M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dustman

♦

Blair was the bane of Hamish’s life. He was a thick, vulgar, heavyset Glaswegian who loathed Hamish and did not bother to hide his loathing.

He was sitting behind the desk in the police station office, flanked by his usual sidekicks, Detectives Anderson and Macnab.

“Now, from a preliminary questioning of the folks around here,” began Blair, “there was one hell of a party going on in this station last night.”

“This is also my home as well as a police station. I am allowed to throw a party,” said Hamish defensively.

“But it wasnae your party, was it?” demanded Blair with a triumphant leer. “It was that fat, useless copper o’ yours. And who is he boogie-ing with? None other than Martha Macleod. Furthermore, Mrs. Macleod’s neighbours heard Clarry Graham shouting at Fergus that he would kill him.”

“A lot of people in the village have been overheard saying they would kill Fergus. It means nothing,” said Hamish.

“We’ll see aboot that. As far as I am concerned, Graham is a suspect so you get along there and send him along here.”

Hamish rose to his feet. “All right.”

“All right, what?”

“All right, sir,” said Hamish wearily. He craved sleep. He had been up all night.

He went out and walked along to the Curries’ cottage. “Blair wants to see you,” he said to Clarry.

“Why?”

“At the moment, you’re suspect number one.”

“That’s daft!”

“Maybe. But run along and get it over with.”

Clarry walked off just as the police pathologist, Mr. Sinclair, appeared round the side of the house. “What’s the verdict?” asked Hamish.

“The body’s being moved to Strathbane for further examination,” said Sinclair. “He was struck a smashing blow on the back of the head with something like a hammer and put in the bin.”

“When?”

“Can’t tell at the moment. I would hazard a guess that it was maybe a couple of days ago.”

“Could a woman have done it?”

“Easily. But although the man was small and slight, it would take a powerful woman to get him into that bin without tipping it over.”

They stood aside as two men in white overalls carried out Fergus in a body bag laid on a stretcher. They looked impatiently up and down the waterfront and then one put his fingers in his mouth and sent out a shrill whistle. An ambulance came cruising slowly up.

“Sorry. We were just getting a cup of coffee,” said the ambulance man. He jumped down with his partner and opened the back doors. Fergus’s body was lifted inside.

Hamish felt a pang of pity for Fergus. He had been an awful man, but the sheer indifference in the way his body was shovelled in and borne off went to his heart.

♦

In all his easygoing life, Clarry had never before thought of leaving the police force. But he had never been one of Blair’s targets before. As Blair hammered into him over a sheaf of reports about the party and the boat expedition, Clarry could feel a rare rage mounting in him.

When Blair paused for breath, Clarry said, “Are you charging me with anything, sir?”

“Not yet.”

“This is police harassment,” said Clarry.

“Whit! You’re a policeman yourself.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“It was my day off when I entertained Mrs. Macleod and the children,” said Clarry, hoping Hamish would back him up on that one. “I can do what I like with my free time. It’s a coincidence that the poor woman’s man got murdered.”

“Oh, aye?” sneered Blair. “And it’s just a coincidence, is it, that you were heard saying you’d kill the man?”

“More than me said that,” said Clarry, defiant. “Fergus had been beating that wife of his. It was enough to make the blood of any decent man boil.”

“Did she make an official complaint?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it was none of your business. For all you know, she might have deserved a beating. You Highlanders are all crazy,” said Blair, who was a Glaswegian.

“That remark is offensive,” said Clarry, suddenly calm. “I’m going to report that remark to the Race Relations Board. Discrimination against Highlanders. Racial slurs. And while I’m at it, sir, I’ll tell them that you think a woman deserves a beating.”

“You do that, and I’ll have ye out o’ the force.”

“And by the time I’ve finished with you , I’ll have you out of the force.”

Blair stared at Clarry’s now impassive face in baffled fury. He had no doubt the Race Relations Board would listen to this idiot’s complaint. Recently, along with dealing with cases brought by Pakistanis, Indians, Africans and Jamaicans, they had been handling well-publicised cases from English residents in Scotland complaining about racial discrimination. And if that remark of his about Martha Macleod deserving a beating should come out…

“Look, laddie, maybe I was a bit hasty. You go and question some of the folk and find out if anyone saw anything.”

Clarry stalked off. Blair mopped his brow. He turned and caught the grin on Jimmy Anderson’s face. “You!” he howled. “Get up to that Mrs. Macleod and question her.”

♦

Jimmy Anderson stopped on his way to talk to Hamish and gleefully told Hamish about Clarry’s confrontation with Blair. “Good for old Clarry,” said Hamish, amazed. “Where are you off to?”

“To interview the widow.”

“Let me know what you get, Jimmy.”

“Aye, well, get some whisky in. I don’t think Blair will be hanging around much longer.”

“He hasn’t met Mrs. Fleming yet, has he?”

“Who’s she?”

“The environment woman from Strathbane who put Fergus in a stupid green uniform and put all these bins about the place. She’ll be here any moment, if I’m not mistaken.”

“See you later.”

Jimmy walked off. Hamish took out his mobile phone and rang Callum McSween. “Listen, Callum,” he said, “have you heard the dustman’s got himself murdered?”

“Aye, it was on the radio this morning.”

“Like the job?”

“I could do wi’ the money, Hamish, and that’s a fact.”

“I’ll be sending a Mrs. Fleming from Strathbane Council along to see you. She’s the one who’ll be doing the hiring. I think the silly biddy wants to get herself in the newspapers by making Lochdubh an environment friendly place, so all you have to do is go along with it. Tell her what a great idea all those damn bins are.”

“I won’t have to wear that green uniform, will I?”

“I can’t see them running to the expense of another horror. I’ll make sure Fergus is buried in it.”

“Grand, Hamish.”

“I can’t promise. Oh, here she comes.”

Hamish rang off and tucked the phone in his pocket just as Mrs. Fleming drove up.

“I heard the news,” she said, lowering the car window. “This is dreadful.”

“That it is,” said Hamish seriously. “And garbage all over the village. You’ll need to get another man on it right away.”

“But who?”

“There’s a crofter about a mile along the Braikie Road, Callum McSween, good worker, hot on the environment. He could start today.”

“I’ll go directly.” Hamish gave her directions. Then she asked, “Who is in charge of the case?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Blair. You’ll find him at the police station. But I’d get to Callum first.”

♦

Callum McSween was dressed in a crisp white shirt and flannels with knife-edged creases when Mrs. Fleming’s car drove up. His wife, Mary, had quickly cleaned the living room and was in the kitchen making a pot of fresh coffee.

Callum answered the door to Mrs. Fleming. He was a very tall, well-built man with a craggy face permanently tanned with working outdoors.