Part 6 (1/2)
Again that sort of false grande dame air. ”He was just a dustman. I sometimes chat to the postman as well.”
”So is there anything you can tell me about him? Did he look frightened about anything? Did he say anyone was out to get him?”
”No, he just said they were all b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, and he hated them. He didn't say whether anyone hated him.”
”Well, if you remember anything, let me know.”
Hamish said good-bye. But as he walked down from the cottage, he thought, she's lying. There's something there. I'll let her think she's safe, and then I'll go back. I'll try Mrs. Darling up at the hotel.
He went to the police station to collect the Land Rover and was confronted by a raging Detective Chief Inspector Blair. He pointed to a torn trouser leg. ”Look what your dog did!” he shouted.
”Did you just walk into the station?” asked Hamish.
”Yes!”
”Well, there you are. Lugs is a guard dog.”
”You'll pay for this.” Blair was in a foul temper. Peter Daviot had called him in and had told him that Hamish had secured an excellent interview with the widow Macleod, much better than anything Jimmy Anderson had got out of her. Blair had gone in to see him with the full intention of asking that Hamish Macbeth be kept off the case. Instead, he had been told that Hamish had to be brought into everything.
”I've got someone to interview,” said Hamish, getting into the Land Rover. He drove off, leaving Blair glowering after him.
He stopped on the waterfront when he saw the foxy features of Jimmy Anderson. ”I thought you were going to come and see me,” said Hamish.
”I did, yesterday evening, but there was no one there except that dog of yours up on the kitchen table scoffing something.”
”My dinner,” said Hamish.
”And now he's ripped the boss's trousers. Where you off to?”
”Tell you later if you come round.”
”Get the whisky ready.”
Hamish drove on to the hotel. The first person he saw when he parked the car was Jerry Darcy, who gave him a cheerful wave. Hamish scowled in reply, and then felt he was being petty. He got down from the Land Rover, meaning to chat to Jerry, but the man was driving off.
Hamish went into the hotel office where the manager, Mr. Johnston, was working on the accounts.
”What are you after, Hamish?”
”Mrs. Darling.”
”Heather Darling? Don't tell me she's a suspect.”
”No, I just want a wee word with her.”
”She's just about to go off duty. Hang on here for a minute and help yourself to coffee, and I'll fetch her for you.”
Hamish went over to the coffee machine and poured himself a mug of coffee. He had a sudden sharp longing for a cigarette although he had not smoked for some years.
The door opened and Heather Darling walked in, twisting her ap.r.o.n in red, work-roughened hands. She was a small, plump woman with greying hair and a round rosy face.
”Sit down,” said Hamish.
”What's up? Is it Josie?”
”No, nothing's wrong. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Fergus.”
”The dustman?”
”Yes, him. I believe he was on friendly terms with you and your daughter.”
He knew before she opened her mouth that she was going to repeat word for word what Josie had said. But unlike her daughter, who had a hard streak, Heather Darling was frightened and trying hard not to show it. He wondered whether to use Blair's methods, accuse her of lying and try to break her down. But he had a feeling she would stick to that story through thick and thin. In some way, she was protecting her daughter. To try to put her at her ease, he asked about the wedding.
”It's fine,” said Heather curtly. ”What's it got to do with the murder?”
”Nothing,” said Hamish. ”Look, maybe when you've had time to think you'll remember something.”
Her face set in stubborn lines. Hamish said, ”You know where to find me. I'll be calling on you again.”
”What about?”
”About Fergus's murder. Think about it.” He wondered how Clarry was getting on.
Clarry was at that moment wis.h.i.+ng himself anywhere else but in the Currie sisters' cottage, faced by two pairs of baleful eyes behind thick gla.s.ses.
”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.”