek to cover a bruise.

  “He’s been hitting you!” said Clarry.

  “Oh, no,” said Martha. “Silly of me. I walked into a door.”

  “You walked into a fist,” said Clarry. “You’ve got to turn him in.”

  “I can’t,” said Martha, tears starting to her eyes.

  “Now, then, I didnae mean to upset you, lassie,” said Clarry. “Let me help you with the shopping.”

  “I can manage. Fergus wants a bottle of whisky.”

  “Drinking again? That’s bad.”

  “At least he’ll wander off somewhere, and I’ll get a bit of peace,” said Martha. They walked into the store together.

  “Buy him the cheap stuff,” said Clarry.

  “No, he wants Grouse.”

  “Let me pay for it.”

  “No, that would not be fitting.”

  “I came up to your place to warn him. Steady, now!” Clarry grasped the bottle of whisky which Martha had nearly dropped.

  “What about?” she asked.

  “He’s creating bad feeling in the village. He could be in danger. God, I could kill him myself.”

  Jessie Currie, at the shelves on the other side from where they were talking and screened from their view, listened avidly.

  “I’d better hurry,” said Martha. “He’ll start wondering what’s keeping me.”

  “I’ll walk you back a bit of the way,” said Clarry. Curious village eyes watched them as Martha paid for the whisky and then they walked out of the shop together.

  ♦

  Later that evening, Hamish was barely soothed by the plate of beef Wellington that Clarry slid under his nose. He had been called out to a burglary in the nearby town of Braikie, and he wondered after he had completed his investigations what the point was of having a constable who was so supremely uninterested in police matters. But he noticed a change had come over Clarry. His face seemed harder.

  “So what happened with Fergus?” asked Hamish.

  Clarry told him, ending up with bursting out, “He’s been beating his wife again. I tell you, sir, I’ve a damn good mind to resign from the force and give that bastard the beating he deserves.”

  Hamish stared in wonder at the nearly untouched food on Clarry’s plate and then at the angry gleam in the normally placid constable’s eyes.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Of all the things to happen,” said Hamish. “You haff gone and fallen in love wi’ the dustman’s wife.”

  Clarry stared at him. Then his eyes lit up and his round face glowed. “Is this love, sir?”

  “Yes, but she’s married and this iss the small village. Eat your food, man, and forget her. I’ll deal wi’ Fergus myself tomorrow.”

  “How?”

  “We haff our methods, Watson.”

  But Hamish Macbeth was getting seriously worried. The transformation of the constable had sharpened his wits. Fergus must be made to see sense.

  Even if it meant giving him a taste of what he had been giving his wife.

  ♦

  The following day was collection day, and Lochdubh rose to find the rubbish uncollected. It was a warm, close day, and the midges, those Highland mosquitoes, were out in force.

  Fergus had disappeared before but never on collection days. But he had become so hated in the village that nobody cared much, with the exception of Hamish Macbeth. Still, even Hamish thought, like everyone else, that surely Fergus was lying drunk somewhere up on the moors. But after a day went by without any sight of him, Hamish’s uneasiness deepened into dread.

  “If something’s happened to him, we’d better find out soon,” said Hamish to Clarry. “We’ll split up. You search around the village, and I’ll take the Land Rover and go up on the moors.”

  Clarry set off. As he questioned villager after villager, he began to share some of Hamish’s trepidation. “I hope he’s dead,” said Archie Maclean, pausing in the repair of a fishing net. “And if the wee bastard isnnae, I’ll help him on his way.”

  Everyone else seemed to share Archie’s sentiments. Clarry walked along the harbour to where the workmen were busy renovating the hotel. None of them had seen Fergus but one volunteered the information that the boss had arrived. Curious to see this hotel owner, Clarry made his way into the foyer of the hotel, where two men were unwrapping a massive crystal chandelier. “Boss around?” he asked.

  “In the office over there,” said one, jerking his thumb in the direction of a frosted-glass door. Clarry ambled across the foyer and opened the door. A slim red-headed woman was sitting behind a computer. “Yes, Officer?”

  “Is the boss in?” asked Clarry.

  “May I ask what the nature of your inquiry is?”

  “The village dustman has gone missing.”

  A faint look of amusement crossed her beautiful face. “I am sure Mr. Ionides, who has just arrived here, cannot know anything about a dustman.”

  The door to the inner office opened and a small, neat, well-barbered man appeared. He had thick, dark brown hair and liquid brown eyes. He was in his shirt sleeves and carried a sheaf of papers. He radiated energy. His eyes fell on the large uniformed figure of Clarry.

  “What is a policeman doing here?” he asked. His voice was only faintly accented.

  “I’ve come about our dustman. He’s missing.”

  “And what has that got to do with me?”

  Clarry shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “I thought you might have heard something, sir.”

  “No.”

  Ionides and his secretary calmly surveyed Clarry, who began to shuffle backwards towards the door. “Just thought I would ask,” said Clarry.

  They continued to watch him in silence as he turned and opened the door and went out. Phew, he thought, mopping his brow outside the door. What an odd pair.

  He realised once he was outside the hotel that he had been delaying going to see Martha. He somehow didn’t want to go to that cottage and find Fergus at home. The villagers were right. The man didn’t deserve to live. It did not strike Clarry as odd that so many people would wish the death of a mere dustman. Dustmen who fail to collect garbage can arouse deep passions, and dustmen who leave nasty green notes to explain why the rubbish is not being collected can drive the meekest to open hatred. High council taxes had made everyone aware that they were paying for a service they just weren’t getting.

  Clarry walked more quickly now as he neared Fergus’s cottage. As he approached, his eyes took in the broken guttering and the blistered paint on the windows, and he mentally repaired all the damage.

  He knocked on the door and waited. Johnny answered, his little face lighting up when he saw Clarry. “Mum’s out in the back garden,” he said. Clarry removed his peaked cap and tucked it under his arm. He followed the boy through the dark little living room where the children were watching television. Probably too frightened to play outside
in case Dad comes home, he thought.

  Martha was hanging sheets out to dry in the back garden. A breeze blew strands of hair across her face. “Let me do that,” said Clarry, taking a sheet from her. “Heard from that man of yours?”

  “Not a word,” said Martha. “He’s never missed a collection day before.”

  “Is he in his uniform? That green would make him easy to spot.”

  “No, he was in a white shirt, tie and jacket. He took that bottle of whisky from me and walked off out of the house.”

  Together they lifted up sheets and pinned them along the line. Martha paused to pass a weary hand over her brow. “Goodness, it’s hot.”

  “You and the children should be out on a day like this,” said Clarry.

  “Fergus might be back any moment,” said Martha. “I must say I sometimes look down at the loch on a day like this and think it would be nice to go out on a boat and get a bit of cool air.”

  “That’s the last sheet,” said Clarry. “Well, why not?”

  “We couldn’t. What if Fergus comes home?”

  “Then you can say you were out wi’ me looking for him. Come on. Get the kids.”

  ♦

  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 glass 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 glass. “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 amusement.

  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 scraps?”

  “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 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.”

  ∨ Death of a Dustman ∧

  3

  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.