“What about?”
“About Fergus’s murder. Think about it.” He wondered how Clarry was getting on.
♦
Clarry was at that moment wishing himself anywhere else but in the Currie sisters’ cottage, faced by two pairs of baleful eyes behind thick glasses.
“I am just trying to find out if you can remember anything else,” said Clarry.
“And we are wondering,” said Nessie severely, “what you, an officer of the law, were doing romancing a married woman.”
“A married woman,” muttered the Greek chorus that was her sister.
Clarry turned red. “I was acting under orders from my superior officer. Martha Macleod was being beaten by her husband. Sergeant Macbeth wanted me to try to get her to make a complaint.”
“And did that mean you should take them out in a boat and turn the police station into a disco?”
“Yes. Kindness towards a family which is in sore need of it may seem strange to you ladies.”
“We are not forgetting our duty,” said Nessie. “We’re going to help her clean up.”
“So now we’ve got that out of the way,” said Clarry. “Sergeant Macbeth tells me that you are a very noticing pair of ladies. I would like to ask you if you noticed anything strange the night Fergus was killed.”
“When was he exactly killed, exactly killed?” asked Jessie.
Clarry strove for patience. “I mean the night you found him in your bin.”
The sisters looked at each other. Then Nessie said, “It was a quiet evening. That Josie Darling went past…”
“At what time?”
“About eight o’ clock. Teetering along on a stupid pair of high heels. If I had legs like that I would cover them,” said Nessie, glancing down complacently at her own skinny shanks. “Before that, it was Mrs. Docherty who lives next door. She walked over to the waterfront and looked at the loch. Then she came back. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, went by, going to the school-house, I think. She’s supervising the arrangements for the new teacher, but that was earlier, about six o’clock.”
“Any strange noises?”
They both shook their heads of rigidly permed hair.
“Well, if you think of anything, let me know.”
Clarry made his way back along the waterfront. He was stopped by Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. “Could you give me a bit of help? I and some of the women want to go and help Martha clear out Fergus’s things. But we don’t want to call too soon and upset her. Do you think you could ask her, you being a friend of hers?”
Clarry’s round face brightened at the idea of a legitimate opportunity to go and call on Martha.
“I’ll go right away,” he said, touching the peak of his cap.
He swung round and with a light step headed towards Martha’s cottage. They were all sitting indoors, the old television flickering in the corner of the living room.
Martha had great dark shadows under her eyes, and she appeared to have lost more weight. Her clothes hung on her thin body.
“Had any supper?” asked Clarry.
“None of us are feeling very hungry.”
“Won’t do,” said Clarry. “You’ve got to keep your strength up for the children’s sake and for your own. Get ready. We’re all going down to the Italian restaurant. Dinner’s on me.”
Martha saw the way her children brightened up but she hesitated. “There’s the baby.”
“Put the baby in the pram and we’ll wheel the pram into the restaurant.”
“Won’t they protest, and I’m not properly dressed.”
“It’s not the Ritz,” said Clarry. “Come on.”
♦
Willie Lamont, who used to be Hamish’s constable and who now waited table at the restaurant, protested when Martha and Clarry lifted the pram with the sleeping baby into the restaurant.
Clarry took him aside and whispered fiercely, “They are all in need of a good meal so I won’t have any protests from you. That poor woman’s been stuck up there in that dingy cottage. The ladies of Lochdubh are going to help her clean up, so if they can help, so can you.”
“Clean up?” Willie’s eyes gleamed with an almost religious fervour. “Nobody can clean like me. Have you tried that new cleaner on the market, Green Lightning? Man, the way it cuts through grease is grand.” And before Clarry could stop him, he headed purposely towards Martha. “I hear some of the ladies are coming to help you clean. You just say the day, and I’ll be there.”
Martha looked at Clarry. “What’s all this about?”
“Angela Brodie and some of the others thought you would feel better if you had a bit of help to clean out your husband’s things. But if you’d like to wait a bit…”
“No, I don’t mind. Any time will do. I’d be glad of the help.”
Mr. Ferrari, the owner, joined them. “Ah, Mrs. Macleod,” he said. “My condolences on your sad loss. You are my guests for this evening. Have anything on the menu you want. Officer Graham, perhaps you would like to see our kitchens?”
Clarry wanted to stay with Martha, but on the other hand, cooking was in his blood. “Just a wee look,” he said. “I don’t want to leave Mrs. Macleod alone for long.”
Clarry was taken on a tour of the kitchens. He had always thought he would be unfit for the restaurant trade, but he could feel his enthusiasm growing. Mr. Ferrari crooned in his ear how easy the job of chef would be and how a man interested in food was wasting his time as a police officer.
“You don’t know if I can cook,” said Clarry.
“True. Why don’t you give it a try on your day off?”
“Maybe I’ll do that. Now I’d best get back to Martha and the children.”
Martha, with her wan face and well-behaved children, was creating a good impression among the other customers. In these days of spoilt, whining brats, even the sternest heart melts at the sight of a quiet well-behaved child. People had stopped by the table while Clarry was in the kitchen to give Martha their condolences.
Clarry sat down with them and picked up the menu. He planned to slim down, but a free meal was a free meal. He would diet tomorrow.
They had a simple meal of minestrone, ravioli and huge slices of chocolate cake. Clarry told tales of policing, all highly embroidered, and was pleased to notice that Martha was eating everything.
♦
When he returned to the police station, Hamish was waiting. “You’ve been away a long time,” he said.
“It happened like this.” Clarry described how he had ended up in the Italian restaurant.
“You should go carefully,” said Hamish. “Blair’s been round and he’s spitting bullets. Seems as if Fergus was killed somewhere else and carried to the bin.” Hamish knew the real reason Blair was furious. He had wanted Hamish off the case and had been told to keep him on.
“So what did you get out of the Currie sisters?”
“Not much,” said Clarry, fumbling for his notebook. “Do you want me to read out what I’ve got?”
“Go ahead.”
Clarry read out from his notes. “See,” he said. “Nothing there.”
“Yes, there is,” said Hamish Macbeth. “There’s something there that interests me a lot.”
∨ Death of a Dustman ∧
4
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and – sans End!
—Edward Fitzgerald
Jimmy Anderson poked his head around the kitchen door. “Come in,” said Hamish. “Clarry, you’d best go and start typing up your notes, and I’ll do mine after.”