Death of a Dustman Read Online Free Page A

waterfront to use as lobster
pots.
    Highland ingenuity had therefore found many uses for the wheelie bins other than the one for which they were intended. They were used to store all sorts of implements and cattle feed. Children
played games at wheeling each other up and down the waterfront in them and their parents duly received threatening green notes from the dustman.
    Letters of complaint poured into Strathbane Council. Mrs Fleming hailed originally from Hamilton in Lanarkshire. She thought all Highlanders were lazy and difficult and just plain weird. And so
she did not trouble to answer even one of the letters. She told her secretary to throw them all away.
    ‘I’ve got a wee job for you, Clarry,’ said Hamish. ‘Our job is to protect everyone in this village and that includes a pest like Fergus Macleod. Get
round there and tell him to go easy. He’s leaving rubbish uncollected for this reason and that reason, and the atmosphere is getting ugly.’
    Clarry brightened at the thought of seeing Martha again. ‘Right, sir.’
    ‘And Clarry. Order yourself a new uniform from Strathbane.’
    Clarry looked down at his round figure. ‘Why?’
    ‘That one’s all old and shiny, and when did you last have a bath?’
    Clarry blushed and hung his head.
    ‘Aye, well, why don’t you nip into the bathroom and have a bath, and I’ll do what I can wi’ your uniform.’
    Clarry meekly went off to the bathroom. Hamish opened up the ironing table in the kitchen and began to sponge and clean and press Clarry’s uniform.
    In the bathroom, Clarry wallowed in the hot water like a whale. Then he towelled himself dry and opened the bathroom cupboard and peered at the contents. There was an unopened bottle of Brut on
the top shelf. Clarry lifted it down and opened it, and then splashed himself liberally with it. He put on clean underwear and shambled into the kitchen and collected his cleaned and pressed
uniform from Hamish with a muttered, ‘Thanks.’
    Hamish reeled back a bit before what smelled like a tidal wave of Brut, but charitably said nothing, hoping that the fresh air would mitigate the smell once Clarry was on his way.
    Clarry walked slowly along the waterfront. It was another beautiful day. Recipes ran through his mind. He stopped outside the Italian restaurant and studied the menu.
    ‘Anything you fancy, Officer?’
    Clarry turned round and found himself facing an elderly man. ‘I’m Ferrari, the owner,’ the man said.
    ‘I like Italian food,’ said Clarry amiably, ‘but I hope you don’t use too much basil. That’s the trouble these days. People go mad wi’ the herbs and
everything smells great and tastes like medicine.’
    ‘You like cooking?’
    ‘It’s my hobby,’ said Clarry proudly.
    Mr Ferrari eyed him speculatively. Hamish’s previous constable, the cleanliness freak, Willie Lamont, had left the police force to marry Ferrari’s pretty relative Lucia. The
restaurant chef was leaving at the end of the month.
    ‘You must come for a meal one evening,’ said Mr Ferrari. ‘As my guest, of course.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ said Clarry. He had a sudden dream of sitting in the restaurant in the evening, looking at Martha in the candlelight. Her husband couldn’t
stay sober that long, he might even drop dead, and then . . . and then . . . He beamed at Mr Ferrari. ‘I might take you up on that offer. Would it be all right if I brought a lady?’
    ‘My pleasure, Officer. Now you can do something for me. That dustman is picking through the restaurant rubbish and leaving most of it. We have too many cans and bottles to put into those
little boxes.’
    ‘I’m on my way to have a word with him.’
    ‘Good. Between ourselves, Officer, it is time you did. The feeling against that man is running high, and if he is not stopped, something nasty might happen to him.’
    I wish it would, thought Clarry as he touched his cap and walked away.
    Clarry had never married. He had entered