M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dustman

“Gotcha!” said Hamish.

He ran to the wall and heaved himself up over the top. “It’s all right, folks,” he called. “I’ve got what I wanted.”

“What did you find?” asked Priscilla.

“One incriminating letter. One incriminating fax. I’ll have Jimmy and the boys up here in the morning.”

People were yawning and drifting away.

“What about all this paper?” demanded Mrs. Wellington.

“We’ll see to it in the morning,” said Hamish.

Tarn released his crane from the bell bank and then backed off, shouting a warning. The great bell bank fell to the ground with a hollow clang and rolled on its side and then lay there, mouth gaping.

“I’ll be down in the morning,” said Priscilla. “Don’t worry about running me home, Hamish. Mrs. Wellington says if you want to phone, she’ll take me back.”

Hamish nodded and then sprinted for the police station. He phoned Jimmy at home and rapidly described what he had found. “Grand!” said Jimmy. “Got the bastard. I’ll be along with the men in the morning, and I’ll hae a search warrant.”

“I don’t think Ionides is back yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll get that secretary of his to open up everything.”

“What time will you be here?”

“The earliest I can manage.”

“I’m beat. I’ll set the alarm.”

Hamish stretched and yawned. There was a pile of fax paper lying by the machine. He could see it was headed STRATHBANE COUNCIL. That damn woman again. She could wait.

♦

As Hamish slept with Lugs curled against his side and through the wall Clarry, unaware of the drama, slept as well, the wind of Sutherland rose outside. It hurtled down the waterfront. Paper danced elaborate entrechats in the air. Paper stuck to fences and garden walls. Paper hung from lamp standards. And then, as if satisfied with the chaos it had caused, the wind roared away to the east and a quiet dawn rose above Lochdubh.

♦

Mrs. Freda Fleming sat at her dressing table in the morning, anxiously surveying her makeup. It was certainly very heavy, but she would look all right on camera. She had tried to contact Hamish Macbeth the day before but had failed to get him. She had then phoned Callum, who had reported that the village looked clean and neat. Anyway, she had faxed Macbeth exact instructions of what was to be expected. She hoped he had found a photogenic child to present the bouquet. It was a pity the London papers had shown no interest, but Grampian television had said they would cover the Greening of Lochdubh. The local papers were coming, and some of the Glasgow newspapers were sending their local men. She had memorised her speech over and over again. She had been worried about the weather, but it was a beautiful morning.

♦

Hamish was awakened by a ferocious knocking at the door. He opened it and found an excited Jimmy Anderson on the step. “Come on, Hamish, and see the fun. That secretary, Miss Stathos, is yelling and shouting in Greek.”

“Be with you in a minute.”

Hamish washed and dressed. He went out of the station and then blinked at the mess of paper all over Lochdubh. Well, they could all clear it up later.

♦

Tom Stein groaned as his alarm clock went off. He covered the Highlands for the Glasgow Morning News . He had a sour mouth and a blinding hangover, and he remembered he was supposed to get over to Lochdubh and cover some dreary cleanup campaign thought up by that poisonous Fleming woman. He shaved and dressed and then drank two Alka Seltzers, wincing at the noise as the tablets fizzed in the water. In this modem age, he thought bitterly, Alka Seltzer should by now have invented a silent tablet.

He was a middle-aged man with a thin face marred by lines of disappointment. As an elderly actor will take part in yet another crowd scene and dream of glory, so Tom dreamed of having a scoop, having his name on the front of the London papers. But he suffered disappointment after disappointment. Hadn’t he sent the first reports of the murder in Lochdubh? But the Glasgow Morning News had sent up their own man, and anything he had written had been incorporated into the staff man’s story. Tom was a freelancer. He sometimes got a few items in the other papers, but only the Glasgow Morning News paid him a retainer.

He drank a cup of black coffee and shuddered. He certainly wasn’t going to hit the headlines with this one. There was a knock at the door of his little bungalow, situated in what had once been a respectable suburb of Strathbane but which was going rapidly downhill.

It was his photographer, an equally tired and perpetually disappointed man called Paul Anstruther.

“You ready to go?” asked Paul.

“May as well, but if they publish one line, I’ll shoot myself in surprise.”

♦

“Nothing,” said Jimmy in disgust. “But thanks to you, Hamish, we can charge him with intent to ruin the Tommel Castle. But, man, we cannae charge him with murder.”

A crowd had gathered to watch the police activity. Jimmy had actually arrived at six in the morning. It was now eight and Lochdubh was coming alive.

Josie Darling noticed Geordie Liddell standing at the edge of the crowd in full Highland regalia. She went up to him. “You off to the Games?”

“Yes,” said Geordie. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know. Will you be tossing the caber?”

“Aye, and throwing the hammer.”

“Is the hammer very heavy?”

“Weighs a ton,” said Geordie. “I’ve got it in the Jeep. I’ll show you.”

He went to his Jeep and returned swinging the long, heavy, metal hammer. “Try lifting it, Josie.”

“I can’t.” She giggled. “My, but you’re strong!”

Geordie grinned and flexed his muscles under his green velvet jacket. Then he heard Hamish shouting, “I hear a helicopter.” The crowd fell silent.

♦

“It’s so damn early in the morning,” groaned Tom Stein as he and his photographer got into a minibus marked PRESS.

“Are we the only ones?” asked Paul Anstruther.

“Looks like it,” said Tom wearily. “That biddy Fleming is trying to plead with them to wait for more, but it’s just you and me.”

The cavalcade moved off. In the front limousine, Mrs. Freda Fleming was doggedly trying to look on the bright side. “I know that at the moment we only have the representatives from the Glasgow Morning News ,” she said to the small figure of the provost, who was sitting next to her. “But mark my words, the others will be making their own way there.”

The provost, Mr. Jamie Ferguson, shifted uneasily. “It’s an awful lot of money we’ve been putting out on this. The Labour Party is cracking down on wasteful councils. They’ll have something to say about this.”

“It isn’t really costing anything,” said Mrs Fleming. “I mean, I sent the constable full instructions. Lochdubh will bear the expense of the celebrations.”

“If I know Lochdubh,” said the provost gloomily, “then they’ll send us a bill.”

“They can try,” snapped Mrs. Fleming. She rapped on the glass. “Go faster, driver, we’re running late.”

“I’m in trouble, Freda,” said the provost. “The other members of the council want rid of you.”

“They cannot sack me. I am an elected Labour representative.”

“Aye, but they want to give the job of environment officer to someone else.”

“That is ridiculous. To whom?”

“To Jessie Camber.”

“What? That blowsy blonde who goes around flashing her tits? Over my dead body.”

The provost sighed and settled down into an escapist dream in which the murderer of Lochdubh, who everyone knew was still at large, would murder Mrs. Freda Fleming. But the dream didn’t last very long and reality set in. What on earth had ever possessed him to spend a night with her? She would never let him forget it. He shuddered at the thought of his wife finding out. His wife was remarkably like Mrs. Fleming, being well-upholstered and domineering.