myself.”
Hamish eyed her curiously. “If I may say so, Mrs. Fleming, it is my humble opinion that you would look well on television.”
She cast her eyes down in false modesty. Then she said, “Whether I look good or not, that is beside the point. I wish to do my best for the environment.”
Liar, thought Hamish. He stood up. “When is this ceremony to be?”
“Next week, on Wednesday. I hope the weather will be fine. Perhaps you could ask the fishermen to deck their boats with flags? And perhaps it might be in order to give me some sort of presentation from the grateful villagers. Just a large box. There doesn’t need to be anything in it. Just for the cameras. And perhaps a pretty wee lassie to give me some flowers.”
Hamish nodded and left. What a monumental ego, he thought with wonder. But would she kill just to get her face on the telly? Television seemed to affect people like a drug. Look at the
He realised he had not asked her where she was on the night Fergus was killed. He half turned and then turned back. She would rant and rave that he was accusing her and report him to Blair. He nodded to Mrs. Fleming’s secretary, who was sitting at a desk in an adjoining room. She was a small neat girl with a white face, small eyes and large red mouth.
Hamish paused in front of her desk and decided to take a gamble. “Must be awful, a pretty lass like you, working for that old dragon,” he said.
She let out a scared little giggle. “Shh, she’ll hear you!”
Hamish leaned over the desk. “Would you be free for a drink this evening?”
“Maybe.”
“When do you finish?”
“Five o’clock.”
“What about then?”
She giggled again. “Oh, all right.”
“I’ll see you in the cocktail bar of the Grand just after five.”
The phone on her desk rang. “All right,” she said again.
Hamish went off. It would be interesting to quiz the secretary and find out more about Mrs. Fleming.
? Death of a Dustman ?
5
—Henry Vaughan
Hamish took out his mobile phone and called Jimmy Anderson. “I just wondered,” said Hamish, “whether you had ever managed to trace that phone call? You know, the one Fergus got before he went out?”
“Oh, that,” said Jimmy. “Useless. Came from that phone box on the waterfront.”
“Get Clarry to ask if anyone saw anyone in the box. A light comes on at night.”
“Aye, but it was still light at the time he got the call. What are you up to?”
“Just doing a few inquiries about Mrs. Fleming.”
“Waste of time,” said Jimmy. “I’ll get Clarry to ask around and see if anyone saw anyone phoning.”
Hamish rang off and then on impulse dialled the minister’s wife. “I saw the new schoolteacher arrive,” he said.
“So?” barked Mrs. Wellington. Hamish began to curse himself for phoning her. He should have tried Angela instead.
“I thought maybe I should take her out for dinner, it being her first night.”
“What a good idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Wellington, much to Hamish’s surprise.
“I have the schoolhouse number, but what is her name?”
“Mrs. Moira Cartwright. A divorcee.”
Hamish thanked her. After he had said good-bye, he wondered how he had got information about the new schoolteacher so easily from Mrs. Wellington. It would have been more her style to caution him against romancing the new teacher. He phoned the schoolhouse and a brisk voice answered the phone. “Mrs. Cartwright?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“This is Sergeant Hamish Macbeth. I heard you had just moved in. You must be too busy to make a meal this evening. I wondered whether you would like to meet me for dinner at, say, eight o’clock at the Italian restaurant?”
“Is that the place on the waterfront?”
“The same.”
“That’s very kind of you. I’ll be there. Good-bye.”
Hamish beamed as he tucked his mobile phone back in his pocket. Forget Priscilla. Or maybe, just maybe, Priscilla might see him with such a beauty.
He then made his way to the Grand Hotel and went into the cocktail bar to wait for Mrs Fleming’s secretary.
¦
Clarry was moving patiently from house to house, particularly those near the phone box. No one so far had seen anything. He was walking back along the waterfront when he saw the Macleod children coming towards him.
“How’s your mother?” he asked Johnny.
“She’s trying to get rid o’ that man from the restaurant,” said Johnny. “She telt him the house was clean, but he’s cleaning everything again.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Clarry. “Come with me.”
From Hamish, Clarry had heard tales of Willie Lament’s fanatical cleaning. Followed by the children, he marched up to Martha’s cottage.
Martha was sitting on a chair outside the front door. From inside came the frantic sound of scrubbing.
“I can’t seem to stop him,” said Martha helplessly.
“I’ll stop him. When’s the funeral?”
“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.
