Death of a Dustman (19 page)

‘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.

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 of 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!’

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.

Geordie, thanks to Hamish sticking to his story that he had ordered Geordie to bring down the helicopter, was a free man. His case had been heard at the sheriff’s court in Strathbane, and
Hamish had testified that Geordie had been only acting on instructions.

Hamish had been given a rocket by the sheriff for irresponsible policing.

Clarry had worked out his notice, but was still living at the police station until such time as he considered it decent to move in with Martha.

Hamish fished the blackmailing letters out of the bottom drawer of his desk and decided to put them in the stove. The weather had turned chilly and blustery. He had lit the wood fire in the
kitchen and was waiting for the wood to catch before he dropped the letters in when the phone rang.

He put the letters on the kitchen table and went to answer it. It was Jimmy Anderson at the other end of the line, sounding very excited. ‘He’s broken, Hamish.’

‘Who?’

‘The pilot, Ian Simpson. He says he wants to do a deal.’

‘Oh, aye? And you don’t do deals.’

‘No, but we promised him a favourable trial.’

‘So what has he said?’

‘He says that Ionides killed Fergus. He told Fergus he would meet him up on the grazings and pay him ten thousand pounds. He bashed his head in and then got Ian, the pilot, to go back with
him in the middle of the night. They wrapped the body in one of the sheets from the hotel. They were going to dump it in the loch when they got as far as the Curries’ cottage. Ionides said,
‘Let’s dump the bastard in that bin. I’m sick of carrying it.’

‘And then they did Angus?’

‘There’s the odd thing. He stubbornly says that Angus never came near Ionides. But he says Ionides was trading drugs. That was the real reason for the hotel so far north. They
thought it would be an excellent, quiet landing place. There was a raid on all his hotels during the night and they found drugs in the cellar of the one in Aberfoyle, so they’ve arrested the
brother. Miss Stathos is crying and wailing and sticking to her story that she knew nothing about it. Mind you, she says he was fanatical about fishing, any kind of fishing, and was determined to
get the Tommel Castle Hotel. Things look better for you, Hamish. You’re to attend a special meeting this afternoon at two o’clock.’

‘Another dressing down,’ said Hamish.

‘Aye, but take my advice, laddie, and look meek and humble.’

After he had rung off, Hamish went into the kitchen and looked thoughtfully at the letters. Surely Ionides had killed Angus. It couldn’t be anyone else. But he picked up the package and
carried it through to the office and put it back in the drawer.

He brushed and pressed his uniform and wondered what awaited him in Strathbane. He hoped no one had reported that Clarry was still living at the police station or he would be in worse trouble
than he already was.

Detective Chief Inspector Blair was a happy man. Hamish Macbeth would be removed from his job. No more would that lanky Highlander plague him. He wished now that he
hadn’t turned the case over to Jimmy Anderson. But he had been feeling weak and shaky after his last bout of drinking and his subsequent treatment in hospital.

He had been off the booze for six weeks now, and he was feeling fit and well. It all went to show he could take it or leave it. Still, the sacking of Hamish Macbeth demanded some sort of
celebration. He went to his usual pub and virtuously ordered a glass of tonic water with ice and a slice of lemon.

Hamish stood in front of a long desk and faced his judges. Superintendent Daviot was there, flanked by two hard-faced investigators from the Internal Investigations Department,
the chief constable, and Daviot’s secretary, Helen, who looked happy because she disliked Hamish almost as much as Blair did.

They went over all the old ground. Hamish did not have any right to order a citizen to throw a hammer at a helicopter, which had resulted in the death of the owner. Hamish stood and listened,
his face impassive.

‘I am sorry, Macbeth,’ concluded Daviot, ‘but there is no alternative but to remove you from the force.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said one of the detectives, raising his hand. ‘The fact that Ionides was a murderer and a drug runner and a scab on the face of society puts a different
complexion on the matter, in my opinion. Had it not been for Macbeth here, we would never have got on to him. There is another factor. The pilot swears blind they had nothing to do with the murder
of Angus Ettrik. I cannot see he had any reason to lie. He could well have lied and claimed that Ionides was totally responsible for the murder of Fergus.’

‘Maybe he didn’t mind saying he helped in one murder but did not want to say he had assisted in two,’ said Daviot.

‘I don’t think so. This officer –’ the detective pointed a pencil at Hamish – ‘has had several remarkable successes in the past. I know you don’t like
his methods, sir, but nonetheless, I am worried because I think we have an unsolved murder here, and Macbeth knows his territory and the people in it.’

Daviot said, ‘Would you wait outside, Macbeth?’

Hamish walked stiffly out, his cap under his arm. He sat down in Helen’s chair and swung it to one side and then the other. Then he rose and raided Helen’s cupboard, where he knew
the biscuits were kept. He made himself a cup of coffee on her machine. She would be furious, but he would probably never have to see her again.