Death of a Dustman hm-17

by M C Beaton

  ♦

  Hamish started off by going to see Josie. When she opened the door to him, a mulish look settled on her face. “What is it now?” she demanded sharply.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No, I’m busy.”

  “So do you want to tell me about the cancelled wedding and why Fergus was blackmailing you out here on the step?”

  She burst into tears. Hamish put an arm round her and guided her into the living room. Her mother rose to her feet in alarm. “What have you said?” she shouted.

  “Let’s all sit down and talk this over quietly,” said Hamish. He pressed the weeping Josie down into a chair and then sat down himself.

  “While Fergus was going through everyone’s rubbish to make sure everything was in the right receptacle, he collected letters and things he thought might be useful. He kept a letter to you from your fiancé, Murdo, Josie. In it Murdo breaks off the engagement. For some reason, your pride wouldn’t let you tell anyone and it is my belief Fergus asked you for payment to keep his mouth shut.”

  Josie scrubbed her eyes dry and glared at him defiantly. “Prove it!”

  “If you are uncooperative, I will turn the letter over to police headquarters and Detective Chief Inspector Blair will haul you in for questioning. You’ll have a rougher time with him than you will with me. He may not arrest you, but it will be in the papers that a woman is helping police with their inquiries and everyone in Lochdubh will have seen you being taken off in a police car. Come on, now, be honest.”

  Josie looked at her mother, who gave a little nod. “Yes, he asked for money,” she said wearily. “Oh, the shame of it. Him jilting me. I’d bragged to all my friends about getting married.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred pounds. He said if I gave him five hundred he would let me have the letter back. I told him I’d spent too much on the wedding, and he’d need to wait, but he would drop in on his rounds and ask for tea and sit there grinning at me. I could’ve killed him!” Josie gasped and put a hand to her mouth as if to stuff the words back in.

  “A lot of people could,” said Hamish. “But, lassie, I know it was a sore blow, but you’d have had to tell folks finally. What about the presents?”

  “I must have been mad,” said Josie, her eyes filling with tears. “I was going to go down to Inverness and stay with Auntie Margaret and get work. I was going to tell folks here that Murdo wanted a quiet wedding in Inverness.”

  “And keep all the presents?”

  “I was going to return them when she had gone,” said Mrs. Darling.

  “So you didn’t pay the money?”

  “Five hundred pounds is an awful lot of money. I was trying to string him along until something happened.”

  “Something did happen. Someone murdered him. You’ll just need to tell folks you’ve been jilted and forget that silly pride of yours. People get jilted every day. I’ve been jilted so many times, I think it’s a way o’ life. Now I must ask you both what you were doing on the night of July twenty-second, that’s when Fergus was murdered.”

  “We were watching a video together, me and Mum,” said Josie. “Then we went to bed.”

  “No witnesses?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Thank God it’s all over,” said Mrs. Darling.

  “Aye, well let’s hope that’s an end to it. But I cannae sit on evidence like this forever. But I’ll try to keep it quiet for a bit.”

  “Thank you,” breathed Josie, suddenly all seductive. “I know you’re doing it just for me.”

  Murdo’s a lucky man, thought Hamish, getting to his feet. “I’m doing it for you and your mother and for the peace of the village. But don’t get too cocky with me, Josie Darling. Just pray I can find a murderer before your letter goes to police headquarters.”

  ♦

  Hamish then walked down to the Bank of Scotland. The bank house stood next door, one of those whitewashed gothic villas that the Victorians had considered suitable to house bank managers.

  The bank was still open, so the husband would be at work. He pressed the house bell. A voice called, “I’m in the garden at the back.”

  Hamish walked along the path at the side of the house. Mrs. McClellan was standing in the garden at the back, a trowel in one hand. The rain had cleared, although the clouds were still low and heavy.

  “Mr. Macbeth,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

  She was wearing an old Laura Ashley print frock, faded by many washings. She had a small-featured face with only a few wrinkles around her dark brown eyes. Her thick brown hair was piled in a loose knot on top of her head.

  “Can we sit down somewhere, Mrs. McClellan? You’re not going to like this.”

  A bleak look settled in her eyes. “Come into the kitchen,” she said. “We can talk there.”

  As soon as they were both seated at the kitchen table, she said in a quiet voice, “You know, don’t you?”

  “I know Fergus kept an old newspaper cutting describing how you had been charged with shoplifting. When was that? There was no date on the cutting.”

  “Twelve years ago.”

  “And was he blackmailing you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your husband know?”

  “No, I was terrified of him finding out. He was manager of the main bank in Strathbane when I was charged. He felt ashamed of me. He moved us here. I got treatment, and I haven’t lapsed since. I knew my husband couldn’t bear Lochdubh knowing about my past. He would have moved again, and this time, I don’t think he would have taken me with him.”

  “How much did Fergus want?”

  “One thousand pounds. I told him I couldn’t get that much together without my husband finding out so he said he would take it in installments. I had paid him two hundred by the time he was murdered. Now it’s all for nothing. You’re here and there is nothing to stop the misery happening all over again.”

  “What were you doing on the night of July twenty-second?”

  “I was chairing the Mother’s Union at the church. Then I came home and watched a bit of television with my husband. Then we both went to bed. Will you be taking me to Strathbane?”

  “As to that,” said Hamish, “I will try to keep this quiet, for the moment. But I want you to let me know if you hear anything, however small, that might relate to the case.”

  She looked at him, her eyes suddenly full of hope. “Are you saying you might be able to keep this quiet?”

  “I’ll do my best for a few days.”

  “But if you don’t find the murderer, then this will all have to come out?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then I will do my very best to find something out for you. Thank you.”

  ♦

  Hamish, going towards Martha’s cottage, met Angela on her way home. “Did you tell the Currie sisters or Mrs. Wellington about the letters?” asked Hamish.

  “No, and I don’t think Martha said anything either.”

  “Angela, that wee scunner Fergus was using information he found in the garbage to blackmail a few people. I’ll need to let Strathbane know eventually. But if I can protect them for a few days, I will. I’ll speak to Martha. Get her to say she just found them when I tell her to.”

  “That’s awful, Hamish. Fergus deserved to be murdered.”

  “Nobody deserves to be murdered.”

  “He did,” said Angela firmly.

  Hamish was turning away when he turned back and asked, “Can you think of any Helens in the village?”

  “Helen? Let me see, there’s Helen Macgregor out on the Braikie side, there’s Helen Jensen, but she’s just a wee schoolgirl, there’s Helen Docherty…”

  “Mrs. Docherty? Her name’s Helen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right.” Hamish strode off and left Angela staring after him.

  ♦

  Martha opened the door to him and invited him inside. The cottage had a polished and scrubbed look. “I o
nly wanted them to take away Fergus’s things,” said Martha, “but they insisted on doing the housekeeping as well. Was there anything in those letters that Angela found?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Have you looked at your husband’s bankbook?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Did he leave a will?”

  “He did. He left everything to me, such as it is.”

  “Good. Right. Here’s the problem. It is my belief your husband was a blackmailer.”

  “Oh, no!” Martha wailed.

  “He was using letters he found in the rubbish. I’m keeping it quiet at the moment, Martha. It’s all right if I call you Martha?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re Hamish and Martha unless we’re being official. Now let’s see that bankbook.”

  “It’s in a drawer in the sideboard.” Martha went to the sideboard which was one of those awful cheap thirties pieces of furniture made of yellowish wood and badly carved. She jerked one of the doors open and produced a Bank of Scotland bankbook.

  Hamish studied it. There was the payment of two hundred, probably from Mrs. McClellan, then there was another payment of five hundred pounds, and everything else was Fergus’s salary.

  “I may ask you to pay back the money he extorted from people, Martha. But I can’t do anything until I find the murderer. You see, the thing is, if I take the letters to the police, a lot of innocent villagers might suffer, get their reputations ruined. I must ask you not to talk about this.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” gasped Martha. “Oh, the shame of it!” She suddenly turned a muddy colour. “But Hamish, what if one of them he was blackmailing killed him, and they think I’ve got the proof?”

  “I’ve thought of that, believe me. Whoever did it will know your cottage has been searched from top to bottom. You were searched, weren’t you?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “How they missed that bit in the bedroom floor is beyond me.”

  “They weren’t looking for anything like that,” said Martha. “I mean, I showed them the will, the bankbook, but there was nothing else in that drawer, and they seemed satisfied with that. They were talking about some football match back in Strathbane and wondering if they could wrap things up and get back in time.”

  Hamish reflected that people only read in their newspapers about murderers being caught by one hair or saliva on a cigarette and never heard about the ones where the investigating team wanted to get back in time for a football match and possibly missed something important. If Martha had killed her husband, whatever clues might have been left had been scrubbed away by the helpful ladies of Lochdubh.

  “I’ll let you know how I get on,” he said. “But I can only keep this quiet for a few days.”

  He was heading for the door when Martha asked, “How’s Clarry?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Give him my regards.”

  “Will do.” Hamish walked out. He had a sudden awful thought that a battered wife like Martha might have seen in Clarry the husband she had always wanted and had hammered her husband to death. He shook his head to clear it. He’d better interview the other suspects fast and trust to his instinct.

  He walked down to Mrs. Docherty’s cottage and knocked on the door. Her husband, he remembered, worked at the fish counter in a supermarket in Strathbane. Mrs. Docherty opened the door. Her eyes dilated with fright, and then she masked it with fury. “This is police harassment.”

  “You must have been expecting me to call for some time. How long was Fergus Macleod blackmailing you?”

  She stood very still. Then she said wearily, “You’d better come in.”

  She led the way into a tidy little living room. “I prayed he would have got rid of that letter. I knew the police had searched his cottage. When I didn’t hear anything, I thought I was safe. Will I be arrested?”

  “Not yet,” said Hamish. “I’m trying to keep it quiet for a few days. But if I don’t find the murderer in that time, I’ll need to go to Strathbane. What happened?”

  “I’m fifty-five.”

  “I don’t see what…”

  “Listen. Us women up in the Highlands don’t reach the menopause until fifty-seven. Sometimes the scientists say it’s the fresh fish and others say it’s the whisky. Anyway, I knew I hadn’t long. To be a real woman, that is. I was in Strathbane, shopping, and I decided to go to the bar of the Royal Hotel for a drink. That’s where I met Pat. You’re not taking notes.”

  “Not yet,” said Hamish. “Just let’s hope it won’t be necessary.”

  “Anyway, we got talking. I drank a bit too much. He made me laugh. Then he suggested I come back that evening to spend the night with him. Just like that. I said, why not? I didn’t really mean to keep that date. I mean, I knew I was a bit drunk and shouldn’t even be driving. When I got home, Roger phoned.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes. He said he was going to the Rotary Club. He said he would be staying the night with a friend of ours. I must have been mad. I decided to go for it. It wasn’t worth it. I felt miserable and ashamed in the morning. Just to get away nicely, like a fool I gave him my address. When I got that letter, I didn’t put it in one of the paper boxes, I put it in with the general rubbish. But that ferret of a man was sifting through everyone’s rubbish.”

  “Why now?” said Hamish. “I mean, why did he suddenly start blackmailing? I mean, if that letter had been in the box for papers, I could understand it. I could understand him being tempted. But to suddenly take it out of the general garbage. Maybe he’d already stumbled onto something profitable.”

  “I’m not the only one?”

  “No. Where were you the night Fergus was murdered?”

  “I went out to a meeting at the church, came home, watched a bit of television with my husband and went to bed. Oh, please, can you try to stop this getting out?”

  “I’ll do my best. Let me know if you hear anything. Anything at all.”

  “I must have been mad,” she said, half to herself. “I’ve always been respectable. The boys are doing well, both in jobs in Glasgow. I blame the television.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, women like me sit up here in the very north of Scotland, night after night, watching beautiful people. Morals never seem to bother them. Then the day comes when women like me think, I’ll have some of that. And some of that turns out to be a sordid night with a travelling salesman. Men sleep around, why shouldn’t women? That’s what they preach on the box. But to old–fashioned women like me, I can’t get rid of the old values of loyalty and modesty. Do you remember when modesty in women was considered a virtue?”

  “I’m not old enough,” said Hamish ruefully.

  ♦

  After he had left Mrs. Docherty, he went back to the police station. Jimmy Anderson was sitting in the police office, his feet on the desk.

  “Where’s Clarry?” asked Hamish.

  “I sent him off on a tour of the village, asking as many people as possible if they saw anything. I’ve got two coppers from Strathbane doing the same thing. Get anything?”

  “Not much,” said Hamish.

  “That’s not like you. Come on. You’ve got something up your sleeve.”

  “Not me. I’m off to check some of the outlying crofts. What are you going to do?”

  “Coordinate,” said Jimmy vaguely. “Take that weird dog of yours with you. I thought he wasn’t going to let me into the station.”

  “So how’d you get in?”

  “One whole packet of chocolate wafer biscuits.”

  “Whit? You’re a bad man, Jimmy. You’ll ruin his teeth.”

  Hamish went into the bathroom and collected his toothbrush and toothpaste. Then he grabbed the unsuspecting Lugs from under the kitchen table and began to forcibly brush the dog’s teeth. Then he put the dog down in front of his water bowl. He drank thirstily and then looked accusingly up at Hamish.

  “Come on, boy. It’s no u
se you looking at me like that. How can you bite Blair if your teeth fall out?”

  Soon Hamish was driving off out of Lochdubh with a sulky Lugs on the seat beside him.

  Angus Ettrik’s croft lay off the Drim Road. He turned up a narrow lane, stopping at one point to get down and shoo some of Angus’s sheep back into the fields.

  Angus’s wife, Kirsty, was hanging out sheets in the garden, although it was not really a garden, more a dump for old machinery. A washing machine leaned against a television set. Two rusting cars and various bits of machinery stood testament to the Highland crofter’s weakness. Nothing was ever thrown away because it ‘might come in handy sometime.’

  “What’s up?” asked Kirsty, coming towards him. She was a small, dark, gypsy-looking woman.

  “Angus about?”

  “He’s up at the peats. What’s it about?”

  “Just asking everyone round about.”

  “Oh, the murder. That was awful, so it was.”

  Hamish nodded to her and got into the Land Rover and then drove as far as he could along a heathery track.

  He finally got down and, followed by Lugs, walked the last half mile to the peat stacks. Angus was cutting peats. As Hamish approached him, he turned over in his mind what he knew about the crofter. He had a reputation of being lazy, but that wasn’t unusual in the Highlands where the doctor’s surgery was at its busiest on a Monday morning with men complaining of bad backs. He and Kirsty did not have children. He was a small wiry man with a thick shock of dark hair going grey at the sides. His face was permanently tanned from working outdoors.

  He saw Hamish but continued to cut peats. He had a tractor and trailer beside him. The trailer was already loaded up with cut peats, like dark slices of cake.

  “How’s it going, Angus?”

  Angus paused and looked up at the tall policeman. “What do ye want?”

  “I want to know if Fergus Macleod was blackmailing you.”

  Angus looked down. “Havers,” he muttered. Then he raised his head. “Do I look like the sort o’ cheil that would let a dustman blackmail me?”

  “He had found a letter from your bank refusing to let you have any more credit.”