Death of a Dustman

“That dog of yours. You shouldnae hae a dog like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s got blue eyes.”

“So?”

Kirsty lowered her voice. “Animals wi’ eyes like that are people who’ve come back. Get it out of here. It’s bad luck.”

Lugs suddenly darted round Hamish and into the cottage. Kirsty let out a wail of terror and threw her apron over her head. “Get it out!” she screamed.

Hamish pushed past her into the kitchen and scooped up his dog, who was sitting under the stove, looking longingly up at a stew pot which was simmering on the hob.

Tucking the dog firmly under one arm, he marched out of the cottage. Kirsty was sitting on a rock, keening and holding her arms tightly about her body.

“Come on, Kirsty,” said Hamish. “It iss chust the wee dog.”

“Go away,” whispered Kirsty.

Hamish shrugged helplessly. Although he suffered from a fair amount of Highland superstition himself, he was still amazed at how extreme it could be in other Highlanders.

He carried Lugs back to the Land Rover. Better check with Archie whether Angus had been where he said he had been on the night Fergus had been killed.

“Aye, I mind fine he was here,” said Archie, sitting like a gnome on the harbour wall in the tight suit he usually sported and which the villagers swore his wife boiled, dried and ironed.

“A’ what time?”

“Early-ish. About seven o’ clock. We was just about to go out, but Niven had a bottle o’ whisky and we passed it around.”

“So what was Angus talking about?”

“Price o’ sheep. Usual crofter’s complaint.”

“Did he talk about Fergus?”

“Wait a bit. We was saying what a wee bastard the dustman was and Angus said something like, he was all right if you got on the right side of him.”

“Anything else?”

“No, then we had to go out to the fishing. He said he would walk home. I said, that’s a fair walk, and he said he was used to it and with petrol prices going up, we’d all have to learn to walk like in the old days. He left about seven o’clock.”

“They think from the contents of the stomach that Fergus was killed some time later that evening. Someone must have heard something. This is a village. Someone must have been looking out.”

“Inspector Morse was on television. That waud be from eight o’clock to ten.”

“The whole o’ Lochdubh can’t have been watching Inspector Morse.”

“If my ain wife wouldnae miss it, then no one else is going to.”

Momentarily amused by the fact that the Highland villagers should find murder and mayhem in the Oxford colleges so enthralling, Hamish then said, “So you got the impression that Fergus was friendly with Angus?”

“I couldnae say for sure. But he was the only one of us not to have a hard word to say for Fergus.”

“And how’s Callum McSween coping?”

“He’s different. He’s such a cheery man that we thought, well why not put the damn things in the right bins. If Fergus had been like him, we’d all have gone along with it.”

Hamish walked back to the police station. Clarry was out. Hamish hoped he was working and not wandering around the shelves of Patel’s store, planning elaborate meals. He fed Lugs and sat down in the police office, turning over and over the little he knew. If nothing broke, then he was going to be obliged to turn the letters over to Blair. Then he suddenly thought of Mrs. Fleming. To interfere at such cost in the sanitation of a small Highland village surely betrayed some fanaticism. He looked up as Jimmy Anderson strolled in.

“No Blair?” asked Hamish.

“No, and my feet are sore. It’s a small village. I decided to go round everyone myself, but your man, Clarry, always seemed to have been there just before me.”

“What about Mrs. Fleming?”

“That tart? What about her?”

“I keep wondering what’s behind all this greening o’ Lochdubh.”

Jimmy grinned. “I know, you think she thought Fergus wasn’t doing his job so she hit him with the hammer.”

“Sounds daft. But what do we know of her?”

“She was just an ordinary councillor. Then suddenly she gets promoted to Director of the Environment. Rumour has it the provost got into her knickers.”

“My, my. I might have a word wi’ her if it’s not interfering with your investigations.”

“Interfere all you like. I’m needed back in Strathbane. Let me know what you get.”

¦

Hamish left a note on the kitchen table for Clarry to walk his dog and then got into the Land Rover. He slowed to a crawl as he passed the schoolhouse. A beautiful vision was standing by a removal van supervising the arrival of furniture. Her lovely features were surrounded by a cloud of black hair. Her eyes were large and blue. She had a perfect figure and long, long legs. Hamish grinned. The new schoolteacher had arrived. If he got back early enough, he would invite her out to dinner and hope that word would get back to Priscilla.

¦

In Strathbane, he learned that Mrs. Fleming was too busy to see him for another hour. He passed the time wandering about, looking at the shops. He was heading back to the council offices when he suddenly saw Priscilla. She was looking in a jeweller’s window with Jerry. Hamish’s heart plummeted. Were they choosing a ring? He walked away quickly before they could see him. Then he glanced at his watch. Time to visit the formidable Mrs. Fleming.

“Sit down, Officer,” was her cold greeting. She eyed the tall, lanky sergeant with disfavour. “I have already spoken at length to your superiors from headquarters. What do you want?”

Hamish sat down opposite her and put his peaked cap on the desk. “I am examining all points of this case. To go back to the beginning, why did you choose Lochdubh for this greening experiment when Strathbane is more in need of it?”

“I am passionate about the environment. Strathbane is a massive project. I wanted to start the experiment with somewhere smaller. Somewhere that would look good on the television cameras.”

“Television?”

“Yes, don’t you see? It pays to advertise. Lochdubh is a picturesque village. When it appears on the screens, people in the Highlands will feel compelled to follow the good example.”

“They may have more important news to cover than the cleaning up of a Highland village,” said Hamish maliciously. “Like the odd war or two.”

“I thought of that,” she said, leaning forward. “We are now in August, and August is traditionally a quiet time for news. I have the press handouts ready. I will be arriving in Lochdubh with the councillors and provost, and I will make a speech to the cameras.”

Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. Oh my, thought Hamish, a star is born.

“Fergus Macleod was not popular,” said Hamish. “In fact, he was so unpopular that the villagers were not putting their garbage in the correct receptacles. They are now.”

Her eyes became steely. “Are you daring to suggest that I might have murdered some dustman because the project was not working out?”

“Of course not,” said Hamish quickly. “I’m just asking questions here and there and trying to build up a picture.”

“Then may I suggest you get back to your village where the murder took place and get on with your job in the right location? The murderer must be found. Fergus Macleod was as dedicated to the environment as I am