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 wishing 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."

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. "n.o.body 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."

CHAPTER FOUR.

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."

When Clarry had left, Hamish asked, "Well, what's new?"

"What kind of whisky do you have?"