Death of a Dustman by MC Beaton Page B

showed them the will, the bankbook, but there was nothing else in that drawer, and they seemed
satisfied with that. They were talking about some football match back in Strathbane and wondering if they could wrap things up and get back in time.’
    Hamish reflected that people only read in their newspapers about murderers being caught by one hair or saliva on a cigarette and never heard about the ones where the investigating team wanted to
get back in time for a football match and possibly missed something important. If Martha had killed her husband, whatever clues might have been left had been scrubbed away by the helpful ladies of
Lochdubh.
    ‘I’ll let you know how I get on,’ he said. ‘But I can only keep this quiet for a few days.’
    He was heading for the door when Martha asked, ‘How’s Clarry?’
    ‘He’s fine.’
    ‘Give him my regards.’
    ‘Will do.’ Hamish walked out. He had a sudden awful thought that a battered wife like Martha might have seen in Clarry the husband she had always wanted and had hammered her husband
to death. He shook his head to clear it. He’d better interview the other suspects fast and trust to his instinct.
    He walked down to Mrs Docherty’s cottage and knocked on the door. Her husband, he remembered, worked at the fish counter in a supermarket in Strathbane. Mrs Docherty opened the door. Her
eyes dilated with fright, and then she masked it with fury. ‘This is police harassment.’
    ‘You must have been expecting me to call for some time. How long was Fergus Macleod blackmailing you?’
    She stood very still. Then she said wearily, ‘You’d better come in.’
    She led the way into a tidy little living room. ‘I prayed he would have got rid of that letter. I knew the police had searched his cottage. When I didn’t hear anything, I thought I
was safe. Will I be arrested?’
    ‘Not yet,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m still trying to keep it quiet for a few days. But if I don’t find the murderer in that time, I’ll need to go to Strathbane. What
happened?’
    ‘I’m fifty-five.’
    ‘I don’t see what . . .’
    ‘Listen. Us women up in the Highlands don’t reach the menopause until fifty-seven. Sometimes the scientists say it’s the fresh fish and others say it’s the whisky.
Anyway, I knew I hadn’t long. To be a real woman, that is. I was in Strathbane, shopping, and I decided to go to the bar of the Royal Hotel for a drink. That’s where I met Pat.
You’re not taking notes.’
    ‘Not yet,’ said Hamish. ‘Just let’s hope it won’t be necessary.’
    ‘Anyway, we got talking. I drank a bit too much. He made me laugh. Then he suggested I come back that evening to spend the night with him. Just like that. I said, why not? I didn’t
really mean to keep that date. I mean, I knew I was a bit drunk and shouldn’t even be driving. When I got home, Roger phoned.’
    ‘Your husband?’
    ‘Yes. He said he was going to the Rotary Club. He said he would be staying the night with a friend of ours. I must have been mad. I decided to go for it. It wasn’t worth it. I felt
miserable and ashamed in the morning. Just to get away nicely, like a fool I gave him my address. When I got that letter, I didn’t put it in one of the paper boxes, I put it in with the
general rubbish. But that ferret of a man was sifting through everyone’s rubbish.’
    ‘Why now?’ said Hamish. ‘I mean, why did he suddenly start blackmailing? I mean, if that letter had been in the box for papers, I could understand it. I could understand him
being tempted. But to suddenly take it out of the general rubbish. Maybe he’d already stumbled on to something profitable.’
    ‘I’m not the only one?’
    ‘No. Where were you the night Fergus was murdered?’
    ‘I went out to a meeting at the church, came home, watched a bit of television with my husband and went to bed. Oh, please, can you try to stop this getting out?’
    ‘I’ll do my best. Let me know if you hear anything.