Death of a Dustman by MC Beaton

Anything at all.’
    ‘I must have been mad,’ she said, half to herself. ‘I’ve always been respectable. The boys are doing well, both in jobs in Glasgow. I blame the television.’
    ‘How’s that?’
    ‘Well, women like me sit up here in the very north of Scotland, night after night, watching beautiful people. Morals never seem to bother them. Then the day comes when women like me think,
I’ll have some of that. And some of that turns out to be a sordid night with a travelling salesman. Men sleep around, why shouldn’t women? That’s what they preach on the box. But
to old-fashioned women like me, I can’t get rid of the old values of loyalty and modesty. Do you remember when modesty in women was considered a virtue?’
    ‘I’m not old enough,’ said Hamish ruefully.
    After he had left Mrs Docherty, he went back to the police station. Jimmy Anderson was sitting in the police office, his feet on the desk.
    ‘Where’s Clarry?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘I sent him off on a tour of the village, asking as many people as possible if they saw anything. I’ve got two coppers from Strathbane doing the same thing. Get anything?’
    ‘Not much,’ said Hamish.
    ‘That’s not like you. Come on. You’ve got something up your sleeve.’
    ‘Not me. I’m off to check some of the outlying crofts. What are you going to do?’
    ‘Coordinate,’ said Jimmy vaguely. ‘Take that weird dog of yours with you. I thought he wasn’t going to let me into the station.’
    ‘So how’d you get in?’
    ‘One whole packet of chocolate wafer biscuits.’
    ‘Whit? You’re a bad man, Jimmy. You’ll ruin his teeth.’
    Hamish went into the bathroom and collected his toothbrush and toothpaste. Then he grabbed the unsuspecting Lugs from under the kitchen table and began to forcibly brush the dog’s teeth.
Then he put the dog down in front of his water bowl. He drank thirstily and then looked accusingly up at Hamish.
    ‘Come on, boy. It’s no use you looking at me like that. How can you bite Blair if your teeth fall out?’
    Soon Hamish was driving off out of Lochdubh with a sulky Lugs on the seat beside him.
    Angus Ettrik’s croft lay off the Drim road. He turned up a narrow lane, stopping at one point to get down and shoo some of Angus’s sheep back into the fields.
    Angus’s wife, Kirsty, was hanging out sheets in the garden, although it was not really a garden, more a dump for old machinery. A washing machine leaned against a television set. Two
rusting cars and various bits of machinery stood testament to the Highland crofter’s weakness. Nothing was ever thrown away because it ‘might come in handy sometime’.
    ‘What’s up?’ asked Kirsty, coming towards him. She was a small, dark, gypsy-looking woman.
    ‘Angus about?’
    ‘He’s up at the peats. What’s it about?’
    ‘Just asking everyone round about.’
    ‘Oh, the murder. That was awful, so it was.’
    Hamish nodded to her and got into the Land Rover and then drove as far as he could along a heathery track.
    He finally got down and, followed by Lugs, walked the last half mile to the peat stacks. Angus was cutting peats. As Hamish approached him, he turned over in his mind what he knew about the
crofter. He had a reputation of being lazy, but that wasn’t unusual in the Highlands where the doctor’s surgery was at its busiest on a Monday morning with men complaining of bad backs.
He and Kirsty did not have children. He was a small wiry man with a thick shock of dark hair going grey at the sides. His face was permanently tanned from working outdoors.
    He saw Hamish but continued to cut peats. He had a tractor and trailer beside him. The trailer was already loaded up with cut peats, like dark slices of cake.
    ‘How’s it going, Angus?’
    Angus paused and looked up at the tall policeman. ‘What do ye want?’
    ‘I want to know if Fergus Macleod was blackmailing you.’
    Angus looked down. ‘Havers,’ he muttered. Then he raised his head. ‘Do I