Flotsam and Jetsam (9 page)

‘Do I have to?’ Cora pleaded. ‘Surely they won’t have any news.’

‘Of course they won’t. But that’s not the point, is it?’

‘And the point is?’

‘To keep them on their toes and show them that the
Chronicle
means business. Now off you go, I have a phone call that I need to make.’ He winked at her as he reached for his mobile. ‘It will do no harm to let Scottish TV know that we’re on to a big story.’

The yellow camper-van turned off the coastal road and took the dirt track up to the row of derelict, crofters’ cottages. It swung round behind them so that it was unseen from the road.

‘Come on, Craig,’ said the driver, the leaner of the two. ‘The sooner we get the stuff stashed the better.’

Once outside Craig cursed. ‘Huh! I’m not so keen on this place, Tosh. It’s us that takes all the risks.’

‘Don’t start that again. We do what the boss tells us to do.’

‘The boss! I’m getting fed up with him too.’

The crunch of a foot on gravel made them both spin round, their eyes open in alarm. Craig’s hand darted inside his jacket to the heavy object that he kept hidden there.

‘So you are getting fed up with me, are you?’ a voice snapped.

‘Craig was just joking, boss,’ Tosh replied with an uncertain grin.

‘As if I give a toss! Just tell me. Did you do it, and did you make sure no one saw you?’

Craig and Tosh glanced nervously at each other then the one called Tosh nodded. ‘Aye, we did it all right.’

Neither of them fancied telling their boss about their encounter with PC McPhee.

Morag stared at Cora in dumbfounded amazement.

‘And Calum Steele told you to ask me that? Just how long have you been his assistant?’

Cora squirmed. ‘Er – since yesterday, Sergeant Driscoll.’

‘Since yesterday?’

Cora felt flustered and nodded apologetically.

‘Then I suggest that you should tell the editor of the
West Uist Chronicle
to do his own dirty work. If he wants a statement from the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary, he should go about it through the proper channels, instead of sending his new assistant.’

Cora bit her lip. ‘And – er – what are the proper channels, Sergeant?’

Morag smiled humourlessly. ‘He should make a formal request in person to the officer on duty – me!’

Cora was already backing towards the door. ‘I will tell him that, Sergeant Driscoll.’

She was about to reach for the door when she remembered the other task that he had given her. ‘Oops! Sorry! There was
something else I need to ask you.’

‘Ask away then.’

‘Have you – er – any news on your investigation into the break-in at the
Chronicle
offices?’

Two pinpricks of colour appeared on Morag’s cheeks and started to expand as her eyes grew wider.

Cora instinctively tensed her neck muscles, expecting a torrent of ire. But inexplicably, Morag’s expression suddenly softened and she smiled.

‘Nothing yet, Miss Melville, but I will be happy to update Mr Steele when he comes to see me.’

‘Ah … thanks, I….’ Cora began. But the door suddenly shot open and knocked her in the back, propelling her forward.

‘Oh good grief!’ called Wallace Drummond, entering and shooting a hand out to catch the stumbling Cora before she pitched on to her face. ‘So sorry, miss. I was in such a hurry. I haven’t hurt you, I hope?’

Cora recovered her balance and turned to find herself looking up at the smiling face of Wallace Drummond, with an identical face appearing a second later to grin over his shoulder.

‘You will have to excuse my brother. He is a bit
heavy-handed
,’ explained Douglas, sweeping off his fisherman’s bobble hat at the same time as he plucked off his twin’s. ‘Whoever would think that two gowks like us could be special police constables!’

Morag slapped the counter to gain attention and the trio looked round at her.

‘If you two would let go of Miss Melville’s great-niece, then she will be able to get back to her new job as Calum Steele’s cub reporter.’

Cora blushed then nodded at them before hastily dodging
between them to let herself out.

Wallace stood looking bemused. ‘Sorry, Morag, did we miss something there? It seemed that you and that lassie were having some sort of a tiff. And did you say that she was Miss Melville’s something-or-other?’

Morag raised the counter-flap and beckoned them through. ‘Three rights! Yes, you did miss something. Yes, I am in a mood with her. And yes, she is Miss Melville’s great-niece.’

Douglas gave a short laugh. ‘Well whoever would have thought that the old girl could have such a beautiful looking relative! Cora, did you say her name was?’

Morag scowled at him. ‘It is not funny, Douglas. She is working for the
Chronicle
and Calum sent her over to ask about why I released Dr Dent last night.’

Then to the twins’ surprise she slumped forward, slapping her elbows on the counter and burying her face in her hands. ‘Oh God!’ she cried.

The twins reacted in unison as they often did. They both put an arm about her shoulders.

‘What is wrong, Morag Driscoll?’

‘Aye, tell us.’

Morag sighed and shoved herself to her feet. She patted both their hands. ‘It looks as if it was a bad mistake. Ewan found him this morning up on the moor, lying in a bog pool with blood everywhere. When he phoned in he thought he must have bashed his brains out with his hammer.’

Both Wallace and Douglas stared back at her, their faces draining of colour.

‘Torquil phoned me a bit later,’ she went on. ‘Ralph Mclelland had examined the body. He was pretty sure that he was dead already, and he had doubts about whether the hammer had actually touched him. It might just have landed in
the pool near him.’

Douglas let out a soft whistle. ‘Thank goodness for that.’

‘But what is Calum Steele on about?’ Wallace asked.

‘He is implying police negligence. If I had kept him in custody last night he would still be alive.’

Wallace punched one hand against the other. ‘Let me go round and see the wee scunner, Sergeant. I’ll point out the error of his ways.’

Morag gave him a wan smile. ‘I don’t think that would help very much at the moment, my wee darling.’

‘No, but it might make us feel better,’ said Douglas, through gritted teeth.

The Reverend Kenneth Canfield woke to find himself in a world of pain. His head felt as if it was about to explode, his eyes felt as if they had been sand-blasted, and as he opened them the morning sun seemed to sear them causing him to shut them tightly again. Then a wave of nausea hit him like a battering ram and he struggled to roll over so that he could vomit on the floor and not in his bed.

His stomach jettisoned its contents and he lay retching for several minutes before he felt able to lie back and piece together his fragmented memories of the night before. He began by slowly prising his eyes open to confirm that he was back in his room at the Commercial Hotel.

‘Oh Lord, what have I done?’ he groaned. ‘The whisky will be the death of me one of these days.’

The image of him having a large whisky with Lachlan McKinnon flooded back.

‘Ah, that was the first of them, you fool. You should have stuck to drinking tea. Now Lachlan may suspect my weakness.’

Then he saw himself striding towards Dr Digby Dent’s cottage later on – being admitted – offered whisky – then arguing.

‘Oh man! I should not have drunk whisky with him. What was I thinking of when I went there to confront him?’

Then the memory became more blurred. There was more whisky – good whisky, he remembered – the two of them arguing and then coming to some agreement, before arguing again. And finally, just a blur until he made it back to the Commercial Hotel.

‘My word! The hotel folk will have seen me as drunk as a skunk. Me! A man of the cloth who should know better, who should behave himself.’

There was a knock on the door then a concerned voice.

‘Are you all right in there, Minister? I thought I heard you being sick. Are you needing a doctor?’

‘No doctor, thank you,’ he called out, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘I think I may have a bit of a tummy bug. I will be OK.’

With some relief he heard footsteps receding down the corridor.

But would he be OK? It would help, he thought, if he could just remember what had happened.

The worrying thing was all the guilt that he felt. He had a nagging fear that it was not just because he had got drunk with Dr Dent.

Bruce McNab was in an ill humour as he paced back and forth by the berth of
The Mermaid,
his thirty-foot fishing cruiser. As
far as he recalled, the arrangements for the day had been firmly agreed. He had given his party the choice of sea-fishing in the waters out towards Iona, or snipe shooting up on the Hoolish Moor. The discussion about which they should do had been interesting and amusing, for a short time. Then it had turned into a right old drinking session.

‘Damn the whisky!’ he grumbled to himself as he felt a fresh stab of pain in his head. ‘It clouds the brain, makes folk argue and – forget everything!’

He massaged his now throbbing temples, which reminded him that he had gone well past his usual limit during the session. All of them seemed to have, except, he dimly recollected, Sandy King. The professional footballer had taken just a couple of drams then gone on to shandies.

‘Sensible lad!’ Bruce remarked to himself. Then he frowned with irritation. ‘But if he didn’t drink, why is he not here?’

It had all started after they watched that Dent idiot making a fool of himself on TV. Dan Farquarson had ordered a round of Glen Corlans to celebrate. Then Bruce had reciprocated, followed by Wee Hughie. Soon after that his memory of the night failed.

Doubt then started to creep into his mind. Was he the one who had got it wrong? Were they waiting for him up on the moor?

‘Pah! Why don’t any of them answer their mobiles? Damn it!’

After another ten minutes he concluded that they were definitely not coming, so he stowed the sea-rods back in their cupboard and locked up
The Mermaid
before heading back home.

‘Why worry, Bruce, you fool,’ he told himself. ‘They have paid already, so it is no skin off my nose if they have missed their sport.’

He climbed into his old jeep and drove towards home.

His two chocolate Labrador gundogs were barking their heads off as he came up the drive.

What is up with them? he mused as he drew up before his log-cabin. It is not like them to be going daft like this.

Then he saw the cabin door standing ajar.

‘Bloody hell! It has been forced!’ He cursed as he picked up a piece of timber and stealthily approached, grateful that the dogs did not stop their barking in case that could alert anyone still inside.

There was no one there, but the inside looked as if a tornado had wrecked the place.

Bruce McNab had the trained eye of a hunter. He recognized false trails when he saw them. The chaos around him was contrived, he had no doubt.

Whoever had broken into his cabin and thrown things hither and thither had done so with a definite purpose in mind.

He felt his heart speed up, since he had a pretty good idea what they were looking for.

Fergie and Chrissie had started the day as they usually did, with passionate love-making. Like so many people in show-biz they often found it hard to come back to bland real life after the buzz of performing. Yet, while so many celebrities turned to drugs or alcohol, they turned to sex. Lots of it. It suited them perfectly, for they were both blessed with a high libido. All of their TV crew knew and accepted this as the norm and treated their impromptu absences for the odd hour as a bit of a joke. ‘Bonk breaks,’ they called them, behind their backs. Yet the
thing that everyone found most curious was the fact that they never directed their libidos at anyone else. All of their flirting was just an act; for the truth was they were still just as deeply in love as when they had first met.

‘I love looking at you first thing in the morning,’ Fergie cooed, as he lay stroking Chrissie’s hair.

‘And I do, too,’ Chrissie replied with a mischievous smile as she leaned towards him to plant a kiss on the smooth dome of his forehead, which was only ever seen by her, it usually being covered by the hairpiece that lay on the bedside cabinet.

‘It’s going to be an exciting day, Chrissie. I can feel it in my bones. Getting Guthrie Lovat on the show should make up for the fiasco we had with Digby Dent last night.’

Chrissie giggled. ‘But it was so funny when you think about it, lover. I mean, he made an idiot of himself and folk would have laughed, but all publicity is good. All of Scotland will be talking about it this morning.’

There was a rustle outside the door then the rattle of a tray of crockery being laid on the floor. A tap on the door was followed by a cough then the announcementf, ‘Your breakfast and paper, Mr Ferguson.’

Chrissie popped out of bed and pulled on a flimsy
dressing-gown
before unlocking the door to bring in the tray.

Fergie took the
Chronicle
from the tray and smoothed it out on his knees. A large photograph of a drunken Dr Digby Dent lurching towards a startled Chrissie while Fergie looked on in shocked horror, was emblazoned with the headline:

Fergie laughed. ‘You are right as ever, Chrissie. Even bad publicity should help the ratings. Everyone is bound to watch
tonight.’ He scanned the article then shook his head. ‘What an idiot that Dent lad is. And I thought he was a respectable scientist.’

‘Even scientists can be drunks, darling. Come on now, let’s have breakfast, then we—’

The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor was followed by a staccato rapping on the door.

‘Fergie! It’s me, Geordie! Let me in will you?’

‘Geordie? We’re having breakfast,’ Fergie called back irritably.

‘It’s urgent. Let me in!’

Fergie snatched up his hairpiece and deftly put it on. Once Chrissie gave him a nod of approval he climbed out of bed, dragging a sheet with him to wrap toga-style about him. He strode across the room and imperiously pulled the door open, as if he actually was an emperor of Rome.

Geordie Innes slid past him, his face the epitome of bad news. ‘I just had a phone call from Guthrie Lovat. He’s changed his mind. He won’t come on the show tonight.’

‘Wh … Wh … Why not?’ Fergie spluttered.

‘It was a done deal,’ Chrissie added.

Geordie Innes glanced over at Chrissie, sitting by the dressing–table, her dressing-gown doing little to conceal her feminine charms. He unconsciously licked his lips before turning back to Fergie.

‘He saw the show last night, didn’t he? He said he hadn’t realized the sort of programme it was.’ Geordie swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously. ‘He said we could stick our show!’

Fergie’s cheeks reddened.

Then Chrissie voiced the thought that had been bubbling up in her mind.

‘Look’s like we were wrong, Fergie, my love. Sometimes bad publicity is just bad publicity.’

Torquil was sitting behind his desk stroking Crusoe as he listened to Morag’s account of Cora Melville’s visit. The Drummond twins stood leaning on either side of a filing cabinet, while Ewan was standing by the door so that he could hear if anyone came into the station.

‘I could cheerfully throttle Calum Steele sometimes,’ she said. ‘Fancy him sending that young girl to do his dirty work.’