Fergus or coming across anyone who had seen him.
At last he drove slowly back towards Lochdubh and then on impulse turned and drove up towards the Tommel Castle Hotel. The castle had been built in the last century by a beer baron with a taste for gothic architecture.
He parked and walked into the hotel. Priscilla came out of the hotel office and came forward to meet him.
“You look exhausted,” she said. “Like a drink?”
“A long cold drink o’ iced fizzy water would be grand.”
“Come into the bar, and I’ll get it for you.” Hamish followed her into the bar. She was wearing a lime green cotton shirt worn loose over a pair of cream shorts. Her long tanned legs ended in low-heeled strapped sandals. A shaft of late sunlight striking through the mullioned windows of the bar turned her golden hair into an aureole.
Priscilla asked the barman for an orange juice for herself and a fizzy water for Hamish. They carried their drinks over to a table.
“What have you been up to?” asked Priscilla.
“Looking for our missing dustman.”
“I hope you find him. We had to pay a contractor to come over from Strathbane and pick up ours. Surely he’s just drunk again.”
“Well, normally that would be the case. But the wee man has caused such hatred in the village wi’ his bullying and his silly green uniform, I’m frightened someone lost their temper and hit him too hard.”
“You’re getting carried away, Hamish. Just think of everyone in Lochdubh. They always curse Fergus, some of the crofters might rough him up, but no one is going to kill him.”
Hamish took a gulp of water and stretched out his long legs. “That’s better. To tell the truth, Priscilla, I still fear someone may have gone too far. He’s a wife beater and, if I’d got him on his own, I might have been tempted to give him a bit of his own medicine.”
“That’s not your style, Hamish!”
“Look, we’re a laid-back, easygoing lot, and we don’t like this wee monster disrupting our lives.”
“Someone said he used to be an accountant. Is that true?”
“I believe so, before the drink got him. I’ll put in a report tonight to Strathbane headquarters and then one to the council. We’ll need a replacement.”
“That’ll be hard to find.”
“Not in the least. The crofters all have some sort of part-time job, especially since the price they’ve been getting for sheep has slumped. Callum McSween up on the Braikie road is a nice man and could do wi’ a bit o’ extra money.”
“Never mind, Hamish. It’s the bad atmosphere Fergus has created in the village that’s getting to you. Then this warm weather makes all the uncollected garbage smell so high that it gets on people’s nerves as well.”
Hamish finished his glass of water. “I’d best be getting back. Maybe Clarry’s found something out.”
“How’s he getting on?”
“Oh, he’s a nice chap and a grand cook. I don’t mind so much just now. Things are pretty quiet apart from a burglary over at Braikie and this Fergus business.” He stood up. “You going back to London soon?”
“I’ll be staying on for a bit. Father’s worried sick about this new hotel taking our custom away.”
“Aye, well, maybe we’ll have a meal some night.”
Priscilla looked down at her glass. “I’ll let you know. I’ve got a friend coming up from London tomorrow.”
A man friend, thought Hamish, looking at her bent head.
“Yes, let me know,” he said and walked off, feeling depressed.
He drove down to the police station and swung the Land Rover into the short drive beside the building. It was only when he cut the engine that he heard the noise. Music was belting out from the police station, disco music, loud and throbbing; so loud the police station seemed to be vibrating.
Instead of walking in the kitchen door as usual, he went quietly round to the front and looked in the living room window. Clarry was dancing, surrounded by laughing children. He was bopping about and waving his arms. Martha was watching them, her face lit up with amusement.
Hamish retreated quietly. He knew Clarry had no right to invite guests to the police station without permission and no right to throw a party. He should march in there like a good police officer and break up the party.
But instead he walked back along the waterfront to the Italian restaurant. He felt in his bones that something bad had happened. Let Martha enjoy herself while she could.
¦
Nessie Curry carried a kitchen chair out to the wheelie bin beside the cottage she shared with her twin sister, Jessie. She placed the chair beside the bin and climbed up on it, holding a bag of rubbish. Fergus would just need to put up with the bottles and cans, for all the little plastic boxes were full. She raised the lid of the bin and then gagged at the smell and clung to the bin for support as she hurriedly dropped the lid.
She retreated back into the kitchen. “Oh, Jessie,” she said. “There’s the most terrible smell coming from our wheelie bin. What did you put in it?”
“All the papers and bottles and stuff I couldn’t get into thae wee boxes, wee boxes,” said Jessie. “I haven’t put anything in there for a couple of days, couple of days.”
“What about food scraps?”
“They went to the compost heap and the rest to Mrs. Docherty’s hens next door, hens next door.”
“Then someone’s put something nasty in ours.”
“Call Hamish Macbeth, Hamish Macbeth.”
“I saw him pass the window an hour ago. He’s probably gone to the Italian’s. I’ll just go along and get him. It’s his job to look for nasty things.”
Hamish was just finishing his meal when Nessie arrived. He listened to her tale of the smelly bin and said, “I’ll be along in a minute. Have a torch ready. It’ll save going back to the station.”
Hamish paid for his meal and then walked out. It was a warm, balmy evening. The reflections of stars shimmered on the black waters of the loch.
He walked round to the side door of the Currie sisters’ cottage. Nessie was waiting for him with a large electric torch. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” said Hamish, taking the torch from her.
The minute he opened the lid of the bin and the horrible smell engulfed him, he felt a lump of ice settling in his stomach. He knew that smell.
Tall as he was, he nonetheless climbed up on the chair and shone the strong beam down into the bin. The dead face of Fergus Macleod stared up at him. Hamish took out a handkerchief and put it over his hand and turned the head slightly. There was a large gaping wound in the back of it. There was a sudden sickening sound of buzzing. The light from the torch was awakening the flies, fat bluebottles. He slammed down the lid and climbed down from the chair.
Nessie and Jessie were both standing together now, staring at him in the starlight.
“What is it?” asked Nessie.
“Fergus. It’s Fergus. Don’t touch anything, ladies. It’s murder.”
? Death of a Dustman ?
3
—Book of Common Prayer
The next day dawned, still and pale and milky, all colour bleached out of the landscape. The striped police tape hung outside the Currie sisters’ cottage. Little groups of villagers stood outside, as motionless as the heavy air.
Clarry stood on duty, his usually cherubic face heavy and sad. The party of last night seemed light years away. Hamish had sent him to break the news to Martha. She had shrunk from him, her eyes dilated with shock. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, alerted by the news which had spread like wildfire through Lochdubh, had
