“My, my. I might have a word wi’ her if it’s not interfering with your investigations.”
“Interfere all you like. I’m needed back in Strathbane. Let me know what you get.”
♦
Hamish left a note on the kitchen table for Clarry to walk his dog and then got into the Land Rover. He slowed to a crawl as he passed the schoolhouse. A beautiful vision was standing by a removal van supervising the arrival of furniture. Her lovely features were surrounded by a cloud of black hair. Her eyes were large and blue. She had a perfect figure and long, long legs. Hamish grinned. The new schoolteacher had arrived. If he got back early enough, he would invite her out to dinner and hope that word would get back to Priscilla.
♦
In Strathbane, he learned that Mrs. Fleming was too busy to see him for another hour. He passed the time wandering about, looking at the shops. He was heading back to the council offices when he suddenly saw Priscilla. She was looking in a jeweller’s window with Jerry. Hamish’s heart plummeted. Were they choosing a ring? He walked away quickly before they could see him. Then he glanced at his watch. Time to visit the formidable Mrs. Fleming.
“Sit down, Officer,” was her cold greeting. She eyed the tall, lanky sergeant with disfavour. “I have already spoken at length to your superiors from headquarters. What do you want?”
Hamish sat down opposite her and put his peaked cap on the desk. “I am examining all points of this case. To go back to the beginning, why did you choose Lochdubh for this greening experiment when Strathbane is more in need of it?”
“I am passionate about the environment. Strathbane is a massive project. I wanted to start the experiment with somewhere smaller. Somewhere that would look good on the television cameras.”
“Television?”
“Yes, don’t you see? It pays to advertise. Lochdubh is a picturesque village. When it appears on the screens, people in the Highlands will feel compelled to follow the good example.”
“They may have more important news to cover than the cleaning up of a Highland village,” said Hamish maliciously. “Like the odd war or two.”
“I thought of that,” she said, leaning forward. “We are now in August, and August is traditionally a quiet time for news. I have the press handouts ready. I will be arriving in Lochdubh with the councillors and provost, and I will make a speech to the cameras.”
Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. Oh my, thought Hamish, a star is born.
“Fergus Macleod was not popular,” said Hamish. “In fact, he was so unpopular that the villagers were not putting their garbage in the correct receptacles. They are now.”
Her eyes became steely. “Are you daring to suggest that I might have murdered some dustman because the project was not working out?”
“Of course not,” said Hamish quickly. “I’m just asking questions here and there and trying to build up a picture.”
“Then may I suggest you get back to your village where the murder took place and get on with your job in the right location? The murderer must be found. Fergus Macleod was as dedicated to the environment as I am myself.”
Hamish eyed her curiously. “If I may say so, Mrs. Fleming, it is my humble opinion that you would look well on television.”
She cast her eyes down in false modesty. Then she said, “Whether I look good or not, that is beside the point. I wish to do my best for the environment.”
Liar, thought Hamish. He stood up. “When is this ceremony to be?”
“Next week, on Wednesday. I hope the weather will be fine. Perhaps you could ask the fishermen to deck their boats with flags? And perhaps it might be in order to give me some sort of presentation from the grateful villagers. Just a large box. There doesn’t need to be anything in it. Just for the cameras. And perhaps a pretty wee lassie to give me some flowers.”
Hamish nodded and left. What a monumental ego, he thought with wonder. But would she kill just to get her face on the telly? Television seemed to affect people like a drug. Look at the Jerry Springer Show. How could people humiliate themselves in such a way, and all to get their faces in front of the cameras.
He realised he had not asked her where she was on the night Fergus was killed. He half turned and then turned back. She would rant and rave that he was accusing her and report him to Blair. He nodded to Mrs. Fleming’s secretary, who was sitting at a desk in an adjoining room. She was a small neat girl with a white face, small eyes and large red mouth.
Hamish paused in front of her desk and decided to take a gamble. “Must be awful, a pretty lass like you, working for that old dragon,” he said.
She let out a scared little giggle. “Shh, she’ll hear you!”
Hamish leaned over the desk. “Would you be free for a drink this evening?”
“Maybe.”
“When do you finish?”
“Five o’clock.”
“What about then?”
She giggled again. “Oh, all right.”
“I’ll see you in the cocktail bar of the Grand just after five.”
The phone on her desk rang. “All right,” she said again.
Hamish went off. It would be interesting to quiz the secretary and find out more about Mrs. Fleming.
∨ Death of a Dustman ∧
5
Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
—Henry Vaughan
Hamish took out his mobile phone and called Jimmy Anderson. “I just wondered,” said Hamish, “whether you had ever managed to trace that phone call? You know, the one Fergus got before he went out?”
“Oh, that,” said Jimmy. “Useless. Came from that phone box on the waterfront.”
“Get Clarry to ask if anyone saw anyone in the box. A light comes on at night.”
“Aye, but it was still light at the time he got the call. What are you up to?”
“Just doing a few inquiries about Mrs. Fleming.”
“Waste of time,” said Jimmy. “I’ll get Clarry to ask around and see if anyone saw anyone phoning.”
Hamish rang off and then on impulse dialled the minister’s wife. “I saw the new schoolteacher arrive,” he said.
“So?” barked Mrs. Wellington. Hamish began to curse himself for phoning her. He should have tried Angela instead.
“I thought maybe I should take her out for dinner, it being her first night.”
“What a good idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Wellington, much to Hamish’s surprise.
“I have the schoolhouse number, but what is her name?”
“Mrs. Moira Cartwright. A divorcee.”
Hamish thanked her. After he had said good-bye, he wondered how he had got information about the new schoolteacher so easily from Mrs. Wellington. It would have been more her style to caution him against romancing the new teacher. He phoned the schoolhouse and a brisk voice answered the phone. “Mrs. Cartwright?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“This is Sergeant Hamish Macbeth. I heard you had just moved in. You must be too busy to make a meal this evening. I wondered whether you would like to meet me for dinner at, say, eight o’clock at the Italian restaurant?”
“Is that the place on the waterfront?”
“The same.”
“That’s very kind of you. I’ll be there. Good-bye.”
Hamish beamed as he tucked his mobile phone back in his pocket. Forget Priscilla. Or maybe, just maybe, Priscilla might see him with such a beauty.