M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dustman

“So what happened with Fergus?” asked Hamish.

Clarry told him, ending up with bursting out, “He’s been beating his wife again. I tell you, sir, I’ve a damn good mind to resign from the force and give that bastard the beating he deserves.”

Hamish stared in wonder at the nearly untouched food on Clarry’s plate and then at the angry gleam in the normally placid constable’s eyes.

He leaned back in his chair. “Of all the things to happen,” said Hamish. “You haff gone and fallen in love wi’ the dustman’s wife.”

Clarry stared at him. Then his eyes lit up and his round face glowed. “Is this love, sir?”

“Yes, but she’s married and this iss the small village. Eat your food, man, and forget her. I’ll deal wi’ Fergus myself tomorrow.”

“How?”

“We haff our methods, Watson.”

But Hamish Macbeth was getting seriously worried. The transformation of the constable had sharpened his wits. Fergus must be made to see sense.

Even if it meant giving him a taste of what he had been giving his wife.

♦

The following day was collection day, and Lochdubh rose to find the rubbish uncollected. It was a warm, close day, and the midges, those Highland mosquitoes, were out in force.

Fergus had disappeared before but never on collection days. But he had become so hated in the village that nobody cared much, with the exception of Hamish Macbeth. Still, even Hamish thought, like everyone else, that surely Fergus was lying drunk somewhere up on the moors. But after a day went by without any sight of him, Hamish’s uneasiness deepened into dread.

“If something’s happened to him, we’d better find out soon,” said Hamish to Clarry. “We’ll split up. You search around the village, and I’ll take the Land Rover and go up on the moors.”

Clarry set off. As he questioned villager after villager, he began to share some of Hamish’s trepidation. “I hope he’s dead,” said Archie Maclean, pausing in the repair of a fishing net. “And if the wee bastard isnnae, I’ll help him on his way.”

Everyone else seemed to share Archie’s sentiments. Clarry walked along the harbour to where the workmen were busy renovating the hotel. None of them had seen Fergus but one volunteered the information that the boss had arrived. Curious to see this hotel owner, Clarry made his way into the foyer of the hotel, where two men were unwrapping a massive crystal chandelier. “Boss around?” he asked.

“In the office over there,” said one, jerking his thumb in the direction of a frosted-glass door. Clarry ambled across the foyer and opened the door. A slim red-headed woman was sitting behind a computer. “Yes, Officer?”

“Is the boss in?” asked Clarry.

“May I ask what the nature of your inquiry is?”

“The village dustman has gone missing.”

A faint look of amusement crossed her beautiful face. “I am sure Mr. Ionides, who has just arrived here, cannot know anything about a dustman.”

The door to the inner office opened and a small, neat, well-barbered man appeared. He had thick, dark brown hair and liquid brown eyes. He was in his shirt sleeves and carried a sheaf of papers. He radiated energy. His eyes fell on the large uniformed figure of Clarry.

“What is a policeman doing here?” he asked. His voice was only faintly accented.

“I’ve come about our dustman. He’s missing.”

“And what has that got to do with me?”

Clarry shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “I thought you might have heard something, sir.”

“No.”

Ionides and his secretary calmly surveyed Clarry, who began to shuffle backwards towards the door. “Just thought I would ask,” said Clarry.

They continued to watch him in silence as he turned and opened the door and went out. Phew, he thought, mopping his brow outside the door. What an odd pair.

He realised once he was outside the hotel that he had been delaying going to see Martha. He somehow didn’t want to go to that cottage and find Fergus at home. The villagers were right. The man didn’t deserve to live. It did not strike Clarry as odd that so many people would wish the death of a mere dustman. Dustmen who fail to collect garbage can arouse deep passions, and dustmen who leave nasty green notes to explain why the rubbish is not being collected can drive the meekest to open hatred. High council taxes had made everyone aware that they were paying for a service they just weren’t getting.

Clarry walked more quickly now as he neared Fergus’s cottage. As he approached, his eyes took in the broken guttering and the blistered paint on the windows, and he mentally repaired all the damage.

He knocked on the door and waited. Johnny answered, his little face lighting up when he saw Clarry. “Mum’s out in the back garden,” he said. Clarry removed his peaked cap and tucked it under his arm. He followed the boy through the dark little living room where the children were watching television. Probably too frightened to play outside in case Dad comes home, he thought.

Martha was hanging sheets out to dry in the back garden. A breeze blew strands of hair across her face. “Let me do that,” said Clarry, taking a sheet from her. “Heard from that man of yours?”

“Not a word,” said Martha. “He’s never missed a collection day before.”

“Is he in his uniform? That green would make him easy to spot.”

“No, he was in a white shirt, tie and jacket. He took that bottle of whisky from me and walked off out of the house.”

Together they lifted up sheets and pinned them along the line. Martha paused to pass a weary hand over her brow. “Goodness, it’s hot.”

“You and the children should be out on a day like this,” said Clarry.

“Fergus might be back any moment,” said Martha. “I must say I sometimes look down at the loch on a day like this and think it would be nice to go out on a boat and get a bit of cool air.”

“That’s the last sheet,” said Clarry. “Well, why not?”

“We couldn’t. What if Fergus comes home?”

“Then you can say you were out wi’ me looking for him. Come on. Get the kids.”

♦

Curious village eyes watched the procession made up of Clarry and Martha, the children and the baby in the pram as they walked down to the waterfront.

“What’s going on, going on?” asked Jessie Currie, standing outside Patel’s store. “Have they found him, found him?”

“Shouldn’t think so,” said Nessie. “Martha’s laughing. Never heard her laugh before.”

Both sisters, the sun glinting on their thick spectacles, watched as Clarry stopped to speak to Archie Maclean. “He’s giving him money,” said Nessie. “Now they’re getting into that rowboat. Michty me, doesn’t that policeman have any work to do?”

“It’s Hamish Macbeth, that’s who it is, who it is,” said Jessie. “Corrupted him in no time at all, no time at all.”

They watched while Clarry pushed off and then jumped in, the boat swaying dangerously under his weight. Then he picked up the oars and began to row off towards the centre of the loch. The children began to laugh at something. Martha sat in the bow, the baby on her lap, smiling at Clarry.

“Trouble’s coming out of that,” said Nessie. “Mark my words.”

♦

Hamish Macbeth was tired and hot and thirsty. He had searched across the moors all day without finding 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.