Deadly Still

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Penny had already sent an attachment about the census on an email to Torquil’s phone by the time he arrived at the Beamish practice.

Only Kathleen Peterson was in the building. Torquil scrolled down the attachment on his phone as he talked to her.

‘I have a list of properties around the area of Harpoon Hill and the pillbox. I hadn’t realised it before, but it seems that the biggest property owners on the island are the Strathshiffin and Glen Corlin estates, Charlie McDonald, Hamish McNab and Beamish Solicitors. The list doesn’t say whether the Beamish properties are occupied or not, just that they are owned by Beamish Solicitors. I need to know if there are private arrangements in place and which of the Beamish properties are occupied.’

Kathleen looked flustered. ‘I’m not sure that I can divulge that information without Mr or Mrs Beamish’s permission.’

Torquil did not bat an eyelid. ‘I am conducting investigations into a murder and a suspected abduction. I suggest that you find this information for me now, this is urgent.’

Kathleen led the way through to her office and began working on her computer. After a few minutes she printed out a list of three properties. ‘These three are unoccupied and we have no record of tenants.’

‘Thank you for your cooperation. Now, where are Mr and Mrs Beamish?’

Kathleen shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you. Cameron Beamish is my boss and Hazie works for Helen. Hazie had to go off with a migraine after hearing the news and I have no idea where Helen is. She had nothing in her diary. Cameron is —’ She hesitated and then shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know where.’

After Torquil had gone she got her mobile phone out of her handbag and called Cameron. It went straight to answer. Kathleen hesitated about leaving a message but decided to risk it.

‘Take care. The police have just been looking for you and her!’

Penny had given Morag the census lists and she in turn had sent them through to Superintendent Lumsden, who was now ensconced in the library van overseeing the revised search. He had given her a lambasting for working with Torquil and for allowing him to notify the media about the change of emphasis of the search, but after venting he had then gone into professional mode and arranged for his officers to begin door to doors.

Morag then took a call from Torquil, updating her on the news about Archie Reid being the operator of another illicit still and about Torquil’s visit to the Old Hydro where he had found out about Doreen’s affair with Hamish McNab and about the memory stick Robbie Ochterlonie had given to Stuart Robertson. He told her to pass on the message to Penny that he needed her to go over and help the old man find it, as he had forgotten where he had put it. He also told her about his visit to Beamish Solicitors where he had obtained a list of their unoccupied properties from Kathleen Peterson in the absence of the two partners.

After Torquil rang off Morag went through to the rest room where Penny and Ewan were working by the whiteboard. She told Penny about the memory stick and that he wanted her to go over to find it in Stuart Robertson’s room at the Old Hydro.

‘Of course, I’ll go over pronto,’ Penny replied. ‘But I need to add this to the board. The boss got me to do some research on methanol,’ she said as she added notes to the whisky column. ‘Methanol really is lethal stuff, but there would have to be an awful lot of foreshot in a bottle to make it so dangerous. The amount of foreshot produced by a small still would also be pretty small, so it would not likely be enough. That coupled with the fact that normal alcohol reduces its effect, witnessed by the fact that Dr McLelland treated Catriona McDonald’s methanol overdose by giving her ethanol, suggests that the those bottles must have been deliberately poisoned with pure methanol. It really isn’t easy to get though.’

Morag whistled in surprise.

‘There have been lots of fatal cases, but not really that many in this country, except suicides when people have taken methylated spirits. That’s not what was in those bottles of peatreek. I found cases in India, Poland, Greece and Romania. Unscrupulous people added methanol to ordinary alcohol to bulk it out.’

Ewan had been looking at the whiteboard. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I keep thinking about these trainers. And my murder shoes. Do you think it could be some sort of fetishist here?’

Penny took a sudden intake of breathe. ‘My God! It’s been in front of my eyes all this time and I hadn’t twigged it. Stan Wilkinson, he’s English, isn’t he?’

‘Aye. He’s a good fellow, always really helpful. Look, the boss called him the Good Samaritan, because he took Catriona to hospital and then Angus Mackintosh.’

Penny ran her fingers through her hair. ‘He’s grown a beard and he looks respectable, but I’m sure he’s the same chap. I think I saw him a couple of years ago in Leeds. He was a shoplifter. He was arrested for stealing shoes. It wasn’t my case, but I remember seeing the file, along with psychiatric reports. What did they say he had, some sort of thing called a paraphilia? He was a shoe fetishist!’

‘Creideamh!’ muttered Ewan. ‘He seemed incredibly taken with my murder shoes. Do you think he could have been the burglar?’

‘And it was his phone that was stolen with the other stuff,’ said Morag. ‘I sent the pictures I took at the pillbox from his phone, but maybe there were other things on the phone he didn’t want anyone to see.’

‘But it’s been taken now,’ said Penny.

‘No wait!’ exclaimed Ewan. ‘I downloaded the whole thing to the station computer just in case.’

All three rushed through to the terminal at the front desk and watched as Ewan accessed the downloaded library. It came up as files simply numbered one to 6. Ewan opened them one by one and they showed photograph after photograph of shoes, boots, slippers of all designs imaginable. Both male and female ones. Many were just of the shoes, but others were selfies of someone wearing them, some in flesh, others with stockings, fishnets or gaudy body paints.

‘I don’t believe it,’ gasped Ewan.

‘We can’t risk leaving this,’ said Penny. ‘Not with these cases under investigation. Do you know where he lives?’

‘Aye, he rents a cottage near the Wee Kingdom,’ Ewan replied.

‘Then let’s go,’ Penny said. ‘We’ll go in my Mini. You direct me.’

The Wee Kingdom was a small islet of the archipelago that formed West Uist. It was a roughly star shaped peninsula facing the Atlantic on the north-west coast. With steep sea cliffs, home to thousands of fulmars and gannets, and lush well fertilised soil it was home to five self-sufficient crofts. Stan Wilkinson had been captivated by it when he first started delivering mail to the crofters and sought out the closest, affordable property that he could to it. An enquiry at Beamish Solicitors resulted in him renting an old shepherd’s cottage half a mile up a twisting unmetalled road that branched off the main road before it crossed the causeway to the Wee Kingdom itself.

‘Do you ever get a chance to drive without having to have the windscreen wipers on?’ Penny asked as she turned off the main road at Ewan’s direction.

He laughed. ‘Oh, sometimes it doesn’t rain for a day or two a month.’ Then he winked at her. ‘Only kidding, Penny. We sometimes have great weather. You’ve just hit a bad patch.’

She smiled back and then concentrated on driving along the pot-holed road that soon gave way to a rutted track with large muddy puddles and long tufts of grass up the middle of it, testimony to its relatively infrequent use.

‘I was thinking,’ Ewan said after a while. ‘Maybe sometime we could, you know, maybe have a drink. If you’d like to, that is.’

Penny glanced at him and smiled as he lowered his gaze bashfully. ‘I was hoping you might ask that. In fact, at lunch yesterday I was about —’

‘Look! There’s his van,’ Ewan said suddenly as they turned a corner and saw the cottage with the Royal Mail van parked outside.

Penny parked beside the van and they go out.

‘Well, at least we know he’s here,’ Penny said, nimbly leaping over a puddle and heading for the front door.

She knocked at the old wooden door with its equally old, flaking paint. After a few moments, when there was no reply, she tried the handle, only to find it locked.

‘Maybe he’s round the back,’ suggested Ewan, leading the way round the cottage.

He knocked on a kitchen window as he passed and then on the door. ‘Stan! It’s me, Constable Ewan McPhee,’ he called out. ‘I’m here with DC Faversham. We need to have a word with you.’

As he tried the handle they heard a clicking noise from the other side of the house, then a creaking as a door opened. Quickly, they retraced their steps and saw Stan Wilkinson trying to walk quietly towards his van, a rucksack in one hand.

‘Ah, Stan, there you are!’ Ewan called.

The postman spun round and stared at them with a guilty expression on his face. ‘Stay away from me. I’m going and you can’t stop me.’

Penny pointed at his feet. ‘What have you got on there, Mr Wilkinson?’

‘My murder shoes!’ Ewan exclaimed. ‘So you really did burgle the station.’

Stan raised one foot six inches. ‘I said stay back. These blades could be lethal and I don’t want to hurt either of you.’

‘Stand still!’ Penny commanded. ‘I know exactly who you are and I know that your name isn’t Stan Wilkinson.’

‘You don’t know me,’ he said, shaking his head vigorously and clutching the rucksack to his chest. He took a careful backward step.

‘You like footwear, don’t you, Mr Wilkinson?’ Penny said calmly. ‘I can’t remember your name but it will come to me. I do remember the case file and the shoes and boots. And we’ve seen the photographs on your phone.’

‘You can’t. I’ve got the —’

‘You’ve got the phone, yes, we know,’ Penny replied.

‘I downloaded the whole library in case Sergeant Driscoll’s pictures didn’t send,’ Ewan said.

‘So, Mr Wilkinson, I need you to come with us. I am arresting you on suspicion of burglary. You don’t have to say —’

‘I’m not going anywhere!’ Stan cried. ‘Stay back.’ He raised his foot again, as if ready to kick out. Then he turned round and started to run for his van.

‘Ach, do not be daft, man,’ said Ewan striding quickly after him.

But before the postman had managed more than half a dozen steps the blade of a shoe dug into the ground and he tripped falling flat on his face into a deep puddle.

Ewan ran over to him. ‘I’m afraid DC Faversham is right. You’re under arrest.’

Morag was dealing with a holiday-maker asking for directions to the Glen Corlin Distillery when Calum and Cora came in.

‘And what can I do for you both?’ she asked as the tourist left.

‘Give us more information, please,’ replied Calum.

‘We’re aiming to go to press with the main paper today,’ explained Cora, ‘and we want to make sure we are totally up to date on developments.’

Morag quickly considered how much she could afford to tell them. The fact that they had been of so much help in mounting the search swayed her hand.

‘Come through to the rest room and have a cup of tea,’ she said, lifting the counter flap.

As she put on the kettle the West Uist Chronicle duo looked at the whiteboard.

‘A real tangled skein you have there,’ Calum called out over his shoulder. ‘This is the sum of all your investigations, I take it.’

‘It is but you mustn’t take any photographs, Calum.’

‘So, do you think Robbie Ochterlonie’s murder and the pillbox are all linked through the deadly still?’ Calum asked. ‘We’re planning to run the next issue under that headline.’

Morag came through with three empty mugs, a milk jug and a biscuit barrel on a tray. ‘The kettle will just take a few minutes,’ she said, setting the tray down on the table tennis table. She straightened and joined them in front of the whiteboard. ‘Actually, we think the peatreek bottles were adulterated with methanol.’

‘Can we write this all up?’ Calum asked.

‘Yes, it’s a murder investigation and we need any help we can get from the public.’

‘That’s our role, Morag. We are the conduit between the police and the public. As Torquil has said before, we are your unofficial special branch.’

Morag forced a smile, for nothing seemed humorous at this time, but she knew how susceptible to flattery of any sort Calum was. ‘Aye, Calum, you two are our very special, special branch.’

‘So where does this methanol come from?’ Cora asked.

Morag frowned. ‘DC Penny Faversham is investigating that. She’s found that there were fatalities in India, Poland, Greece and Romania. She thinks —’ She stopped suddenly, as if having just experienced a eureka moment. ‘Actually, I need to go, folks. I know it seems a strange one, but all the others are out right now. Could I ask a big favour? Could you stay here and look after the station? Nothing will happen, just take any messages and one of us will be back soon.’

She was at the door before they could say anything.

‘Help yourself to the biscuit barrel,’ she called as she went along the corridor to the front office.

‘Is there any sugar?’ Calum called back. But all they heard was the door closing behind her.

Once inside her old VW Beetle Morag pulled out her phone to call Torquil, only to find the battery had discharged again.

‘Damnaidh! I need to upgrade this thing,’ she said, tossing it onto the passenger seat and starting up the engine.

Carrying the bottle gave a sense of power. By all accounts there was death for several people contained in it. Certainly pouring this down the kid’s throat would do the job. No need to do anything different from before, just use this stuff instead of the whisky. The aim now was to terminate her rather than just subdue.

Of course, the likelihood of snuffing her out had always been on the cards, but now it had to be done. It couldn’t be left any longer. It was the dumb kid’s fault anyway. All of their fault.

The key made a slight rattling noise in the lock and the bottom of the door scratched on the floor as usual. He opened it and stepped inside.

Vicky had heard the noise and felt her heart pound with expectation. The cigarette lighter in her back pocket had been difficult to retrieve, but she had managed it. She had burned herself as she manipulated the lighter to burn her bonds. It had been old rope and it burned well enough for her to eventually break her hands loose. Then freeing herself had been relatively straightforward, despite the weakness and fear. It had been such a relief to unwind the duct tape that had been wound round and round her eyes and her face, leaving only room for her nose so she could breathe.

Having freed herself, she had explored the place she had been imprisoned and concluded that it had been some sort of workshop, only without any tools. She had been tied to a large heavy chair that had been bolted to the floor, which was why she had been unable to move while she was bound. Apart from that there was just an old mattress and some blankets.

But the place had only a small window high up, which was too small to escape through even if she had the strength to climb to it. And the door was securely locked and wouldn’t budge.

So she had waited and waited behind the door with the only weapon she could find in her hand. A glass bottle half full of whisky.

When the man entered she moved from behind the door and swung it at his head with all the force she could muster.

It struck him on the forehead and send him flying against the wall, stunned. He howled in pain, then cursed. She considered striking again, but the open door and the prospect of escape was too powerful. Fear drove her and she pushed past him and staggered into the fog.

She heard him roaring at her to stop, then she heard heavy footsteps running behind her.

And then ahead of her she saw a figure coming quickly towards her out of the mist, blocking her escape.