Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [38]
“It is very hard to get building permission,” said Hamish.
“I’ve got a loophole. I got building permission for this ratty office and the house and believe me that’s going to cover a multitude of sins, meaning a few rows of nasty little bungalows.”
“Have any of the creatures been returned to you?”
“Not a one. They were all, apart from the minks and the lion, from the local countryside. They’re all probably happy in their natural habitat. And they hadn’t been in the cages long enough to get used to being fed.”
“Have any of the animal libbers been caught?”
She gave a cynical laugh. “No. I think you lot have enough on your hands what with an escaped hit man and a murder in the cells to bother about a few idiots.”
“What did you think of Annie Fleming?” asked Hamish.
“A right little tart she turned out to be. I suspected there was something going on with Bill. I don’t think she could leave anything in trousers alone.”
“What about a kilt?” asked Josie seriously.
Hamish burst out laughing and Josie blushed. But Jocasta said, “About a month ago, I was walking out to the cages when I saw her up on the main road beside a four-by-four talking to a man in a kilt. He was all dressed up in the full rig like men wear when they’re going to a wedding or an official function.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was too far away. Medium height, dark hair. They saw me watching and he jumped in his vehicle and drove off.
“Then there was a weedy-looking youth hanging around. He kept trying to speak to Annie but she told him to get lost. I think she called him Percy.”
“I know who you mean,” said Hamish. “I think we’ll be having a wee word with that young man again.”
Back at the Land Rover, Hamish phoned police headquarters and asked for Mark Lussie’s mobile phone number. He waited patiently until he got it. Then he said to Josie, “Before we go and see Percy again, I’ve got an idea. Maybe Mark’s murderer threw that phone away in the heather.”
Josie shivered as she bent before the wind and followed Hamish up the brae to the war memorial. Out to sea, dark clouds were massing, and she hoped Hamish would either find the phone or give up before the threatening rain arrived.
Hamish took out his own phone and dialled Mark’s number. He began to walk away from the war memorial down the sloping hill on the other side. At the bottom of the hill was a small grocery shop with rubbish bins parked at the back.
“I wouldnae be surprised if he didnae dump the phone in one o’ thae bins,” he said.
“But the bins would have been cleared by now,” said Josie.
“Aye, and that’s why we’re going to the council tip.”
They reached the Land Rover just as the rain came down in sheets. “I haven’t got a raincoat with me,” said Josie.
“Did you bring your coveralls?” asked Hamish, meaning the plastic suit police wore at a crime scene so that they would not contaminate it.
“Yes, I got them.”
“They’ll do. Suit up when we get to the tip.”
The tip was down at the end of a long lane leading to the sea between Lochdubh and Strathbane. Josie’s heart sank when she saw the acres of rubbish stretched out under a stormy sky full of screeching, diving seagulls.
Hamish went into the office wearing black oilskins. He asked about the rubbish from the grocery and if the man in charge had any idea which part of the acreage it would end up in.
The man said vaguely it might be over to the far left of the dump.
With Josie trailing miserably behind, Hamish went over to the left, took out his phone, and dialled Mark’s number.
The wind dropped and he swore he could hear a faint ringing sound. “Come on, Josie,” he urged. “I think there’s something here