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
—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.
