Deadly Still

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘We need the census records, Penny,’ said Torquil. ‘We need to know who owns or rents every house, barn, shed and chicken shack on the island. Morag, you’ll need to hold Lumsden’s hand on this, so I’ll leave you to liaise with him once we have a listing of all habitations in the area of the first search.’

‘Onto it, boss,’ said Penny, making for her office.

He snapped his fingers. ‘Ah yes, also do some research about methanol. Ralph McLelland said that a lethal dose would be something like 30 mls. And that 10 mls would be enough to affect vision. But normal alcohol counters it, so it would have to be a whole lot more in a bottle to produce that effect. Its making me doubt that these peatreek bottles just happened to contain an unfortunately large amount of foreshot. I’m thinking they were deliberately loaded with methanol. Find out where it can be obtained. Maybe look at where fatalities have occurred.’

Penny stared wide-eyed for a moment then nodded and turned on her heel to her office.

‘Wallace and Douglas,’ Torquil said, ‘I want you to check out Robbie’s cabin. I want you to look for any loose floorboards, hidden panels, anywhere that he might have stored his peatreek.’

‘OK, Piper. And if we find anything?’ Wallace asked.

‘Let me know straight away. I’m going to the Old Hydro to see if the laptop is there. I suspect it won’t be, though. I think the killer or the secret lover will have taken it to destroy incriminating evidence.’

The leg was painful, but Angus was in no mood to allow it to stop him. He’d swallowed several painkillers and washed them down with a mouthful of cold tea. By choice he would have done so with whisky, but he needed to be cold sober. Apart from that, he had lost the taste for the stuff after Jamie’s death.

He had wheeled out Jamie’s mountain bike and rode with some difficulty, but with less pain than he would had he walked. Walking had not been an option, of course, as it was too far from his cottage. The car was also not an option, even if he had gone to collect it, because he didn’t want the sound of its engine to alert the bastard that he was coming. Fortunately, the shop was at the far end of Kyleshiffin and the fog and mizzle were still limiting visibility.

As it was, he arrived at the destination and thought that it looked deserted. The shop had a closed sign on it as did the smokery next door. Nonetheless, he was determined to do what he had planned. He was wearing his work utility belt, with his chisels, screwdrivers and hammer.

He went round the back of the smokery to the sheds that adjoined it. In a matter of moments, he had opened the door and stepped inside.

So I was right! This is where you make the stuff, you evil bugger.

There was a crate of unused bottles and two crates of plain unlabelled bottles full of amber liquid.

He looked at the still and gritted his teeth. It was an old but clearly well worked apparatus, consisting of a large copper pot the size of a washing-machine raised up on a heavy trestle table. A bulbous section at the top led to the spout which fed into a coiled tube that connected with a collecting apparatus of some sort. Underneath the trestle was a large tank, which was itself connected to pipes leading into the shed from the smokery next door.

‘So this is how you heated it up, from the smokery. You clever sod, running a still in Kyleshiffin itself and disguising the smell of the distilling with the smell of smoking kippers.’

He pulled out a full bottle from the topmost crate and pulled out the cork.

It smelled good in one way, yet disgusted him at the same time, almost enough to make him retch.

But then he heard footsteps outside and immediately secreted himself in the shadows behind the door. He heard a curse and the door opened.

‘Cò th’ann? Who’s there —?’ the man said.

He said no more as the handle of a hammer descended on the back of his head and he tumbled to the floor, knocked senseless.

Torquil was shown into the manager’s office at the Old Hydropathic Residential Home by Millie and asked to wait while she went to fetch Nora. Looking around the office that had been Robbie Ochterlonie’s place of work he noted that it was perhaps not as tidy as it could be. There were three large filing cabinets, presumably containing the resident’s records. An archaic looking safe stood in a corner, with the name Cartwright & Sons of West Bromwich embossed on a circular brass plate beside a large keyhole. A large pinboard was covered in resident’s dietary requirements and medication lists. Beside that was a board covered in hooks with keys hanging from them. One very large antique key hung from a piece of string at the side, which Torquil had no doubt fitted the safe, clearly a relic from the days when it actually was a hydropathic hotel in the nineteenth century. However, it begged questions about the Old Hydro’s approach to security. He made a mental note to tell Morag.

‘Inspector McKinnon, I’m sorry, I was in the west wing. What can I do for you? Is it about the girls, or about Robbie? I saw the West Uist email and I’m shocked and heartbroken.’

‘It’s about Robbie, Norma. You told me he was always writing.’

‘That’s what he said and what he seemed to be doing. He told me he had several short stories in the pipeline and he was writing a thriller. He was always tapping away here on his laptop in odd moments.’

‘What make of laptop was it, do you know?’

Norma pursed her lips. ‘A Samsung, I think.’

‘Did he leave it here?’ Torquil asked, looking round. ‘I can’t see any technology other than the PC on your desk.’

‘No, he always kept it with him. It’s definitely not here.’

‘I know it’s not easy for you, but was it in his cabin when you found him?’

Norma shook her head with grimace of sadness. ‘Honestly, I was too shocked to notice.’

‘I understand. Did he save his work directly onto the laptop, do you remember?’

‘Oh, he used memory sticks. That I definitely know.’

‘Any idea where he would have kept them?’

This time she shrugged her shoulders apologetically. ‘I … I didn’t know him well enough to know things like that.’

‘Did anyone else here see him writing, Norma?’

‘You might ask Doreen. I’ll go and get her, shall I?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind?’

Doreen was looking pale and nervous when she came in a few minutes later. ‘Norma told me to come in and see you, Inspector.’

Torquil gestured for her to sit down, which she did almost demurely. It was obvious to him that she was decidedly nervous and was avoiding eye contact more than she usually did. Her natural inquisitiveness had gone and she was not probing him for news, instead she was clearly guarded.

He leaned slightly forward and eyed her seriously. ‘Doreen, I want to know about the secret lover.’

To his surprise she suddenly leaned forward and almost whispered. ‘How … how did you find out? He’ll be angry with me.’

Torquil raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Who will be angry with you, Doreen?’

‘Hamish McNab. Him in his position, using me to spy for him on Charlie McDonald’s daughter.’

Creideamh! Torquil thought. Now there I’ve uncovered a hornet’s nest. ‘Hamish McNab is your secret lover and he’s had you spying on Catriona?’

She looked on the verge of tears, but somehow suppressed them. ‘He wanted to know anything at all about her father. Catriona liked to chat and I got quite good at probing, about his council work. I’m not sure she ever told me anything important, but Hamish liked to know. We weren’t doing anything wicked. He was divorced and I — well, I’ve been bored.’ Then she suddenly looked worried again. ‘You don’t need to make this public, do you? I … I’ll need to talk to Hamish and to Peter, my husband. I need to prepare before it all hits the fan.’

Torquil had decided to keep up his poker face. ‘I can’t promise anything, Doreen. This information does not need to be made public — at least not yet. But I’m going to need you to make a statement at the station. But right now I also need to know about Robbie Ochterlonie’s laptop. Did you see him writing with it?’

Doreen’s eyes opened wide in surprise at the sudden change in questioning. ‘Yes, lots of time. He was always on about his writing. He said he expected to become a bestselling thriller writer one day. But I think it was just fantasy.’

Torquil drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Did you see where he kept his memory sticks?’

She stared blankly at him. ‘No, I’m not that great on technology. Robbie used to take the micky out of me that way. I used to just trot his own saying back to him. A word to the wise.’

Now where did I hear someone else saying that, Torquil thought. And then he remembered. ‘I’d like to speak to Stuart Robertson now. Is he at the Captain’s table?’

Doreen frowned. ‘He’s having one of his siesta days. When he has those he stays in his room and just drinks and sleeps.’

‘Then show me to his room, please.’

Wallace and Douglas drove out to Lochiel’s Copse and parked up beside the trailer with Robbie’s boat and the pile of empty lobster pots.

‘It’s hard to believe that poor old Robbie was murdered in his own cabin.’

‘Poor devil. It’s all bizarre. Piper seems convinced he was killed by a secret lover, but I can’t see that happening to someone like him.’

They ducked under the police tape and, pulling on latex gloves, entered the cabin and began a thorough search, careful to avoid the chalked outline where Robbie Ochterlonie’s body had been, with the blood stains on the floor and the circled chalk marks where the glass and the whisky bottle had been found. After half an hour of thorough searching they found nothing amiss. No sign of concealed doors, cupboards or safe. No loose floorboards or hidden attic compartment.

‘Nothing! No laptop. No peatreek,’ said Douglas.

‘So let’s scout around outside.’

Back outside, they did a search of the area all round the cabin, again finding nothing. A look inside the old boat drew another blank. It was only a chance lifting of the topmost lobster pot that revealed the bottle of amber liquid inside the one behind it.

Gingerly, Wallace pulled the cork and sniffed. ‘Wow! Whatever it is, it has a powerful nose.’

‘Aye, but the thing is this looks like his post box, where he received his peatreek and where he kept it.’

‘The question is, who was his postman?’

Stuart Robertson was in a doleful mood. He was sitting by the window of his room staring out into the fog, a mug of tea in his horny hand. Torquil could smell the fumes and had no doubt that there was more than a teaspoon of whisky in the tea.

‘Stuart, why did you laugh when you told me about Robbie Ochterlonie’s saying, “a word to the wise”?’

The old trawler captain stared with bleary eyes at Torquil. ‘Because that’s what he thought I was. One of the wise. I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen.’

‘Warned him about what, Stuart?’

‘About lots of things. About his wheeling-dealing and his peatreek and his trysts. He thought of me as a father figure, you see.’

‘Can you explain?’

Stuart took a hefty mouthful of tea and then sighed contentedly, presumably as the spirit reached his stomach. ‘He liked to play with fire. He never told me exactly who with, or how, but I gather he was having a dirty affair with someone. Someone powerful, he used to suggest. Anyway, powerful enough to scare him, which is why he told me what to do if anything happened to him.’

Torquil drew up a chair close to him and leaned towards the old captain. ‘He’s been murdered, Stuart, you know that now.’

‘Aye, I know it. I heard from Norma. And I was just debating with myself who best to talk to. If he got himself killed, why should I think that I’m safe? So I’ll tell you now. He said, “Tell the police to go to Beamish Solicitors.” That’s exactly what he said.’

‘I don’t suppose he gave you anything, did he? Like a computer, or a laptop.’

Stuart’s eyes seemed to clear. ‘Aye, he gave me this gadget thingy for plugging into his computer. He called it his memory and said that he was trusting me, as I was his backup.’

‘A memory stick, Stuart. That’s what he meant. Where is it?’

The old trawler captain’s eyes seemed to glaze over. ‘Buggered if I can remember. I put it somewhere safe.’

Torquil silently cursed. ‘That memory stick is important, Stuart. I’ll need to send my Detective Constable over to search your room later. Now, you also smiled when your friend Norman said maybe you’d all find out where he got his peatreek. I think you already know who that is, don’t you?’

‘Ah, that is a closely guarded secret, because the distiller has kept his secret for more years than I care to think of. He supplies lots of folk here on West Uist and also all over the western Isles. In my working days I even used to help deliver them to the other isles.’ He grinned. ‘Now that’s not going to get me in trouble, is it, Inspector McKinnon?’

‘Not unless you persist in keeping it a secret.’

‘Well then, like his father before him did, Archie Many Hats is the best peatreek distiller in the Western Isles.’

Douglas had taken the call from Torquil and told him about finding the bottle in the lobster pot. He reacted with surprise when Torquil then told him that Archie ‘Many Hats’ Reid was likely to be the secret distiller. The DI then told them to drive to his smokehouse and bring him in to the station right away, while he went to Beamish Solicitors.

The fog was still dense as the two special constables drove to the end of Harbour Street and parked outside the shop.

‘Well, he’s probably not in,’ said Wallace. ‘Looks like the shop and the smokehouse are shut up for the day. Certainly, he’s not running the smokery.’

But when they went round the back they saw that the lock and bolt on one of the adjoining sheds to the smokehouse was broken and hanging down.

They both saw it and gestured at the same time to be silent. Tiptoeing to the door Wallace opened it a crack and looked inside.

‘You like that, do you, you miserable sod,’ said Angus Mackintosh as he poured more liquid into the mouth of Archie Reid, who was tied to the pot belly of his still, so that he was bent backwards over it. ‘You killed my boy with this poison of yours.’

Wallace threw the door open and both twins entered.

‘Stop right there, Angus Mackintosh!’ cried Douglas in alarm. ‘What are you doing, man?’

Wallace grabbed his arm and wrenched the half empty bottle from his hand.

Archie Reid gasped and laid his head backwards on the large copper spout. His cheeks puffed up and then suddenly his head shot forward and a stream of amber projectile vomit shot from his mouth, just missing the twins.

‘He … he’s tried to kill me,’ Archie moaned.

‘No more than you deserve, you bastard. You killed my boy.’

‘I … I don’t see —’ Archie Reid said with a slurred voice as his head slumped forward onto his chest.

‘Creideamh!’ exclaimed Wallace. ‘He can’t see.’

Douglas was already phoning Dr McLelland.

There was no way that the girl could be allowed to live now, the killer thought. The fog was a blessing, but for how much longer. It would have to be done quickly then cleaned up and all signs of restraint removed before dumping the body.

The right footwear was important on a day like this. So important not to leave any stupid clues.

Just one more risk before leaving the bloody island for the last time. But it would be worth so they could be properly together at last.