Flotsam and Jetsam (11 page)

‘But right now I could do with a man in my life,’ she said dreamily, as she replaced the receiver. ‘Someone to help me out over this whole mess I have got myself into.’

The gin and tonic on the table started to look inviting.

She sat down and picked it up and then, closing her eyes, she took a hefty swallow.

Torquil had been so glad to hear Lorna’s voice after his conversation with Superintendent Lumsden. He was less
happy to hear that the superintendent had just cancelled Lorna’s next leave.

‘The man is a miserable little piece of—’ he began.

‘No need to say it,’ Lorna interrupted. ‘I agree, but we also both know that he has it in for us. Let’s just take it on the chin for now. I’ll be back soon enough.’

Torquil pulled a face. ‘Just what is so important that he needs you there now?’

‘It is important actually, love. A big Customs operation. He wants it to go well so he can add it to his CV.’

Torquil could barely disguise his contempt. ‘Public-spirited of him, with other people’s time.’

‘It would be more Brownie points for him towards some honour or another. I think he is hoping for an MBE or an OBE.’

‘I would love to give him an honour,’ Torquil said sourly. ‘The grand order of the boot. And I would happily give it to him personally.’

Lorna laughed. ‘Just make sure that your foot isn’t inside the boot when you do, or he will have you for assault.’

They both laughed, and then fell into their usual exchange of endearments and lovers’ talk.

The bleep on Torquil’s phone went off to alert him that another caller had tried to ring him.

‘Someone is being persistent,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘But it could be an emergency so I had better go.’

Reluctantly they let each other go, then he pressed the answerphone function to find that Dr McLelland had left three increasingly terse messages. He called him straight away.

‘Ralph, sorry I couldn’t answer straight away, I was—’

‘Torquil, I won’t beat about the bush. I think I have bad news about Dr Dent?’

‘Oh Lord! I was hoping it wasn’t going to get any worse. I
am worried about Morag as it is.’

‘I just talked to her. But it wasn’t her that I was concerned about.’

‘Oh no, not Ewan then? Don’t tell me that it was his hammer after all?’

Ralph growled irritably. ‘If you would let me get a word in, Torquil! I have just finished his post-mortem and I am going through some of the laboratory work right now. I don’t like what I am finding.’

‘Tell me, Ralph.’

‘Murder, Torquil. I think you have a murder on your hands.’

Calum had listened as Cora had whispered what she knew about Dan Farquarson and his dealings in Dundee. One of her tutors on the Abertay University journalism course had a second job on one of the Scottish dailies and had been involved in an undercover investigation into crime in the city. On a couple of occasions she had even gone drinking with him in a couple of the watering holes where some of the local bad boys hung out. She had even seen Farquarson and his main henchman, Wee Hughie. It was only an outline of the dealings that she had gleaned, but they were enough to make her cringe when she saw the two men in the corner of the bar.

‘So what are we going to do?’ Cora whispered to Calum, as they stood at the bar.

‘Just wait until one of them comes to the bar to buy a round, then I’ll engage them in conversation.’

Cora suppressed one of her giggles. ‘Sorry, boss,’ she said as he raised an eyebrow at her. ‘I’m just a bit excited. It’s like real journalism.’

‘What do you mean
real
journalism?’ Calum replied
nonplussed. ‘I’ll have you know—’

But he did not finish the sentence for he had seen Bruce McNab gather a batch of empty glasses and start to move across the crowded bar. ‘Watch me and wonder, lassie. Opportunity is on its way. First, we make room.’

And Cora watched as Calum casually straightened and turned, just as Bruce McNab approached the bar to give his order.

‘Bruce!’ Calum cried, as if greeting a long-lost friend. ‘Why, fancy seeing you here. Come on, there’s space here with me and my new reporter Cora Melville. Let me buy you a drink.’

Bruce McNab eyed Calum warily, then his eye set on Cora and he smiled. ‘You are not related to Miss Bella Melville, are you, Cora?’

Cora shrugged her shoulders and smiled demurely. ‘My great-aunt’s reputation proceeds her everywhere I go.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Bruce said. Then, nodding at Calum, ‘But I’ll have to resist your kind offer, Calum. I’m with a party.’

‘Oh aye,’ Calum said, matter-of-factly, peering past Bruce as if seeing his party for the first time. ‘Oh goodness me, is that Sandy King, I spy there?’

Bruce nodded to the barman and pointed to the empty glasses. ‘Same again, Tam. And whatever Calum and Cora here would like.’ As the drinks were being dispensed he placed a large hand firmly on Calum’s shoulder. ‘My clients are here on holiday, Calum. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Oh aye, I know, Bruce,’ Calum replied, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Discretion. Don’t worry, it’s my middle name.’

‘That’s funny, Calum. Most folk around here think it is Nosy-Parker!’

Calum’s cheeks reddened, but he said nothing. He merely grinned.

But this time Cora was unable to suppress one of her rippling giggles. It rose above the hubbub of the bar and almost every head turned to see the source of the laugh and to try to discern the cause of such hilarity. Wee Hughie stopped with his pint halfway to his lips and his eyes lit up. Seeing that Bruce McNab seemed to be having a joke with them he signalled them all over, much to Dan Farquarson’s disdain.

‘Hughie, what do you think you—?’ Dan Farquarson began, then seeing that Bruce McNab was returning from the bar with drinks, helped by the giggling girl and a short tubby fellow in a yellow anorak, he scowled and said in a short aside to Wee Hughie, ‘We’ll have words later, pal.’

But Wee Hughie gave no sign that he had heard his employer. He was on his feet immediately, pulling out a chair for Cora. ‘Come away and sit down,’ he cooed. ‘Any friend of Bruce is a friend of mine. What was the joke?’ He tapped her arm with his elbow. ‘It wasn’t anything smutty, I hope.’

Cora giggled again. ‘Oh no, it was just that—’ She looked at Calum’s raised eyebrows and then at Bruce McNab’s stern mouth and hesitated. ‘It was just something that my boss, Calum here, said. You tell them, Calum.’

‘Well—’ Calum began.

‘Calum Steele is our local newspaper editor,’ said Bruce.

‘A journalist?’ queried Dan Farquarson, guardedly.

‘Aye, Calum Steele, editor-in-chief of the
West Uist Chronicle,
at your service.’ Despite himself, Calum’s chest swelled slightly beneath his anorak. ‘And this is Cora Melville, my – er –
cub
reporter.’

‘A cub reporter, eh?’ said Wee Hughie, unable to tear his eyes away from Cora. ‘You mean like an assistant? Well, what I’d like to know is what’s a bonnie lassie like you doing wasting your time on an island out here?’

‘I am a Hebridean,’ Cora replied immediately. ‘I love the islands. I belong here.’

Wee Hughie grinned. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Cora, I like them myself. See, I think I like them more and more all the time.’

Calum took a seat next to Bruce and sipped his beer, then automatically wiped froth from his upper lip. He beamed at Dan Farquarson, then at Sandy King. His eyes opened wide with almost pantomimic effect and he clapped a hand to his mouth. Then as if recovering, he leaned across the table and asked, almost conspiratorially, ‘Is it true? Am I really sitting at the same table as Sandy King, The Net-breaker?’

‘That’s me, all right,’ Sandy replied. ‘But I’m not looking for publicity. I’m just here for the fishing and hunting.’ He grinned and slapped Bruce on the back. ‘That’s why we have engaged the services of the best fisherman on West Uist.’

Calum grinned. ‘Aye, Bruce is famous around here. Not as famous as you of course, Sandy, but in West Uist he’s a sort of celebrity.’

Bruce McNab frowned. ‘That’s havers, Calum, and you know it.’

‘So, how was your fishing this morning?’ Calum asked.

There was a moment of awkwardness as the group looked at each other.  

‘We didn’t get the fishing today,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘We had a bit of a mix up. We didn’t really meet up as we meant. So tomorrow we will make up for it. That’s what we are doing now, you see. Planning tomorrow.’  

‘Do you like fishing, Cora?’ Wee Hughie asked, staring at her dreamily.  

Cora shivered. ‘Ugh! I hate it. I am a strict vegetarian, you see. I couldn’t possibly kill a fish.’ She screwed up her face in distaste.

Wee Hughie looked bemused, but thought quickly. ‘Actually, I’m not so keen myself. I’m just here with my boss.’ He looked beseechingly at Dan Farquarson. ‘I haven’t had a bite at all, have I, boss?’

Dan Farquarson gave a humourless smile. ‘No, nothing at all. He’s useless, Cora.
Completely
useless.’

‘Well – er – I wondered,’ Calum said to Sandy, ‘how would you feel about giving me a wee interview? The
West Uist Chronicle
readers would love to know what you think of our island.’

Dan Farquarson cleared his throat and Sandy King darted him a quick glance. It was not missed by either Calum or Cora.

‘Look, Calum,’ Bruce said, ‘my clients are here for the fishing, not to be emblazoned across the front page of the
Chronicle
.’

‘No need to include us in anything,’ Dan Farquarson added. ‘Wee Hughie and me are just here for the fishing, like Bruce here says. As for Sandy—’

‘As for me, I can speak for myself,’ Sandy King said firmly. Then he said to Calum, ‘I’ll give you an interview all right, Calum. But not here and not now. Tomorrow I’ll call you. How’s that?’

Calum produced a card with the skill of a conjurer and handed it over. ‘Any time, Sandy. Day or night, the
Chronicle
, reporters are always on hand.’

‘Does that include you, Cora?’ Wee Hughie asked with the hint of a leer.  

Cora opened her mouth as if to give an indignant reply, but Calum answered for her.  

‘Oh, aye, that goes for all of the
Chronicle
staff!’

The lights were shining through the frosted glass of the Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital mortuary as Torquil rode up. He dismounted and made his way through the outer doors, then pressed the intercom button and called his name.

Ralph McLelland’s voice sounded almost robotic through the speaker:

‘Come straight through, Torquil. I’m in the lab.’

A buzzer sounded as the lock was released and Torquil pushed the door open and was immediately struck by the coppery odour of blood mixed with that of strong disinfectant. He walked passed the closed post-mortem room door and tapped ‘Oh, aye, that goes for all of the Chronicle staff!’on the laboratory door at the end of the corridor before pushing it open.

Dr McLelland was dressed in blue surgical scrub clothes, sitting at a bench with a heap of notes on one side and several jars containing specimens of viscera on the other. In front of him was a microscope and various bottles of fixatives and stains.

‘OK Ralph, so what have you come up with?’

‘Questions, Torquil. Questions that don’t make sense.’

‘It’s a bit late for riddles, Ralph. Tell me more.’

Ralph took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He pointed at a jar containing pinky-grey tissue. ‘This is Dr Dent’s lung tissue. I’ve been looking at it. There is water in the lungs.’

‘So he was drowned? That’s what you expected, isn’t it?’

‘Yes – and no. That is, I expected to find water in his lungs, but not the type that shows up under the microscope.’

‘The type of what, Ralph? The wrong type of water?’

‘Exactly. He was found face down in a bog pool, right? In which case there should be bog water in his lungs. It should be brackish and teeming with algae and micro-organisms, like the specimen of water that I took when I examined the body
in situ.
’ He tapped the microscope. ‘But the water in his lungs is as clear as day. It is fresh water.’

‘You mean it is river water?’ Torquil asked with a puzzled look.

Ralph bit his lip. ‘I’m not sure, except that it isn’t the same as the water that he was found in.’

‘Are you absolutely sure of that?’

‘Pretty well sure. In order to be certain I would need to have a detailed chemical analysis done, which will take a few days as I’ll need to send the specimens over to the Forensic Department at Dundee. I’ll also be sending his blood off for toxicology as well, and, as you know, a detailed analysis can take a week or two.’ He scratched his chin. ‘But in the meanwhile there is another anomaly that makes Dr Dent’s death seem decidedly fishy.’ He stood up and signalled to the door. ‘We’ll need to have a look at the body.’

Torquil winced. ‘Is he still—’

‘Still open?’ Ralph divined with a wry smile. ‘No. I’ve done my work and sewn him up nicely so that any relatives can view the body. But it is his skin that I want to show you.’

Torquil followed him back to the post-mortem room. Although he had seen numerous dead bodies in his career, he still was not comfortable when he had to see post-mortems being carried out.

Ralph closed the door behind them then crossed to the raised marble slab in the middle of the room. He lifted the green sheet and pulled it back from the body to reveal the head and neck and the tell-tale T-shaped incision from shoulder to shoulder
meeting above the sternum, then extending downwards. Ralph’s neat suturing had united the ends of all of the skin edges leaving only two knots protruding; one at the end of the right-shoulder incision and the other at the T-junction where the two incisions met.

Despite himself Torquil found himself focusing on the sutures and the knots for a moment, rather than looking at the face of the corpse.

‘You could have been a seamstress, Ralph,’ he remarked casually.

Ralph McLelland gave a short laugh. ‘Pah! A frustrated surgeon I am. I always like to do as neat a job as I can for the relatives. And that includes my vertical mattress stitch and my one-handed surgical knots.’

Torquil nodded absently as he looked at Dent’s face. It seemed so strange to think that just a short time before he had been full of life, lodging a complaint at the station.

‘See his skin?’ Ralph asked.

‘What am I looking for, Ralph?’

‘Midge bites. As you will see, there aren’t any.’

Torquil thought back to the finding of the body. ‘I remember Ewan remarked about that. There were no midges landing on him, whereas we were all being bitten to heck. You said that it was because Dr Dent was dead.’

‘That’s right. They are attracted to carbon dioxide given off by living, breathing creatures.’

‘Then I don’t see what you are getting at.’

‘I was being stupid, Torquil. It is true that they don’t bite, but they would have bitten him before he fell. I think the reason he doesn’t have any bites is because he didn’t die in that bog pool.’

‘But he did drown?’

‘Oh yes. He drowned all right, but not there.’

Torquil clicked his tongue. ‘It is not looking good, Ralph. I think you are right. It looks like murder, right enough.’ He shook his head. ‘I have a bad feeling about this. There’s something troubling me about what you’ve just shown me. Something that I just can’t put my finger on.’

Ralph laid the sheet back over the body and nodded. ‘That’s weird, Torquil. I have that same feeling myself.’

Despite Cora’s protests Calum had insisted on escorting her from the Commercial Hotel back to the
Chronicle
offices where he made up the camp-bed for her with fresh sheets and blankets.

‘I’ll feel safer about you here,’ he explained. ‘I was not liking the look of that big lad, Wee Hughie. He has his eye on you.’

‘But I thought that was what you wanted, Calum?’ Cora replied as she stood watching him with her arms across her chest. ‘You told him that I was always on duty.’

‘Of course I did. You are a carrot, Cora.’

‘A carrot! Thanks very much, tattie head!’

‘No, not a vegetable. The type that you dangle in front of donkeys to get them moving. There is a story here, my girl, and we’re going to get on to it. Now, this is going to be good experience for you. A journalist has to get used to sleeping on the job. You get yourself settled, I’ll grab a few cushions and I’ll bed down in the archives room. You’ll find new toothbrushes and toothpaste in the bathroom. In the morning we’ll make a plan of campaign.’

He yawned, then went to the filing cabinet, pulled it open
and took out his bottle of Glen Corlan whisky. ‘I’ll just have a wee dram to help me sleep. Would you like one?’