Deadly Still

CHAPTER EIGHT

Early the next morning, over a breakfast of Archie Reid’s famous West Uist smoked kippers, Torquil and his uncle watched the early morning Scottish TV news on the small television set on top of the fridge. Kirsty Macroon was interviewing the political editor about the fallout over a revelation about an affair between two MSPs at Holyrood. As she finished a picture of West Uist appeared in the backdrop.

‘Here it comes,’ Torquil said.

‘And now we turn to West Uist where a human tragedy has occurred. Three teenagers seem to have been experimenting with alcohol, with tragic consequences. Sadly, there has been a fatality.’

She gave a brief account of the event, identifying Jamie Mackintosh as the deceased and asking for consideration for the family. Then: ‘I spoke to Detective Inspector Torquil McKinnon last night when the search for the missing teenager, Vicky Spiers was halted due to darkness. I asked him how the tiny police force on the island was coping.’

Torquil’s voice, slightly distorted due to the telephone connection was accompanied by subtitles.

‘We are doing everything in our power to locate Vicky Spiers. We had the Stornoway Coastguard Rescue helicopter out all afternoon and have drafted in more officers from Lewis. As well as that the West Uist Chronicle assisted us by putting out a request for islander volunteers to help us, with an amazing response. We have split into several teams and are methodically searching the island in a scientific manner.’

The picture turned to Kirsty Macroon. ‘That is good to hear that the community is pulling together, but how concerned are you for her safety? I mean, it is now two days and for a youngster to be out alone in the weather that you get over on West Uist, well, that is worrying. Could you comment on that?’

‘It is alarming of course, but we hope that she has found shelter somewhere. We have to be positive and we will be starting the search again at first light. We will find her.’

As Kirsty Macroon went on to another news item Torquil sighed and switched off the television with the remote control. He harrumphed. ‘I only wish I was that confident. Morag will be out there coordinating the search party again. We just hope the weather doesn’t get too bad, or we have trouble. I’d better get off as I have a stack of things to do at the station. Allan Moorhouse the undertaker took the two bodies across to Lewis on the late ferry and the post-mortem on Jamie is scheduled for first thing this morning at the Western Isles Hospital in Stornoway. I phoned Lorna and asked her to attend on our behalf.’

‘Is Superintendent Lumsden allowing her?’

‘He is. Considering the nature of the event he could hardly refuse. And I’ve also asked her to visit Catriona McDonald while she’s at the hospital.’

‘She’ll not relish the post-mortem, I am thinking.’

‘That’s what she said, but she’s been to many before so she’ll cope. In a way it’s been just as well for us that she’s stationed there at the moment.’

‘What about poor Robbie Ochterlonie? That’s another tragedy we were not expecting.’

‘Accidents happen though, especially when alcohol is involved.’ Torquil rose from his seat and crossed to the door. ‘What are your plans? Golf?’

The Padre tisked and looked apologetic. ‘As a matter of fact I will be playing a few holes despite this situation on the island. I have an appointment with one of my flock, who needs my support. He wasn’t quite ready to unburden himself when we last met, but I think this time he might.’

Torquil nodded. He knew better than to ask more, for his uncle was always loathe to breach a confidence.

Ewan was busy writing up reports when the bell rang alerting him that someone had entered the vestibule. A moment later Stan Wilkinson popped his head round the corner.

‘Ah, Stan, madainn mhath,’ Ewan greeted. ‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’

Stan came in with a handful of mail. He shook his head as he handed the bundle to Ewan. ‘No, I’ve got a busy round today. I thought I’d call in early and ask if there was more news on the missing girl? Or about Catriona, the one I took to the hospital?’

‘The search is on again this morning for Vicky. As for Catriona, Inspector McKinnon will be checking today.’

The postman pursed his lips. ‘Did you hear that I found another casualty, too.’

‘Angus Mackintosh! Aye, you did another good job there, Stan. The poor man, I cannot imagine what he must be going through.’

‘He was not in a good state when I picked him up.’

‘These things shouldn’t happen on a wee island like West Uist, Stan. But still, we have to do what we can to find Vicky and just hope that Catriona McDonald recovers fully.’

Stan tugged pensively on his beard. Then with a shrug and a wry smile he asked: ‘How are the murder shoes? I bet you’ll have been out trying them out.’

Ewan shook his head. ‘Not yet. To tell the truth, I have neither the time nor the inclination until we find Vicky. They’re still under the counter here in their box.’

Stan gave a short laugh. ‘Could I have a look at them again? I got a bit flummoxed when your detective came in. What did you say her name was?’

‘DC Penny Faversham,’ Ewan replied. ‘Sure you can look, but mind the blades, they’re meant for digging into the ground.’ He bent to pick up the box and placed it on the counter.

Stan opened the box and took one out. He held it up to examine it and ran a finger along the blade.

‘Maybe I’ll see you practising with them another morning when I’m on my round,’ he said, handing it back.

‘That’s quite likely, Stan,’ Ewan replied as he stowed it back in the box, ‘but as I said, I’ve no appetite for it at the moment. I have to say that it’s frustrating for me having to man the phone here instead of being out there on the search with everyone else.’

‘But you’re needed here, mate,’ Stan replied. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts. ‘Well, I’d better be off. Who knows, I may spot the girl on my rounds. They always say things come in threes.’ He turned to go, then stopped and snapped his fingers. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Can I get my phone back now? It’s here, I suppose?’

Ewan held out his hands apologetically. ‘I don’t know where it is, Stan. Sergeant Driscoll had it, I know that. I’ll ask her when I see her. Do you need it urgently?’

Stan waved his hand dismissively and opened the door. ‘No, it’s not urgent, don’t worry about it. I’ll keep popping in until I catch the sergeant.’

Five minutes later Ewan was about to make a phone call when the bell announced another visitor to the station. This time the sound of several dogs barking preceded the opening of the door.

Ewan swallowed hard and put the phone down as an elderly lady dressed in a heavy raincoat and an ill-fitting panama hat with a prodigiously large shoulder bag bustled in with five dogs, but only three of them on leads. A rather disdainful looking German Shepherd and a zestful West Highland terrier came in ahead of three boisterous puppies of indeterminate breeds that were straining on their leads. Annie McConville, a widowed lady of seventy-odd years was something of a local celebrity known throughout the Western Isles both for her vague eccentricity and for the dog sanctuary that she ran single-handedly.

‘Ah, Ewan McPhee, the very man I wanted to see,’ she said, beaming up at him.

‘Mrs McConville, those are three lively wee pups you have there.’

‘Aye, well, I had to go and bring them back from Oban. It is a crime that people abandon poor wee fellows like these.’ She opened her coat and produced treats from a pocket of the cheese-cloth dress she was wearing underneath and distributed them to the pack. ‘I’ll get them trained up and hopefully we’ll get them all good homes. I know you’ll be busy what with the search going on for that poor girl, Vicky Spiers, so I just wanted to tell you that I can put four of my dogs at your disposal. Not these wee puppies, but Zimba and Sheila here, and Walt and Nero at home. I can bring them up in my Hillman Imp.’

Ewan smiled. ‘I’ll give Morag Driscoll a call right away. I’m sure she’ll welcome you. We want all the help we can get.’

While he was on the phone DC Penny Faversham came in. Immediately, Ewan smiled at her and raised his other hand in greeting. Penny returned the wave and dropped down on one knee to greet the puppies.

‘What have we here. They’re all gorgeous,’ she enthused as she allowed them to lick her hands. ‘Are they all yours, Mrs —?’

‘McConville, Annie McConville. Aye, they are all mine, for now. That is until I can find good homes for these three. Zimba and Sheila here are part of my family, though.’

Ewan finished on the phone. ‘That’s all fine, Annie. Sergeant Driscoll welcomes the help. She’s got Guthrie Finlay and his dogs from the Strathshiffin estate, but the more the better. If you could drive up to the pillbox on Harpoon Hill and park on the roadside then she’ll meet you there. She’ll allocate one dog each to three of the Lewis bobbies and you work with either Zimba or Sheila.’

‘It’ll need to be Sheila,’ Annie replied. ‘Zimba will get on with anyone, but Sheila can be a law to herself if she’s out of my sight.’

‘Mrs McConville, this is DC Penny Faversham,’ Ewan introduced.

Penny stood up and shook the older woman’s hand.

‘Mrs McConville runs a dog sanctuary,’ Ewan continued. ‘What she doesn’t know about dogs isn’t worth knowing.’

‘Oh, away with you, Ewan McPhee. Or rather, away we go, I’d better get back and pick up Walt and Nero. Good day to you, DC Faversham.’

Once they were alone the two officers beamed at one another.

Be careful, you fool, Penny silently chided herself. You came here to get away from Leeds and bloody Lieutenant Barry Winder-Thompson. PC Ewan McPhee is a hunk, but frying pans and fires rings a bell.

Ewan was about to speak when Penny’s expression abruptly changed and she became serious and professional.

‘I’d better get going, too. Lots of calls to make,’ she said. ‘No time for loose chat.’

She lifted the counter flap and let herself through.

‘Would you like some tea?’ Ewan called after her, his tone hopeful. ‘I could bring it in.’

Penny went straight to her office and opened the door. ‘Maybe later,’ she said, gracing him with the slightest of smiles before swiftly closing the door behind her.

Morag had been trying to keep positive and maintain an air of professional calm in the face of mounting concern that none of the teams had found any sign of Vicky Spiers.

The pillbox was still cordoned off and the entrance had been closed with a large tarpaulin.

Standing outside and scanning the area with binoculars she peered as far as she could into the fog and mist and dimly saw some members of the teams, some deep in the moor, others climbing the Corlin foothills. From time to time she heard one of the dogs bark as the Coastguard search and rescue helicopter passed overhead.

‘I tell you, Helen, I’ll be relieved when we find some clue as to where she is,’ she said to the local solicitor, standing beside her, drinking tea that she had poured from the tea urn that was part of the library van’s accoutrements.

‘We all will, Morag. She’s a good kid. I’ve known her folks pretty well since Brock had his accident and I handled his claim for compensation against the Glen Corlin estate. It didn’t make me popular with Esther Corlin-Macleod for a couple of years after all the compensation she had to pay out.’

‘That was a bad accident. It shook the whole island.’

‘It was an accident that should never have happened, Morag. Crushed under a whisky barrel that hadn’t been stabilised on its stack. He was lucky he wasn’t killed. As it was he suffered a broken spine that left him paraplegic. It was negligence pure and simple. Still, what’s a couple of million compared to being able to walk.’

‘I suppose you can make enemies when you practice law,’ Morag said, lowering her binoculars and looking at her friend.

‘It depends what type of law you practice. Beamish’s is a small old-fashioned firm so we handle all types of cases, from divorce to commercial and criminal. I do most of the wills, power of attorney, personal injury and property cases, while Cameron does the criminal law and divorce and separation work. Actually, he makes more enemies than me.’

‘Cameron does quite a bit of travelling, too, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, to the mainland. He has to go round the courts in most of the cities, lucky fellow. I just get to go to Romania to see my sister in Bucharest when I occasionally need to escape from the island. She’s married to a professor of chemistry at the university.’

Morag gave a wry smile. ‘I’ve never even been to England. Still Helen, we appreciate you joining the search when you have a busy practice to run.’

‘It’s the least I can do. Cameron came yesterday, as you know, but he’s holding the fort today.’ She drained her coffee. ‘I needed that, but now I’d better get back.’ She squeezed Morag’s elbow and gave a reassuring nod. ‘I’m sure we’ll find her.’

‘Let’s just hope that the rain holds off, though visibility seems to be getting poorer.’ Morag’s mobile phone went off and as she looked at the screen she saw that it was a call from Wallace Drummond.

‘Morag, we’ve found a trainer in bracken by the old Strathshiffin road. Annie McConville’s dog found it.’

‘Is it just the one trainer?’

‘Aye, just the one. It’s still got its laces tied and it looks as if it came off in the mud.’

‘Can you send me a picture, mark off the area and then bring it here?’

‘Will do,’ he replied and rang off.

‘Good news?’ Helen asked.

‘We’ve found a trainer, but whether it’s good news or not I don’t know.’

Kathleen Peterson had locked the door to Beamish solicitors as soon as Hazie, Helen Beamish’s secretary left for lunch. Cameron was working in his office, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened about his neck. When Kathleen pushed open the door and strolled in he pretended that he hadn’t heard her and went on working.

‘It’s time to take a break, you naughty legal owl,’ she whispered as she approached his desk.

Cameron tossed his spectacles down on the desk and rose eagerly to meet her. ‘Och, we’ll have to be quick, you filthy mistress. I have somewhere I have to go soon,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘Where shall we do it?’

Grabbing his tie, she walked backward out of the office, drawing him with her. ‘I want to do it on her chair again. It makes me smile whenever I think of her sitting there after we’ve made love on it. The stupid cow!’

He gave a throaty laugh. ‘That’s just what she is. An ungrateful stupid cow of the first order. You really don’t like her either, do you?’

‘Why should I? The way she treats you, but she’ll get her comeuppance soon, won’t she?’

‘I’m working on it, darling. But we have to think about your situation. About Bruce and your kids.’

She grabbed his hair and kissed him again. ‘We’ll think about all them later. Right now it’s just about us.’

With his pipe charged and lit, Lachlan ambled over to the St Ninian’s golf course, leaving a trail of tobacco smoke in his wake, where he met George Corlin-MacLeod on the first tee as they had arranged the day before.

‘I haven’t brought a hipflask, Padre,’ said the distillery owner, opening his bag and taking out one of the Glen Corlin’s distinctive handbell shaped bottle, ‘but here’s one of our 50-year-old Glen Corlins that I’d like you to have.’

Lachlan whistled as he took the bottle. ‘There is no need for this at all, George. I am more than happy to have a few holes and a chat about your worries. Life often throws these things at us and as I always say, a problem shared is a problem halved.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows questioningly. ‘And maybe have a prayer afterwards, like yesterday?’

George reached into a pocket and drew out a new ball and a fresh tee. ‘Well, I can’t turn that down. It helped me and I’m grateful to you for letting me use you as a sounding board.’ His lips tightened and he shook his head. ‘After what happened to those poor kids I’d say we all have a lot to pray about. Shall I drive off first?’

‘Ready golf, George. Away we go.’

They had elected to play a full eighteen holes, going round the St Ninian’s course three times. As they reached the last tee, George surprised Lachlan.

‘If you don’t mind, Padre, I think I’d like to break open that bottle.’

‘A stirrup cup before the last hole? That’s not a bad idea, but let me give you a drink from my hipflask, if it won’t offend you?’

George looked at him quizzically. ‘Why would I be offended, Padre?’

‘Because I have it filled with Abhainn Dhonn, your competitor’s whisky.’

George gave a wry smile. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t care if it was just peatreek. I could do with a dram.’

Lachlan produced his pewter hipflask and two small leather covered whisky cups from a pocket of his bag and handed the cups to George. ‘You will find it a good drop and with quite a distinctive nose,’ he said as he poured a generous measure into each vessel.

The distillery owner sniffed his drink and nodded his approval before raising the cup to Lachlan. ‘Here’s to the last hole, Padre. I appreciate you giving me all this time in spite of all that’s going on here on West Uist, with those teenagers and everything.’

‘Slainte mhath,’ Lachlan said, raising his own cup and taking a sip. ‘That’s not a problem, George. I am here for you if you want to talk. I deliberately didn’t mention anything about this unfortunate business since I realise that you have things on your mind.’

‘The golf has helped to calm my mind, but you may have noticed that over the last few holes I’ve been a bit nervy.’

‘You are working up to telling me about your troubles.’

‘It’s awkward, Padre.’

‘You said that the last time.’

‘It’s a sexual matter.’

Lachlan looked around to ensure that there was no-one within earshot. ‘Would you like to go into the church where it is private to tell me?’

George shook his head and drained his whisky. ‘No, we should finish the game. My problem is that I have trouble in the bedroom department, Padre.’

Lachlan was taken aback. ‘In that case, George, I am not really qualified to help you. It’s a doctor that you are perhaps needing to see, not a minister.’

‘No need. You see, I know exactly why I have the problem. It’s entirely psychological.’

‘But George, I’m just a man of the cloth. I’m not a psychologist. If it is anxiety that you think is causing your problem, then a professional might —’

George handed the cup back. ‘I’m not anxious, Padre. I’m angry. Bloody angry! I want to kill someone and I’m scared that I might just do it. That’s why I need help.’ And then, almost nonchalantly he teed up his ball. ‘Shall we finish the round before the mist closes in again?’

Vicky had no idea what time it was. Deprived of any sensory input apart from her hearing, she had found herself drifting in and out of sleep. There in the bleak darkness of her mind grotesque dream images would jolt her back to her current nightmarish reality.

Her headache had lessened in intensity so that the pounding had turned into a constant background aching. The nausea had persisted, but had been gradually diminished by two other unpleasant sensations. First was an intense thirst such as she had never experienced in her life and second was the increasing pressure as her bladder started to fill up. Her mind latched onto both to increase her discomfort and state of fear.

She thought she heard a slight scratching noise, like a door being slowly pushed closed. She wanted to cry out and demand if there was anyone there, but the tape was too tight and she could not open her mouth.

Suddenly, her hair was grabbed and her head roughly yanked back so that her face was pointing up to goodness only knew where. She felt her heart pounding fast and could feel a violent pulsation in her abdomen as blood pumped through her aorta.

She felt a pressure on her mouth and heard a slight ripping noise as if the tape was being cut. Then the hand holding her hair tightened and pulled her head further back and something was thrust through a hole in the tape, forcing itself through her lips and between her teeth into her mouth. A tube of some sort.

Panic set in and she felt her breathing quicken.

There was no sound, no voice. No spark of kindness.

Water began to trickle slowly into her parched mouth and she eagerly swallowed, feeling some relief from the awful thirst. She had no idea how much water she was given before the flow stopped. When it began again she was horrified at the raw, burning taste. It was whisky. She desperately tried to blow it back, but the attempt made her gag as the end of the tube was shoved further back in her mouth, almost down her throat.

Panic stricken, she swallowed and swallowed until the flow stopped for a few seconds before water again was trickled into her mouth. Then the tube was pulled free and her head released.

She tried to mumble the word why, but only a guttural noise came out. Another long ripping noise was followed by pressure on her mouth and then she knew only too clearly that more tape was being wound round her face, plugging the hole.

Her thinking became really difficult and she knew that the whisky was rapidly kicking in and making her feel sleepy.

Moments later, she heard the scratching of wood on stone again. She knew that her captor had gone.

Blind fear helped in her struggle to stay awake and try to think. There hadn’t been time to dole out the same treatment to Catriona and Jamie, which meant only one thing.

I’m all alone!