Death of a Dustman (11 page)

‘They’re going to release the body next week, they say. If only you could find out who did it. I’ll never be at peace until then.’

‘I’ll find out,’ said Clarry stoutly. He went in to confront Willie.

‘Get out of here!’ roared Clarry. ‘And stop persecuting a poor widow woman!’

Willie, who was down on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush, turned a pained face up to Clarry. ‘I was just doing my bit for the community.’

‘Well, do it somewhere else. Out!’

‘Weellie!’ called a voice from outside.

Willie leapt to his feet. ‘The wife!’ He went outside and Clarry followed him. Clarry had not met Willie’s wife before, and he blinked at the vision of Italian loveliness
facing him.

‘Weellie,’ said Lucia Lamont severely. ‘You are wanted in the restaurant.’

‘Right,’ said Willie meekly.

Lucia gave Martha a dazzling smile. ‘You must not mind him. He loves cleaning.’

The odd couple walked off arm in arm.

‘Come inside,’ said Martha to Clarry. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’

Clarry happily went with her into the cottage, followed by the children. Johnny came in carrying the baby, which he put on Clarry’s lap. ‘So how are you all bearing up?’ asked
Clarry.

‘We’re still in shock,’ said Martha.

‘What you all need,’ said Clarry predictably, ‘is a good feed and a funny video.’

‘Oh, Clarry,’ said Martha, and she began to cry.

Clarry handed the baby to Johnny and went and clumsily patted Martha’s shoulder. ‘Don’t cry. Clarry’s here. I’ll look after you all.’

Johnny grabbed his arm and looked up into his face.

‘Forever?’ he asked.

‘If your mother would like that,’ said Clarry, feeling bolder now, gathering Martha into his arms.

Hamish left the Grand Hotel feeling flat. He had elicited nothing much from the secretary that he did not know already – that since the death of her husband, Mrs Fleming
had gone power mad. But whether her craving for power and fame would drive her to killing one dustman seemed too far-fetched.

Then he brightened. There was dinner with the new schoolteacher to look forward to. Just time to get back and change.

Clarry was not there. Hamish let Lugs out into the garden at the back and then prepared some food for the dog. He had a quick bath and shave and then was brushing his teeth when he realized with
horror that he had forgotten to buy a new toothbrush. He was brushing his teeth with the brush he had used on Lugs. He shuddered and rinsed out his mouth.

When he let Lugs in, the dog glanced up at him and, as if registering the glory of suit, collar and tie, crept to his food bowl with his tail between his legs. Hamish dressed for the evening
meant no company for Lugs.

Hamish found he was excited with anticipation. He remembered the glorious beauty of the vision he had seen beside the removal truck. All thoughts of the murder of Fergus, all speculation about
who had murdered Fergus, had gone from his head. Although the nights were drawing in, it was still light and the flanks of the two mountains which soared above the village were bright with heather.
One early star shone in the clear, pale greenish-blue of the evening sky, and the setting sun sent a fiery path across the black waters of the loch. The air was full of the smells of a Highland
village: tar and peat smoke, strong tea, pine and the salt tang of the waters of the sea loch.

He straightened his tie and went into the restaurant. There were various customers, some he recognized and some he did not. People came from far and wide to dine at the restaurant.

Willie appeared at his elbow. ‘I’ve put her at your usual table, over by the window.’

Hamish looked across. A squat middle-aged woman was sitting there. She had a greyish heavy face with a great wide mouth. Her large pale eyes had thick, fleshy lids. Her salt and pepper hair was
secured at her neck with a black velvet bow. She looked like an eighteenth-century man from a Hogarth engraving.

‘There’s some mistake,’ hissed Hamish. ‘I’m meeting the new schoolteacher.’

‘Well, that’s her.’

‘You sure?’

‘Introduced herself,’ said Willie. ‘Said she was meeting you.’

The sun disappeared outside the restaurant windows and the sun set in Hamish’s heart. He cautiously approached the table.

‘Mrs Cartwright?’

She grinned up at him, exposing yellowing and irregular teeth. ‘Mr Macbeth, how kind of you to entertain me on my first night.’

Hamish sat down opposite her. ‘We’re a friendly village. What would you like to drink?’

‘Campari and soda, please.’

‘So I gather you’ve just arrived,’ said Hamish. ‘I saw the removal van. Come from far?’

‘From Edinburgh. I hate moving. But I have a super efficient niece, Flora. You fuss too much, Auntie, she said. Let me organize the whole thing.’

‘You should have brought her with you,’ said Hamish.

‘Oh, she went straight back to Edinburgh. She’s an advocate, and she’s got a case coming up tomorrow.’

There was a silence while they studied the menu. When she had selected what she wanted, Hamish gave their order.

He thought of Priscilla and felt a weight of unhappiness settle on his stomach. He wasn’t still in love with her, he told himself, but somehow he didn’t want her to get married.

‘Is it this murder?’ he realized Moira Cart-wright was asking him. ‘You look quite gloomy.’

‘Yes, it is,’ lied Hamish. ‘I’m hoping one of the locals didn’t lose their rag and hit him too hard.’

‘Tell me about it.’

So Hamish did and found, as the meal progressed, that he was beginning to relax. She was that rare thing, an excellent listener.

‘What puzzles me,’ ended Hamish, ‘is why no one saw him.’

‘I know this seems a bit way out, but if this Fergus got a phone call and went off without telling his wife who he was meeting . . .’

‘That wouldn’t be unusual. The only communication Martha Macleod had with her husband was the occasional fist in her face.’

‘I was going to say he might have been in disguise. But now you’ve told me about the wife, surely the answer’s obvious. She did it. Or someone close to her. You know, murder,
like charity, usually begins at home.’

Hamish was about to say stoutly that when Martha hadn’t been with him she’d been with Clarry, but that was what he wanted to think. He had slept heavily that night. Clarry could have
nipped out if it transpired that Martha really knew where Fergus had gone.

He had not told Moira about the blackmail. But that was one thing he could not keep to himself for much longer.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Nothing. I just wish it were all over.’

‘Have you considered these Currie sisters as suspects?’

‘What! That iss ridiculous. Neither of them would hurt a fly.’

‘I find you think you know people just because they’re under your feet the whole time, so to speak. But there can be a lot of passions burning below the surface.’

‘You speak from experience?’

‘I was married once. I reverted to my maiden name after the divorce but I still use the “Mrs”. Vanity! I don’t want to be thought a spinster.’

‘What happened?’

‘I had a very strict upbringing and John was a bit wild. That was what attracted me. My parents were against it. He turned out a bad lot. He stole cars. Then it was armed robbery. Finally
he killed a night watchman. He’s out now. Isn’t it incredible that somewhere that murdering rat could be walking the streets?’

‘Not the streets of Lochdubh, I hope.’

‘He doesn’t know where I am. It all happened thirty years ago anyway. So what do you lot do for amusement round here when you’re not murdering each other?’

‘There’s no theatre and no cinema, so the younger ones go down to Inverness or over to Strathbane. There’s the occasional dance or ceilidh, you know, where we dance and then
everyone does something, sings or recites a poem, that sort of thing. Then there’s the television.’

‘What did they all do to pass the time in the winter before television?’

‘They sat around each other’s peat fires and told stories. It’s an art that’s nearly gone. Not many young people stay in the Highlands. It’s a place where incomers
choose to retire, but often they don’t last long. The dark winters usually get to them.’

‘I’m not that much of a stranger to the Highlands. I taught over in Dingwall in Cromarty. Lively town, nice people. But I was much younger then, and I wanted to travel. I learned
teaching English as a foreign language and then I taught in Italy for a bit, then Japan and then Thailand.’

‘Dingwall?’ said Hamish. ‘Exactly when would that have been?’

‘Fifteen years ago.’

‘So you wouldn’t have been that young.’

‘Do you usually shell out compliments like that?’

‘Sorry. Tell me more about Dingwall.’

‘You know Dingwall. I can’t tell you much more. The police there are very good.’

‘Have much to do with them?’

She laughed. ‘You’re beginning to suspect I have a murky past. No, it was nothing like that. Some nasty person sent me a blackmailing letter.’

Hamish sat up straight. ‘What about?’

‘I was to leave two hundred pounds in ten-pound notes in a bag on a bench at Dingwall railway station at midnight, or the blackmailer would tell everyone that I had been married to a
murderer. So I went straight to the police. They got a bag and stuffed it with paper and told me to leave it on the bench as instructed. They kept watch but no one turned up. I didn’t hear
any more, but it soured Dingwall for me, so I got the job in Edinburgh.’

‘Did you have an accountant in Dingwall?’

‘What an odd question! No, I had no need of an accountant. I did my taxes myself. Still do.’

Hamish wanted to tell her that Fergus had worked as an accountant in Dingwall, but she would ask if he had continued as a blackmailer, if Fergus had been the one trying to blackmail her in
Dingwall, and Hamish did not want to say anything that might betray anyone in Lochdubh.

But he did not believe in coincidences. Here was a schoolteacher who had once worked in Dingwall, who had been blackmailed. And she had moved to Lochdubh.

‘Why?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Why Lochdubh?’

‘I was working in a large comprehensive in Edinburgh. I could have got a job in a private school with smaller classes, but I was still idealistic, thought I could bring my educational
skills to those who were not so fortunate in their upbringing.’ She sighed. ‘It was a nightmare. The pupils were rowdy and noisy. Big loutish boys and girls who had so many parts of
their body pierced, they were like walking pin cushions. I stuck it out for quite a while. I didn’t make many friends because most of the teachers moved away quite quickly and found work
elsewhere, or, after their brutal experiences, left teaching altogether. I became weary. I wanted a quiet life until my retirement. I saw the job was going here and applied for it and got
it.’

Hamish thought hard. He wondered if they had dug into Fergus’s past properly. He would suggest to Jimmy that a trip to Dingwall might be a good idea.

‘That was a lovely meal,’ said Moira. ‘Next time it’s on me.’

‘That would be grand,’ said Hamish, calling for the bill. ‘Look, you might hear or notice something which might relate to the murder. If you hear anything that might be
relevant, please let me know.’

With Jimmy’s permission, Hamish drove off the following morning to Dingwall with Lugs beside him. The wind had shifted around to the east and it was a bright, cold
day.

Dingwall is blessed with convenient car parks at the back of the main street. Hamish drove into one of them, told Lugs to wait, and climbed down from the Land Rover and walked through one of the
narrow lanes which led from the car park to the main street.

It is a busy, Highland town with a good variety of small shops, mostly Victorian, grey granite; prosperous, decent and friendly.

Hamish stopped in the main street and took out a piece of paper on which he had noted the name of the firm for which Fergus had once worked: Leek & Baxter, chartered accountants.

The office proved to be above a bakery. He walked up the shallow stone stairs, redolent with the smell of hot bread and sugary buns, and opened a frosted-glass door on the first landing, which
bore the legend LEEK & BAXTER in faded gold letters.

Inside, at a desk, an elderly lady was hammering away at an old Remington typewriter. She looked up as Hamish entered, sighed, and then stood up, saying, ‘I suppose you want
tea.’

‘Actually, I came to see one of the partners.’

‘Mr Leek is busy and Mr Baxter is out. Mr Leek will be free in ten minutes so you’d better have tea.’

‘Thank you.’ Hamish sat down on a leather-covered chair. She walked to a kettle in the corner and plugged it in. He watched, amused, as she carefully prepared tea – tea leaves,
not bags – and then arranged a small pot, milk jug, sugar bowl and plate with two Fig Newtons on a tray and carried the lot over to him and placed the tray on a low table in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ said Hamish again.

Her sad old face looked even sadder as she resumed her seat behind the typewriter. ‘I missed out,’ she said.

‘On what?’

‘On women’s lib, that’s what. You won’t get the young things these days to make tea.’

‘Then you shouldnae do it if you don’t want to,’ Hamish pointed out.

‘I can’t stop. I’m the generation that makes tea for men.’ She sighed again. Then she said, ‘What brings you?’

‘Fergus Macleod. Did you know him?’

‘Yes, I was here in his day.’

‘And what did you make of him?’

‘I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

‘Try.’

‘He was a wee scunner and that’s a fact. Always complaining and bullying. I got my own back, though.’

‘How?’

‘He had terrible hangovers, see, and when he had one, I’d wait till he got level with my desk and drop something noisy and make him jump and clutch his head.’

‘Why did he get fired? He did get fired, didn’t he?’

‘It was the drink. He was getting worse, and some days he wouldn’t even turn up.’

‘Not fiddling the books, was he?’