Death of a Dustman hm-17

by M C Beaton

  “Clean up?” Willie’s eyes gleamed with an almost religious fervour. “Nobody can clean like me. Have you tried that new cleaner on the market, Green Lightning? Man, the way it cuts through grease is grand.” And before Clarry could stop him, he headed purposely towards Martha. “I hear some of the ladies are coming to help you clean. You just say the day, and I’ll be there.”

  Martha looked at Clarry. “What’s all this about?”

  “Angela Brodie and some of the others thought you would feel better if you had a bit of help to clean out your husband’s things. But if you’d like to wait a bit…”

  “No, I don’t mind. Any time will do. I’d be glad of the help.”

  Mr. Ferrari, the owner, joined them. “Ah, Mrs. Macleod,” he said. “My condolences on your sad loss. You are my guests for this evening. Have anything on the menu you want. Officer Graham, perhaps you would like to see our kitchens?”

  Clarry wanted to stay with Martha, but on the other hand, cooking was in his blood. “Just a wee look,” he said. “I don’t want to leave Mrs. Macleod alone for long.”

  Clarry was taken on a tour of the kitchens. He had always thought he would be unfit for the restaurant trade, but he could feel his enthusiasm growing. Mr. Ferrari crooned in his ear how easy the job of chef would be and how a man interested in food was wasting his time as a police officer.

  “You don’t know if I can cook,” said Clarry.

  “True. Why don’t you give it a try on your day off?”

  “Maybe I’ll do that. Now I’d best get back to Martha and the children.”

  Martha, with her wan face and well-behaved children, was creating a good impression among the other customers. In these days of spoilt, whining brats, even the sternest heart melts at the sight of a quiet well-behaved child. People had stopped by the table while Clarry was in the kitchen to give Martha their condolences.

  Clarry sat down with them and picked up the menu. He planned to slim down, but a free meal was a free meal. He would diet tomorrow.

  They had a simple meal of minestrone, ravioli and huge slices of chocolate cake. Clarry told tales of policing, all highly embroidered, and was pleased to notice that Martha was eating everything.

  ♦

  When he returned to the police station, Hamish was waiting. “You’ve been away a long time,” he said.

  “It happened like this.” Clarry described how he had ended up in the Italian restaurant.

  “You should go carefully,” said Hamish. “Blair’s been round and he’s spitting bullets. Seems as if Fergus was killed somewhere else and carried to the bin.” Hamish knew the real reason Blair was furious. He had wanted Hamish off the case and had been told to keep him on.

  “So what did you get out of the Currie sisters?”

  “Not much,” said Clarry, fumbling for his notebook. “Do you want me to read out what I’ve got?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Clarry read out from his notes. “See,” he said. “Nothing there.”

  “Yes, there is,” said Hamish Macbeth. “There’s something there that interests me a lot.”

  ∨ Death of a Dustman ∧

  4

  Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,

  Before we too into the Dust descend;

  Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

  Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and – sans End!

  —Edward Fitzgerald

  Jimmy Anderson poked his head around the kitchen door. “Come in,” said Hamish. “Clarry, you’d best go and start typing up your notes, and I’ll do mine after.”

  When Clarry had left, Hamish asked, “Well, what’s new?”

  “What kind of whisky do you have?”

  Hamish went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker. “That’ll do fine,” said Jimmy. He waited until Hamish had poured him a generous glassful. Then he said, “The autopsy report puts the death at about two days before he was found. Didn’t those Currie sisters notice the smell before then?”

  “Can’t have. They only noticed when they lifted the lid.”

  “You’re slipping, Hamish. Didn’t you ask them?”

  “I should’ve. I was too concerned in stopping their gossip about Clarry and Martha Macleod.”

  Jimmy sipped his whisky and then eyed Hamish speculatively. “Not like you at all. You’re that fat copper’s sergeant, not his father. I know he trounced Blair wi’ that threat o’ the Race Relations Board, but to my mind, he’s still a suspect.”

  “If he wasnae wi’ me, he was with Mrs. Macleod.”

  “Judging from the contents of the dead man’s stomach, he was killed sometime during the night. You don’t sleep wi’ your copper, do you?”

  “It’s not him,” said Hamish stubbornly.

  “Oh, well, Blair’s having a hard time wi’ that environment woman. But he’s not much interested in this case. He thinks he’s got the chance of making a drugs bust. Daviot told him to keep you informed, so he’s sulking and saying you can handle it. He’s trying to get me put in charge.”

  “Can you get me the forensic report?”

  “More whisky?”

  “Help yourself. The bottle’s in front of you.”

  “Thanks.” Jimmy poured a large amount into his glass. Then he dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced two sheets of paper. “One copy of a forensic report. Here you are.”

  Hamish scanned it. “Could they judge if he had been killed far from the Curries’ bin?”

  “No, not far. There was still some blood had leaked from his head into the bin.”

  “The Curries live on the waterfront. I cannot believe that in this village, even in the middle of the night, someone carried a dead body and put it in that bin, without a soul seeing anything. Wait a bit. The bin’s round the side. The lane to Martha’s runs up the side of the cottage. And it’s a low fence. Did they find anything there?”

  “They’re still working on it. But, say, two people could have done it. One to lift the body over the fence, another to catch it and put it in the bin.”

  “But why the Curries?”

  “I spoke to Nessie Currie. She seemed proud of the fact that she was the greenest person in Lochdubh, and Fergus didn’t appreciate it. Food refuse goes into the compost heap apart from the stuff they give to Mrs. Docherty next door for her hens. Jessie says they have the least garbage of anyone in Lochdubh. So whoever did it would guess the body wouldn’t be found for some time.”

  “Ah, that’s daft. Anyone who didn’t want the body found could’ve weighted it down and dumped it in the loch. Or taken it up on the moors and sunk it into a peat bog. No, putting Fergus in a dustbin has an element of revenge and hatred in it, even after the man was killed. To tell the truth, I don’t know a soul in Lochdubh with that sort of character, or motivation. There is one odd thing. There’s a wee lassie up the back of the harbour, name of Josie Darling; getting married in two weeks’ time. Now she goes on as if she’s a glamour puss, but she’s just a wee village girl. But she was friendly with Fergus. And she’s hiding something. I’m going to have another go at her tomorrow.”

  “Aye, well, you’d better concentrate a bit more. Forget about Clarry.”

  They talked for some time, going over and over the case. Clarry came in. “Typed up my notes, sir. What about lunch?”

  “That would be grand,” said Jimmy before Hamish could reply.

  “I’ve nothing much in the house,” said Clarry, easing round them to the stove. “But I could make a cheese omelette.”

  Jimmy drank, and he watched, amused as Clarry deftly whipped eggs. Soon he was placing three plates of fluffy omelette in front of them.

  “Great,” said Jimmy. “You pair ought to get married.” He saw Lugs put a paw on Hamish’s knee. “Does your dog eat cheese omelette?”

  “I’ve got something for him.” Clarry took down a bowl of chopped liver he had cooked earlier from a rack above the cooker and placed it on the floor.

 
“That’s an odd-looking dog,” said Jimmy. “But any dog that can attack Blair and tear his trousers deserves the best food.”

  ♦

  After Jimmy had left, Hamish said to Clarry, “Check at that new hotel if there are any workers apart from the locals. I’ve got a call to make. Come on, Lugs. Walk.” With the dog trotting along beside him he walked to Mrs. Docherty’s cottage. He tied the leash to the fence and then knocked at the door.

  Mrs. Docherty was a tired-looking middle-aged woman with grey hair and small eyes.

  When she answered the door and saw Hamish standing there, a closed look came over her face, and she said primly, “What is it?”

  “I wanted a word with you.”

  “What about?”

  “About the murder.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “I chust wanted to ask you a few questions. Is your man at home?”

  “No, he’s working in Strathbane.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “No, I’m cleaning.”

  “Then we’ll talk in the garden. I want to ask you if you saw or heard anything. Fergus’s body was put in the bin soon after he was murdered.”

  “I didn’t see or hear anything. Why ask me?”

  Hamish remembered Clarry telling him that the Curries had seen Mrs. Docherty walk across the road and stare at the loch and walk back again. It was just a small thing, and yet, Mrs. Docherty, like the rest of the locals, was so used to the magnificent scenery around her that she barely noticed. He’d had a mental picture of a worried woman going out to stare blindly at the loch. But maybe his imagination had run away with him.

  “I heard that on the evening Fergus was found, you went out of your cottage and walked across and looked at the loch, and then walked back again.”

  “So what’s up with that?”

  “It struck me as the action of someone who was deeply worried about something.”

  “Havers,” she said briskly. “I often go and have a look at the loch.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Do I need a reason? Because it’s there.”

  She was afraid of something, of that Hamish was sure, and it couldn’t be because she was being interviewed by a policeman. No one in Lochdubh was afraid of him.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. He walked out of the small garden and unhitched Lugs and walked away. Mrs. Docherty stood watching his tall figure and clenched and unclenched her hands.

  Hamish went back to the station and typed up his notes and then faxed the little he had, along with Clarry’s notes, to Strathbane.

  Clarry came in just as he finished. “Anything?” asked Hamish.

  “Apart from the secretary, a Miss Stathos, the rest are locals. Miss Stathos says Mr. Ionides plans to hire local staff as well when he’s ready to open, waiters and maids and manager and all that.”

  Hamish leaned back in his chair. “Oh, my, that means he’ll go after the staff at the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

  “Maybe they’ll stay loyal.”

  “Times are hard. If he offers higher wages, then they’ll go.”

  “There don’t seem to be any reporters left.”

  “There’s a triple murder in Inverness. They’ll rely on the local man from now on. At least we should get a bit o’ peace.”

  ♦

  Four more days went by, during which Jimmy Anderson, Hamish and Clarry assiduously interviewed the population of Lochdubh. Hamish went over forensic reports. The ground at the lane beside the Currie sisters’ garden had been hard with all the dry weather and had not yielded anything. The side of the house and at the back where the bin stood was covered in gravel.

  Frustrated, Hamish decided to examine the place closely for himself. He realised that like everyone else these days, he had been blinded by the glories of forensic science and had assumed they had missed nothing.

  He knew the Currie sisters had gone up to Martha’s cottage with Mrs. Wellington and Angela to clear out Fergus’s things.

  He carried a large magnifying glass, and, feeling ridiculous, feeling that he looked like a stage detective, he began to go over every inch of ground along with the fence and the road at the side. The rain he had expected had not yet arrived although the air was moist and damp.

  After two hours, he was about to give up, when he saw a little spark of colour between the fence posts. He took out a pair of tweezers and eased out a tiny little pink thread of material. It was so small that when he took the magnifying glass away from his eye, he could barely see it. He put it in a plastic envelope. He would wait until the Curries had finished cleaning and ask them if they had any idea where it might have come from.

  ♦

  Angela was glad she had given the children some money for sweets and had sent them off, for Mrs. Wellington was trying to persuade Martha that some of Fergus’s clothes could be cut down for the boys.

  Surprisingly it was Nessie who stood up to the domineering minister’s wife. “Leave her be,” said Nessie firmly. “She doesn’t want anything of her man left in the cottage.”

  “Left in the cottage,” echoed Jessie, and both sisters glared at Mrs. Wellington.

  “Well, let’s bag up the stuff, and I’ll take it into a charity shop in Strathbane,” said Mrs. Wellington, capitulating.

  The women worked busily, bagging up suits and shirts, socks and underwear. Martha, finding Angela the most sympathetic, kept close to her. In the bedroom Martha had shared with Fergus, Angela said, “The rugs in here could do with throwing out. I’ve got a nice carpet in the loft at home. My husband didn’t like it because it’s bright red, but it’s warm and cheery. Where did you get these rugs?”

  “They’re awful, aren’t they?” said Martha with a weak smile. “Fergus found them in someone’s rubbish at a croft house and brought them home. They’re all cigarette burns.”

  “I’ll take them away and bring you the carpet,” said Angela. “No, please take it. It’s a waste of a good carpet if it stays in my loft. Let’s just roll up these dreadful rugs.”

  Angela got down on her knees and started to roll up one by the window. “There’s a floorboard been sawn here,” she said. “Is this where you hide the family jewels?”

  Martha walked over and stared down. One of the floorboards had been sawn to make a square like a lid. “I never really noticed that before,” she said. “I’m sorry the floor’s dirty. I was going to wash it, but Fergus shouted at me to leave it alone.”

  “Mind if I have a look and see if there’s anything down there?” asked Angela.

  “No, go ahead.”

  “I need something to lift it, a screwdriver or something.”

  “I’ll get one. There’s a toolbox under the bed.”

  Martha came back after a few moments with a screwdriver. Angela prised up the sawn square of wood. She peered in the cavity. Then she reached down and pulled out a plastic envelope with what appeared to be several letters in it. Angela peered through the plastic. Some of the letters seemed to be covered in food stains and coffee stains.

  “I think if you don’t mind, Martha, I’ll just take this along to Hamish Macbeth. I would let you look at it first, but it might be important, and I don’t want to get too many fingerprints on it.”

  “Go ahead,” said Martha wearily.

  ♦

  Angela hurried out and made her way to the police station. A light rain was beginning to fall. Oh well, thought Angela sadly, it’s not often we’ve had a summer like this one. It couldn’t last forever.

  She saw the tall figure of Hamish in front of her and hurried to catch up with him.

  “Hamish,” she said. “Look what I found under the floorboards in Fergus’s bedroom.”

  He took the plastic envelope from her. “It seems to be letters, Hamish. There might be a clue.”

  “Thanks, Angela. I’ll take it into the station and have a look at it.”

  “I’d better get back before Mrs. Wellington bullies poor Martha to death!”

&
nbsp; Hamish hurried into the police station, into the office, sat down at his desk and gingerly eased the letters out with the tweezers he had used earlier.

  The first one had been written to Josie Darling. He read:

  Dear Josie,

  I just can’t go through with it. I’m sorry to let you down at the last minute, but I’ve met someone else, and it’s real love this time. If you need any help writing apology letters or returning the presents, let me know. You’ll hate me for a bit, but after time passes, you’ll come to realise I did the right thing. I hope you, too, will find someone.

  Yours, aye, Murdo.

  “The bastard!” said Hamish out loud. Lugs scrabbled at his knee. “Down, boy,” said Hamish sharply. He put the letter carefully to one side. Then he picked up the next.

  Dear Helen, I’ll never forget our night in Strathbane. I’m still travelling around but I hope to be back in Strathbane soon. Any chance of you getting away from your old man? Give us a bell if you can, snookums.

  Always your loving Pat.

  Who was Helen? wondered Hamish. The next was a letter to crofter Angus Effrik. It was from his bank manager. Hamish scanned it rapidly. It was telling Angus that he could have no further credit.

  The fourth was an old newspaper cutting. It read:

  Mrs. Fiona McClellan appeared at Strathbane sheriff’s court yesterday charged with shoplifting. A psychiatrist, Dr. J. Arthur, testified that Mrs. McClellan was now undergoing treatment for kleptomania. Sheriff Paul Tampley gave Mrs. McClellan a suspended sentence of one year but told her that should she appear in his court again, then he would not be so lenient.

  Hamish’s heart sank lower. Mrs. McClellan was the bank manager’s wife.

  There could only be one explanation as to why Fergus had kept these items hidden under the floorboards. Blackmail.

  Hamish groaned and put his head in his hands. He should phone Strathbane immediately and reveal the contents of what Angela had found. Blair would descend like the wrath of God. He was a great man for arresting first and asking questions afterwards. Four lives might be needlessly ruined.

  He looked down at his dog, who stared back up at him with those odd blue eyes. “I’ll give it a day, Lugs. One day. Let’s see what they have to say for themselves. But who’s Helen?”