Death of a Dustman (3 page)

Hamish sighed. ‘I thought the last one, Willie Lamont, was a pain with his constant cleaning and scrubbing and not paying any attention to his work. One new cleaner for sale and he was off
and running. Now I’ve got Clarry. That’s the trouble wi’ living in Lochdubh, Priscilla. At Strathbane, they say to themselves, now which one can we really do without, and so I get
Clarry. Oh, he’s good-natured enough. And he’s a grand cook, but he smells a bit and he iss damn lazy.’ Hamish’s accent always became more sibilant when he was upset.
‘If he doesn’t take a bath soon, I’m going to tip him into the loch.’

Priscilla laughed. ‘That bad?’

‘That bad.’

‘And what’s all this greening business?’

‘It’s that bossy woman. You weren’t at the church hall?’

‘No.’

‘She is from the council, and she wants us to put all our rubbish into separate containers. There come the big bins.’

Priscilla looked along the waterfront. A crane was lifting the first of the huge bell-shaped objects into place. ‘We don’t like change,’ she said. ‘They’ll rebel.
They won’t put a single bottle or newspaper in any of those bins.’

‘Ah, but you haven’t seen the green dustman yet. There he is!’

Fergus, resplendent in his new uniform, had appeared. He was standing with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels, his face shadowed by his huge peaked cap.

‘Heavens,’ said Priscilla faintly. ‘All he needs to complete that ensemble is a riding crop or a swagger stick.’

‘I think that uniform means trouble,’ said Hamish. ‘Have you noticed that traffic wardens and people like that turn into fascist beasts the moment they get a uniform
on?’

‘A dustman can’t do much.’

‘He can do a lot in the way of petty bullying. The Currie sisters didn’t give Fergus a Christmas box, and he didn’t collect their rubbish until they complained to the
council.’

‘Well, there you are. Any bullying, they’ll all complain to the council, and then it’ll stop.’

‘If that Fleming woman will listen to anyone.’

‘What’s her game? Is she a dedicated environmentalist? It said on the flyer that she was in charge of the council’s environment department.’

‘I think, talking of bullies, that she likes to find ways of spending the taxpayers’ money to order people around. In fact, here she comes.’

Mrs Fleming drove along the waterfront while they watched. She got out of the car. Fergus strutted up to her.

Priscilla exploded into giggles. ‘Would you believe it, Hamish? Fergus
saluted
her.’

Hamish laughed as well. The summer days and lack of crime on his beat were making him lazier than ever and dulling his usual intuition. He did not guess that Fergus’s silly salute would
make Mrs Fleming not hear one word against him, and so set in train a chain of events which would lead to horror.

The next collection day passed without incident, and the following one. But then the boxes and wheelie bins were delivered and Fergus began to take his revenge.

The elderly Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, were the first victims. This was very unfair for they were among the few residents who had actually separated their rubbish into boxes and had put
the rest into the wheelie bin. They found the boxes had been emptied of cans, bottles and papers, but the wheelie bin was still full and on it was a note on green paper.

It said, ‘Garden rubbish is to be burnt. F. Macleod. Environment Officer.’

‘What does he mean, “garden rubbish”?’ asked Nessie. ‘We haven’t got any.’

‘Haven’t got any,’ echoed her sister, who had the irritating habit of repeating the last words anyone, including herself, said. ‘I’ll get a chair, get a
chair.’ For the bin was too large for the small sisters to look into easily.

Jessie carried out a kitchen chair and, standing on it, lifted the plastic lid and peered down into the bin. ‘There’s just those dead roses, the ones that were in the vase, that we
threw out, threw out.’

‘I’m going to write to the council,’ said Nessie.

‘He hasn’t taken the rubbish,’ complained Clarry.

‘Where’s the wee man’s wretched wheelie bin?’ asked Hamish. ‘You’re supposed to use it, not leave it in bags.’

‘Och, I thought that wheelie bin would be grand for the hen feed,’ said Clarry.

Hamish sighed. ‘Get it out and put the rubbish into it, Clarry. We’re now living under a dictatorship.’

And so it happened all round the village. After all, it was the villagers some years ago who had taken away the network-type metal baskets from the waterfront to use as lobster
pots.

Highland ingenuity had therefore found many uses for the wheelie bins other than the one for which they were intended. They were used to store all sorts of implements and cattle feed. Children
played games at wheeling each other up and down the waterfront in them and their parents duly received threatening green notes from the dustman.

Letters of complaint poured into Strathbane Council. Mrs Fleming hailed originally from Hamilton in Lanarkshire. She thought all Highlanders were lazy and difficult and just plain weird. And so
she did not trouble to answer even one of the letters. She told her secretary to throw them all away.

‘I’ve got a wee job for you, Clarry,’ said Hamish. ‘Our job is to protect everyone in this village and that includes a pest like Fergus Macleod. Get
round there and tell him to go easy. He’s leaving rubbish uncollected for this reason and that reason, and the atmosphere is getting ugly.’

Clarry brightened at the thought of seeing Martha again. ‘Right, sir.’

‘And Clarry. Order yourself a new uniform from Strathbane.’

Clarry looked down at his round figure. ‘Why?’

‘That one’s all old and shiny, and when did you last have a bath?’

Clarry blushed and hung his head.

‘Aye, well, why don’t you nip into the bathroom and have a bath, and I’ll do what I can wi’ your uniform.’

Clarry meekly went off to the bathroom. Hamish opened up the ironing table in the kitchen and began to sponge and clean and press Clarry’s uniform.

In the bathroom, Clarry wallowed in the hot water like a whale. Then he towelled himself dry and opened the bathroom cupboard and peered at the contents. There was an unopened bottle of Brut on
the top shelf. Clarry lifted it down and opened it, and then splashed himself liberally with it. He put on clean underwear and shambled into the kitchen and collected his cleaned and pressed
uniform from Hamish with a muttered, ‘Thanks.’

Hamish reeled back a bit before what smelled like a tidal wave of Brut, but charitably said nothing, hoping that the fresh air would mitigate the smell once Clarry was on his way.

Clarry walked slowly along the waterfront. It was another beautiful day. Recipes ran through his mind. He stopped outside the Italian restaurant and studied the menu.

‘Anything you fancy, Officer?’

Clarry turned round and found himself facing an elderly man. ‘I’m Ferrari, the owner,’ the man said.

‘I like Italian food,’ said Clarry amiably, ‘but I hope you don’t use too much basil. That’s the trouble these days. People go mad wi’ the herbs and
everything smells great and tastes like medicine.’

‘You like cooking?’

‘It’s my hobby,’ said Clarry proudly.

Mr Ferrari eyed him speculatively. Hamish’s previous constable, the cleanliness freak, Willie Lamont, had left the police force to marry Ferrari’s pretty relative Lucia. The
restaurant chef was leaving at the end of the month.

‘You must come for a meal one evening,’ said Mr Ferrari. ‘As my guest, of course.’

‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ said Clarry. He had a sudden dream of sitting in the restaurant in the evening, looking at Martha in the candlelight. Her husband couldn’t
stay sober that long, he might even drop dead, and then . . . and then . . . He beamed at Mr Ferrari. ‘I might take you up on that offer. Would it be all right if I brought a lady?’

‘My pleasure, Officer. Now you can do something for me. That dustman is picking through the restaurant rubbish and leaving most of it. We have too many cans and bottles to put into those
little boxes.’

‘I’m on my way to have a word with him.’

‘Good. Between ourselves, Officer, it is time you did. The feeling against that man is running high, and if he is not stopped, something nasty might happen to him.’

I wish it would, thought Clarry as he touched his cap and walked away.

Clarry had never married. He had entered the police force because his mother had thought it a good idea. He had lived with his mother until her death a year before his move to Lochdubh. Lazy and
unambitious, he had never risen up the ranks. His mother had seen off any woman who looked interested in him. The policewomen he had occasionally worked with terrified him. He privately thought the
move to Lochdubh was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved the village. He liked his kind, laid-back boss. He thought again of Martha. There was something about her faded
prettiness, her crushed appearance, that touched his heart. He turned up the lane leading to Martha’s cottage. In his heart, he hoped against hope that the dustman would not be at home.

The baby was in its pram outside. Clarry made clucking noises at it and then rapped on the door. The eldest boy, Johnny, opened the door. ‘Father at home?’ asked Clarry.

The boy looked nervously over his shoulder. Fergus appeared. He was wearing an old shirt and jeans. ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘May I come in?’ asked Clarry.

‘No, we’ll talk outside.’

Fergus walked out and shut the door behind him.

Clarry removed his peaked cap and tucked it under one arm. ‘It’s like this, sir. You are causing a great deal of distress among the villagers. You are not collecting their rubbish,
and you are leaving nasty wee notes.’

‘And what’s that to you? It’s a council matter. Any complaints and they can write to the council.’

‘I am here to warn you, you might be in danger.’

Fergus snickered. ‘From this bunch o’ wimps? Forget it.’

Over the dustman’s shoulder, Clarry could see Martha at the window. She gave him a wan smile.

Normally amiable, Clarry could feel rage burning up inside him as he looked down into the sneering face on the dustman. ‘You are a nasty wee man,’ said Clarry. ‘I’ve
given you a warning, but it would be a grand day for the village if you were killed.’ He turned and walked away and then turned back at the garden gate. ‘By God, man, I could kill you
myself.’

And, followed by the sound of Fergus’s jeering laughter, he walked away.

Clarry walked only as far as the waterfront. He leaned on the wall and stared down into the summer-blue waters of the sea loch. A yacht sailed past, heading for the open sea. He could hear
people laughing and chattering on board, see the white sails billowing out before a stiff breeze. He suddenly wanted to see Martha. He turned his back to the wall, feeling the warmth of the stone
through his uniform. While Hamish Macbeth watered his sheep and then returned to the police station to do some paperwork and wondered what was keeping Clarry, Clarry stayed where he was. Perhaps
Martha might appear, perhaps she might go to the general store for something.

With monumental patience, Clarry stayed where he was until the sun began to sink down behind the mountains. She might come down to the village to buy something. Patel, who ran the general store,
like all good Asian shopkeepers, stayed open late.

Suddenly he saw her hurrying down the lane that led to the waterfront, carrying a shopping basket. He went to meet her.

‘Oh, Mr Graham!’ exclaimed Martha. Her hand fluttered up to one cheek to cover a bruise.

‘He’s been hitting you!’ said Clarry.

‘Oh, no,’ said Martha. ‘Silly of me. I walked into a door.’

‘You walked into a fist,’ said Clarry. ‘You’ve got to turn him in.’

‘I can’t,’ said Martha, tears starting to her eyes.

‘Now, then, I didnae mean to upset you, lassie,’ said Clarry. ‘Let me help you with the shopping.’

‘I can manage. Fergus wants a bottle of whisky.’

‘Drinking again? That’s bad.’

‘At least he’ll wander off somewhere, and I’ll get a bit of peace,’ said Martha. They walked into the store together.

‘Buy him the cheap stuff,’ said Clarry.

‘No, he wants Grouse.’

‘Let me pay for it.’

‘No, that would not be fitting.’

‘I came up to your place to warn him. Steady, now!’ Clarry grasped the bottle of whisky which Martha had nearly dropped.

‘What about?’ she asked.

‘He’s creating bad feeling in the village. He could be in danger. God, I could kill him myself.’

Jessie Currie, at the shelves on the other side from where they were talking and screened from their view, listened avidly.

‘I’d better hurry,’ said Martha. ‘He’ll start wondering what’s keeping me.’

‘I’ll walk you back a bit of the way,’ said Clarry. Curious village eyes watched them as Martha paid for the whisky and then they walked out of the shop together.

Later that evening, Hamish was barely soothed by the plate of beef Wellington that Clarry slid under his nose. He had been called out to a burglary in the nearby town of
Braikie, and he wondered after he had completed his investigations what the point was of having a constable who was so supremely uninterested in police matters. But he noticed a change had come
over Clarry. His face seemed harder.

‘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.