M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dustman

♦

In the press bus, the photographer, Paul, was saying to Tom, “The next time I’m sent on a job like this, I won’t even bother to put film in the camera.”

“Come on,” said Tom. “Something could happen.”

“You’re always saying that,” replied Paul. “You’ve been saying it for years.”

“Look, there’s been two murders in Lochdubh. Maybe we could find out a story.”

“Huh,” snorted Paul. But he checked his camera and, by force of habit, focused it out the window. A dismal-looking sheep stared back.

♦

The crowd on the waterfront at Lochdubh stared up at the helicopter. It came lower. They could clearly see Ionides sitting beside the pilot. The pilot pointed down.

“They’re getting away,” shouted Hamish as the helicopter rose and began to head out over the loch.

“Stand back!” yelled Geordie in a great voice.

He began to swing his long hammer. Round and round he went, faster and faster, the skirts of his kilt swinging out. Then he let go.

The hammer sailed up and towards the helicopter in a great arc. It was a throw that was to be talked about for years to come. The hammer sheered straight through two of the rotary blades on the helicopter.

The helicopter spiralled down over the loch. Hamish could see the sheer terror on Ionides’s face as the craft struck the black waters of Lochdubh. The pilot got his door open just before the helicopter struck the water, Ionides seemed trapped in his seat. The last they saw of him he was struggling frantically with the door as the water flooded in.

Hamish pulled off his navy blue police sweater and shirt and dragged off his trousers and unlaced his boots and dived into the loch.

Then Jimmy Anderson could see Hamish struggling with the pilot. “Help him,” he shouted to his men. But at that moment Hamish rose in the water and punched the pilot full on the chin and then dragged the unconscious body towards the shore, where five policemen ran down to help him.

“What about the other one?” panted Hamish.

“We’ll need to get the divers down,” said one.

“What’s going on?” shouted Tom as their minibus stopped on the waterfront. Paul darted out the bus with his camera. He pushed and elbowed his way through people in the crowd, who were staring up at a helicopter. Then he saw them back off as Geordie began to swing his hammer. He clicked and clicked. His heart beat with excitement. Then he took the picture that was to go right round the world as the hammer sailed through the rotary blades of the helicopter.

Behind him, Tom’s impeccable shorthand was flying across the pages of his notebook.

Paul was now clicking away at Hamish and the pilot in the loch. He ran down the beach to catch pictures of Hamish landing the unconscious pilot on the beach. As Hamish wearily turned to walk up the beach, in his vest and underpants, Paul, who had moved behind him to get another shot of the pilot, suddenly saw that Hamish had a large hole in the back of his underpants. That photo was to appear on the front of a London tabloid under the heading, ARE WE PAYING OUR POLICE ENOUGH?

Tom ran up to him. “Get up there,” he shouted. “Get the Fleming woman’s face.”

Screams were sounding along the waterfront. Mrs. Freda Fleming was blind to the mayhem that was going on around her. She was staring at the mess that was Lochdubh. Paper was festooned everywhere.

She saw Hamish approaching and ran up to him, screaming, “You bastard! You did this deliberately!” As Paul gleefully raised his camera, she smacked Hamish Macbeth full across the face. With a reflex action that Hamish was to regret for a long time, he smacked her back, and she burst into noisy sobs.

♦

It was to be a long day. Geordie was under arrest. “Why?” demanded Hamish furiously. “All he did was stop a murderer from escaping.”

“Hamish,” said Jimmy patiently, “we still have no proof that Ionides murdered anyone.”

“I ordered Geordie to throw that hammer,” said Hamish.

“You what?”

“I ordered Geordie to throw that hammer,” lied Hamish stubbornly.

“Man, do you know what you are saying? I’ll need to suspend you from your duties, and Blair will have you off the force.”

The two were in police headquarters in Strathbane.

“Get back to your police station,” said Jimmy. “We’re about to grill the Stathos woman, and you’d better pray she cracks and comes up with something.”

Priscilla called round at the police station that evening to find Hamish moodily sitting in his living room with his dog on his lap.

“I did knock,” said Priscilla.

“Sit down,” said Hamish wearily. “I’m in bad trouble.”

“But you got that pilot, and the divers fished Ionides’s corpse out of the water.”

“There’s no proof he committed either of the murders. Blair’s interviewing the pilot and that secretary. I hope one of them comes up with something. It’s the first time in my life I’ve prayed that Blair is at his nastiest. Then that Fleming woman. God, she lands in the middle of a police operation, and all she can do is scream about the mess of paper in Lochdubh. What’s that box?”

“It’s my sewing kit. Hamish, television wasn’t there but a photographer was. So television news has been showing still photographs of Geordie throwing the hammer, but there was another photograph of you on the beach with your bum hanging out of your underpants.”

Hamish covered his face with his hands. “What next?”

Priscilla laughed. “Didn’t Mrs. Macbeth always tell you to wear decent underwear in case you had an accident? Bring your stuff in and let’s go through it.”

“I am not in the mood to haff my underwear examined,” said Hamish huffily.

“Oh, go on. We’re not doing anything else. I’m afraid to tell you that Clarry is up at the hotel. I think you’ve lost a policeman.”

“What does it matter? I’ve lost my job.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got the croft and my sheep.”

“That won’t support you, and you’ll need to leave the police station. You can stay at the hotel if you like until you figure something out.”

“That’s good of you, but I think your father will have something to say about that.”

“He’s so relieved you didn’t tell the police about him that he’ll be happy to let you sleep anywhere. You didn’t, did you?”

Hamish shook his head. “I’m glad I’m popular with someone. Someone’s at the door. Could you see who it is and send them away, Priscilla?”

“Right. Wait there.”

He could hear the murmur of Priscilla’s voice and then the shutting of the kitchen door. She came back bearing a parcel and a large card. Hamish nudged Lugs off his lap and took the card and parcel. The card had a picture of an improbable Highland scene which looked more like Brigadoon than reality. The message simply said, “To Hamish, from the villagers of Lochdubh.”

Hamish opened up the parcel and found himself looking down at six sets of clean underwear.

“Well, well,” said Priscilla. “I won’t be needing my sewing kit after all!”

∨ Death of a Dustman ∧

8

Times are changed with him who marries; there are no more by-path meadows, where you may innocently linger, but the road lies long and straight and dusty to the grave .

—Robert Louis Stevenson

Four weeks had passed since Geordie had brought down the helicopter, and Hamish was still suspended. He had spent hours over in Strathbane being interviewed by a police inquiry team. Investigations into Ionides’s company were still going on. The pilot turned out to have a long record of violent crime. His last had been for armed robbery. He had faked an illness and escaped from the prison hospital. He was still under arrest, but remained silent.