Deathly Wind (13 page)

‘He was from Glasgow. Not much taste in clothes,’ said Douglas.

‘He had a run in with Calum Steele,’ said Morag.

Torquil added Calum’s name and circled it.

‘And he had a run in with Ewan,’ Morag added.

Torquil turned and stared at her in surprise. ‘Did he now? When? I didn’t know about that?’

Morag coloured. ‘Sorry, Torquil. I thought I had told you. I’ve just – I mean I had – things on my mind. I’ll get the report book.’

She got up and went through to the main office, returning after a few moments with the large loose-leaf ledger. She put the book down on the table in front of Torquil and thumbed back the pages.

‘Here it is. Early last week, a couple of days before he … was last seen. Ewan cautioned him and his companion, a Danny Reid, about messing about with a motorboat in the harbour. When he approached them they did not realize that he was a police officer and started giving him lip. You know what a gentle giant he is—’ She bit her lip, and went on. ‘Anyway, he showed them his warrant card and they just kept on being abusive and derogatory about West Uist, and about being the new laird’s right-hand men. Then one of them tossed a cigarette end into the gutter and Ewan gave him the option of picking it up and taking it home or being run in there and then.’

Morag grinned as she recalled the scene of him telling her about it. ‘When he began rolling up his sleeves – to use Ewan’s words – “he fair scuttled down and picked it up”. But Ewan thinks they went off muttering about getting him back.’

Torquil tapped the marker pensively on the table then turned and added Ewan’s name. He hesitated a moment, then enclosed it in a box. ‘We will use a box to indicate that Ewan is … also dead.’ He sighed and drew a line between the names. Then he added the name Danny Reid, circled it and drew interconnecting lines with Liam Sartori, Ewan McPhee and Jock McArdle.

After a moment he wrote the word ‘dog’ near Jock
McArdle’s name and enclosed it in a box, and underneath it wrote the words ‘suspected poison’, followed by a question mark.

‘Right, now let’s focus on the Wee Kingdom for a minute,’ he said. ‘Liam Sartori had been there, delivering letters, as I understand it; Lachlan told me about it. And the letters were all legal documents on behalf of the new estate owner, Jock McArdle, informing the crofters that he was going to have wind towers erected on the common grazing land adjoining their crofts.’

Ralph had been quiet since his presentation. Now he
interjected
, ‘I am guessing that it is the same letter that the laird himself delivered to Rhona at the hospital!’ His normally calm visage turned stern. ‘I have every reason to believe that was the trigger for her heart attack.’

Torquil nodded, then turned and under the heading of Wee Kingdom added Rhona McIvor’s name, which he duly boxed. He turned to Morag. ‘We’ll need a copy of that letter.’

Morag had been making notes. ‘And I expect we’ll need to interview all of the crofters.’

Douglas Drummond snorted. ‘Aye, the ones that are still alive.’

And Torquil wrote the names as prompted by Morag: Alistair McKinley, Megan Munro, Vincent Gilfillan, all of whom he enclosed in circles. And then Gordon MacDonald and Kenneth McKinley, who received boxes.

‘What about the family?’ Morag asked.

‘Good question,’ replied Torquil adding their names alongside the other members of the Wee Kingdom community. Instead of a box or a circle he drew a large question mark beside their names.

As Torquil began making notes about the respective
post-mortem
findings on Liam Sartori and Kenneth McKinley, and then linking their names with the word EAGLE followed by a question mark, Wallace Drummond verbalized the growing anxiety that they had all been feeling ever since his brother’s
earlier comment. ‘There seem to be an awful lot of folk’s names in boxes on that board!’

Torquil moved to another part of the board and made similar notes about the contents of Ewan’s notebook. He wrote the words: GUNS, BOND, FAIR FANCIES HIMSELF, then on another column KATRINA, FAMILY and WIND.

‘SAS, camouflage clothes and guns,’ mused Torquil as he tapped various entries on the board with the marker pen. ‘And all that slug goo that was found in Kenneth McKinley’s stomach – it all adds up to a rich fantasy life, I think. So BOND may have been James Bond! He saw himself as some sort of secret agent, it seems.’

Morag snapped her fingers. ‘Maybe that’s another link with Katrina Tulloch, the vet? Maybe he fantasized about her?’

Torquil circled Katrina’s name, adding lines to Ewan, Kenneth McKinley and the poisoned dog.

‘It is a spider’s web you have there, Piper,’ said Wallace.

‘You are right, Wallace,’ Torquil mused. ‘But where is the spider?’ 

Guilt had been a constant companion to Katrina for several days, but never more so than now, as she lay half-naked next to Nial Urquart in the long grass of the machair.

‘I love you; you know that, don’t you, Katrina?’ Nial murmured, his lips playing over her throat.

‘Nial, I – I—’ Abruptly she sat up and began reaching for her discarded jeans and knickers. ‘I think this was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened.’

He caught her wrist and pulled her back down. ‘It was inevitable, Katrina!’

It’s just that I feel so bad, so guilty about—’

‘About Megan? She’s my problem.’

Katrina bit her lip. ‘I meant about Ewan.’

‘Ah yes, of course. But even so, I think we were bound to end up as lovers. There’s chemistry between us.’

And despite herself she had to agree. She had felt it for some time as well, but had done her best to suppress the feelings.

‘How did you manage to find me?’ she asked, as his roaming hands began to work their way under her clothes again.

‘I suppose I knew that you’d be checking out the coast again.’

‘You were lucky then. I had been busy and had to get
specimens
off on the ferry.’

He chuckled softly as she straddled him. ‘Right now I feel I’m the luckiest man alive.’

Alistair McKinley whistled Shep, his collie, and patted the rear seat of his old jeep. Beside him was his large leather hunting bag full of shotgun cartridges and his old 12-bore shotgun. He started the engine and set off.

As he turned out of his drive he saw Megan Munro waiting for him, arms akimbo. He stopped alongside her, immediately aware of two things. Firstly, she had been crying, and secondly, she was in a belligerent mood.

‘Alistair McKinley, where are you off to with that shotgun?’

‘Megan, lassie, I know that you’ve had a bad time of it, what with Rhona and … your man, yesterday, but’ – he sighed with a hint of exasperation – ‘I’m not feeling that great myself. And where I go with my shotgun, for which I have a licence, is entirely my own business.’

‘It’s my business as well, if you are planning to kill hedgehogs. I’ll stop you.’

Alistair McKinley grunted. ‘Don’t even think of messing with me, lassie. I’ve lost my boy and today I’m in a killing mood. I’m going to do what I need to do to ease my own pain.’ He gunned the engine and engaged first gear. ‘Now get out of my way.’

Megan stood staring after him, her temper seething.

‘So much pain, so much hurt,’ she mused. ‘I’ve got pain of my own, you stupid old man. And I know how I’m going to deal with it.’

‘Shop! Anyone home?’ Calum Steele slapped his hand on the counter of the Kyleshiffin police station.

Wallace Drummond came through, a mug of tea in his hand. At sight of the tubby editor in his yellow anorak, he shook his head as if in disbelief. ‘Dear me, you have a nerve, Calum Steele! Behaving like a hooligan after all that you have been doing.’

The smile that had been on Calum’s face was quickly replaced by a look of injured pride, and then by one of
puzzlement
, and finally by one of pure irritation. ‘What are you babbling about, you teuchter? I hope you are not referring to my article,’ – the smile momentarily resurfaced – ‘or my
television
appearance?’

‘I thought it was an interview over the telephone that you gave, not an appearance,’ said Wallace. ‘But I should be warning you, Inspector McKinnon is not pleased.’

‘So it’s
Inspector
McKinnon today, is it?’ Calum returned sarcastically. ‘Well, is
Inspector
McKinnon in to have a word with me?’

‘I’m here, Calum,’ said Torquil, coming out of the
recreation
-room at the sound of the
Chronicle
editor’s voice. ‘And I’m glad to see you.’

Calum beamed and looked disdainfully at Wallace.

‘Because I was meaning to give you a right royal telling off!’ exclaimed Torquil. ‘Just what on earth did you think you were doing with that piece of drivel about killer eagles? And printing that photograph was just downright irresponsible.’

‘Ir – irresponsible?’ Calum repeated. ‘Me? I’m the most responsible reporter on the island.’

‘Calum, you are the only reporter on West Uist,’ replied Torquil.

‘Aye, reporter, editor, photographer and printer. I am the media on West Uist.’

‘You are a windbag!’ Wallace interjected.

Calum looked thunderstruck and raised his hands
beseechingly
to Torquil. ‘Did you hear that? I am–’

‘You are a nuisance at the moment, Calum,’ said Torquil. ‘And why did you go and spread this gossip to Scottish TV?’

‘I am a newsman, Piper. The public have a right to know about what’s happening on the island. Even the folk in Dundee and Glasgow have a right to know what’s happening in the real world.’

‘Well you may have shot the gun this time, Calum. We are treating the death of that young man as highly suspicious.’

The telephone rang three times and then stopped as someone answered it in the recreation-room.

Calum’s face registered instantaneous excitement. ‘Suspicious, did you say? Are you talking about suspicion of death caused by an eagle attack – or something else? Come on, Piper. Give me a piece of—’

‘Calum, it’s a good piece of my mind that you are getting now. You need—’

Morag popped her head round the corner. ‘Sorry, boss, it’s Superintendent Lumsden on the line. He says he wants to talk to you straight away.’ She grimaced helplessly. ‘Like right now!’

Torquil gave a sigh of irritation. ‘OK Morag. Could you take over with Calum here.’

Morag nodded and moved aside to let Torquil pass. Then advancing to the desk, she asked, ‘Right then, Calum, where were you with Torquil.’

‘The inspector was ticking him off, Sergeant Driscoll,’ Wallace volunteered.

‘Away with you,’ returned Calum. He leaned conspiratorially on the counter. ‘Actually, he was just telling me that you lot suspect murder. Tell me more, Sergeant Morag!’

Torquil took the call in his office. As soon as he lifted the receiver Superintendent Lumsden snapped; ‘I’ve just come off the phone with your new laird.’

‘You mean the new landowner, Superintendent,’ Torquil interrupted.

‘Don’t mince words with me, McKinnon! The thing is, he’s upset. Not only has one of his employees been involved in a fatal accident, but his dog has been poisoned.’

‘I was aware that he suspects his dog was poisoned, sir.’

‘This is his second dog. He’s feeling angry and thinks there may be a conspiracy against him.’

‘There certainly seems to be bad feeling against him on West Uist. He has hardly endeared himself to the residents of the Wee Kingdom. He has started erecting wind towers before the situation has been clarified.’

‘He’s also fuming about the newspaper and the piece on the news.’

‘I was just having a word with Calum Steele when you
telephoned
, sir. I understood that you wanted me to telephone you after the meeting.’

‘Well, what was the result?’

‘I think it was almost certainly murder, Superintendent Lumsden. I will fax the report through to you shortly. I think under the circumstances we will have to seal the island off.’

‘Of course. Any suspects.’

‘Too early to say, Superintendent.’

‘Any leads?’

‘A few. They’ll all be in my report.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line, and a wince of pain. Torquil imagined the big policeman in his crisp uniform, with his foot bandaged. He felt little sympathy for his superior officer.

‘OK, get on with it. Let me have that report as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I’ll call the laird and tell him that there is now a murder inquiry going on.’

‘Of course, Superintendent. Shall—?’

But before he could finish, there was a click and he once more found himself staring at the dead receiver.

Morag tapped on the door. ‘I gave Calum the official line. We have no information to divulge and we are making inquiries. And I told him to behave.’

Torquil gave a half smile. ‘And we can be sure that he won’t! Ah well, let’s get on with this thing. First of all, we have to seal the island off.’

‘I took the liberty of getting on with that. No more ferries until further notice.’

Torquil smiled. ‘What would I do without you, Morag?’

She returned his smile. ‘The same as I’d do without you, boss. Just don’t think of going! I hate to think what would happen if it was me who had to speak to Superintendent Lumsden.’

After Katrina had left, Nial continued his round of the coast, stopping every now and then to get out of his car and check out the nesting birds on the machair dunes and the cliffs. He mechanically jotted his recordings in a small notebook which he would later transcribe onto his laptop. The truth was that his mind was not fully on the job. Even spotting one of the eagles wing its way towards its high eyrie in the Corlins did not fill him with his usual enthusiasm. Instead, he was
preoccupied
by the women in his life.

Until a few days ago he had thought that he was madly in love with Megan. Then she had almost gone potty over those dead hedgehogs, and done a Lady Macbeth thing. It had spooked him, he had to admit, and it was then that he had become aware of the emotional door standing ajar. And shining through that opening was Katrina and his feelings for her. He grinned and felt a deep inner warmth as he thought of how rapidly those feelings had heated up until they had reached boiling point, for both of them, culminating in the passionate love-making that they had just enjoyed in the long grass of the machair.

Except that Katrina had emotional baggage. That policeman, Ewan McPhee. She felt guilty about him and She would have to work on that.

He was feeling torn between the two women. Megan or Katrina? He felt bad about his betrayal of Megan, but seeing her freaking out had altered his image of her. That was a weakness on his part, he felt. Yet he couldn’t help it and part of his mind rationalized it by thinking that she had pushed him towards Katrina.

He grinned as he put his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the distant stacks and skerries.

‘West Uist is a beautiful island, all right. And she’s a beautiful woman.’

He had made up his mind.

Danny Reid was perspiring profusely. He was stripped to the waist and a coating of moisture covered his torso as he started heaping soil onto the grave. He hated digging. He hated all manual work if the truth be known, but burying bodies was one thing he hated above all else. And it had been a heavy body.

He had patted the turned earth into a smooth mound and was just replacing the turf that he had cut on top of it when he heard Jock McArdle’s footsteps crunch on the gravel path behind him. He was carrying a decanter of whisky and two glasses.

‘That’s a good job you’ve done, Danny. And it is a good spot for them both. They hadn’t been here long, but Dallas and Tulsa both loved tearing about this old patch of lawn.’ He sighed and Danny Reid noted the tears in his boss’s eyes. ‘We’ll be able to see them from the snooker-room upstairs.’

Danny laid his shovel down and pulled on his T-shirt. ‘Liam was right upset about them.’ He nodded at the whisky glasses in his employer’s hand. ‘Are we going to have a toast to the girls, boss?’

McArdle held out the crystal whisky glasses for Danny to hold while he poured two liberal measures of malt. ‘Aye, but we’re also going to toast Liam. That was Superintendent Lumsden on the phone again. He tells me that Liam was
definitely
murdered. They’re starting an inquiry.’

Danny stared at Jock McArdle, his hand clenching the glass so that his knuckles went white. ‘The bastards! Who did it, boss?’

Jock McArdle ignored the question for a moment. He raised his glass. ‘To the girls! And to Liam! May we always look after our family.’

They both swilled their drinks back in one.

It has to be one of those bastards on the Wee Kingdom,’ McArdle replied. ‘And I am guessing there is no chance on earth that the local flatfeet will be able to find the buggers. We’re going to have to do it ourselves, Danny.’

‘How’s that, boss.’

McArdle smiled, ‘I’ve got an idea to flush them out.’ He hefted the cut crystal glass in his hand and nodded towards the ornamental fountain in the centre of the lawn. In unison they threw their glasses at the fountain.

Jesmond had been watching from an upstairs landing window. He winced as he saw the hundred-year-old crystal smashing on the fountain.

‘Peasants!’ he exclaimed. He reached for his mobile phone.

The Corlins were shrouded in swirling mist by the time that Alistair McKinley left his jeep at the foot of the cliffs, just at the spot where a few days ago they had found the broken body of his son. He pulled off his shoes and socks and wiggled his feet, flexing the well-developed toes that typified many of the outer islanders – especially those who were descended from the old cliff-scaling families of St Kilda’s. Alistair McKinley had been proud of his heritage and had tried to instil that pride into his son. He had taught him to hunt, to survive in the wild when the weather was at its worst, how to forage for food under rocks and in pools, and he had taught him how to climb.

And that was what had been eating away at him for days. How could Kenneth have fallen? He was as sure-footed as any of the old St Kildans who used to scale the sheer cliffs of Hirta, the larger of the isles in order, to snare the fulvers and take their eggs as they nested. Alistair felt sure that it had been an outside agent that had caused his fall and he intended to investigate for himself. His soul burned to find satisfaction.

‘If your spirit is there, Kenneth – come with me!’

He swung his hunting bag over his shoulder and then swung the shoulder sling of his shotgun bag over his neck and
right shoulder so that the bag hung across his back and would not impede him as he climbed.

And he began to scale the almost sheer face, his fingers and toes finding holds and clinging long enough to hoist and pull himself up. Despite his age he climbed with the effortless ease of a monkey.