Deadly Still

CHAPTER ONE

Sergeant Morag Driscoll’s first thought on waking had been to roll over and enjoy the fact that her schoolteacher sister, who taught at Oban High School on the mainland, had kindly taken Morag’s three children along with her own on holiday to Majorca. Instead, guilt kicked in and she threw herself out of bed, had a cup of tea and a dry cracker and then went for a jog in the early morning mist.

Morag was a thirty-something single mother of three, whose husband had died from a heart attack when he was only thirty-five and she was just twenty-six. From that day she vowed that she would always be there for her children. She watched her diet and she kept as fit as possible.

As she made herself pick up her pace on the track parallel with the coast she reflected on how good her life was. Her kids were doing well at school, she couldn’t have been happier in her work and her relationship with Sandy King, the Scottish international footballer, was growing deeper and more meaningful with every day. The only problem was that his football career was demanding and they had to grasp whatever time together that they could, especially during the playing season.

Bloody game, she thought to herself with a smile. Why couldn’t I fall in love with a fisherman or a farmer, or at least a local amateur footballer?

She selected one of the many sheep tracks through the heather and made for the headland trail towards the old Second World War pillbox atop Harpoon Hill, which overlooked the shingle beach of Whaler’s Bay some fifty feet below. Although there had never been a whaling station on West Uist, back at the turn of the twentieth-century a Norwegian, Karl Herlofsen and his family ran a whaling station at Bun Abhainn Eadarra on the Isle of Harris. A fleet of catcher vessels worked out of there and harpooned whales at sea and took them to places like Village Bay on St Kilda, Rockall and the Flannan Isles and Whaler’s Bay on West Uist. There the whales were secured before being towed back for processing at the Bun Abhainn Eadarra station.

During World War II, because Whaler’s Bay was a reasonably protected anchorage, a series of anti-tank concrete blocks had been installed along its length and, since Harpoon Hill above it was a natural vantage point, a pillbox was built on top.

The ground was muddy in patches where it never completely dried out and she knew from bitter experience to beware the many rabbit excavated holes that awaited a careless walker or runner, especially in the mist or fog that concealed so much.

The track zigzagged upwards towards Harpoon Hill. Morag was pacing herself going up the incline and when she was about fifty metres away she heard someone groaning. It sounded to be coming from the pillbox. She distinctly heard a young female voice cursing loudly. Then the screaming started.

Morag stopped to catch her breath and look up at the pillbox to assess the situation. Someone was definitely screaming. It sounded like a young woman’s, high-pitched and prolonged, as if in abject terror.

What the devil, she thought. Surely it couldn’t be real, not out here this early on such a foggy morning. It must be youngsters playing around, trying to startle the runner they’d been watching coming up the hill. She half expected them to come running out any minute once they recognised her.

The pillbox had been a place that bored or rebellious teenagers would hang out on occasions and drink themselves stupid with cider. Morag knew that from her own teenage years. I’ll give whoever sold them cider what for, she promised herself as she continued to jog upwards towards the pillbox.

Suddenly, the figure of a young woman — a purple-haired teenager dressed in a baggy pullover, jeans and wellies — staggered out of the pillbox. She looked drunk, very drunk. Alarmingly though, she was screaming hysterically and rubbing her eyes as she stumbled about. Morag recognised her. It was Catriona McDonald, the local councillor’s daughter.

‘Catriona!’ Morag called out, all too aware that she was breathing heavily after the uphill run. ‘It’s me, Sergeant Driscoll. Settle yourself. Don’t move any further, it’s really foggy and you’re near the edge of the cliff. I’m coming for you.’

The girl did not settle, but instead continued to scream. She lowered her hands from her eyes and held them out fully stretched as if trying to touch something.

‘Wh-who’s there?’ Catriona stammered. She was blinking rapidly and her face was contorted with fear. ‘I … I can’t see!’

Morag reached her and put a comforting hand on each upper arm. ‘It’s me, Catriona. Sergeant Morag Driscoll. I’ve got you. Have you been drinking in the pillbox? You’re cold and trembling — have you been in there all night? Is anyone in there with you?’

The girl was shaking frantically. Her screaming had stopped when Morag held her, only to be replaced by uncontrollable sobbing.

Goodness, she reeks of booze, Morag thought.

‘J-Jamie Mackintosh and V-Vicky Spiers. Bu-but, I canna wake Jamie.’

‘Have you just woken up, Catriona?’

The girl nodded as she continued to sob loudly.

‘So Jamie is inside? What about Vicky?’

With difficulty, Catriona replied, ‘He’s there. I-I felt him, but I can’t see… It’s just mist and sparks in my eyes.’

Morag bent down to look into the teenager’s eyes and felt real worry for her. She was staring straight at her, but there was no pupillary reaction. It was like looking at a doll’s eyes.

I am not liking this at all, Morag thought. I need to get help, but first I need to check on Jamie and Vicky. She gave Catriona’s arms a reassuring squeeze. ‘I have to check on the other two, Catriona. Just stay right here. OK?’

The girl nodded and continued to shiver and sob.

It was dark inside the pillbox and Morag saw that the teenagers had stuck cardboard over the viewing window slits. On the floor she found a LED camping lantern and switched it on. By its light she saw Jamie Mackintosh lying on his back, half covered in a blanket. There was frothy spittle on his lips that had solidified as it had trailed down his chin. Alarmingly, his eyes were wide open and in the light from the lantern the pupils seemed totally dilated.

There was no one else in the pillbox.

Training prevented panic and Morag searched for a pulse at his wrist and then at his neck. She couldn’t feel one and he was totally unresponsive as she shook him. She listened for breathing and cleared the spittle away before opening his mouth and making sure there was nothing obstructing his breathing.

‘Jamie! Jamie! Can you hear me?’ she asked, knowing already that he could not. Rushing outside she pulled out her phone from her runner’s pouch bag, only to find that it was dead. She suppressed the curse that rose to her lips. ‘Catriona, have you got a phone?’

‘No. V-Vicky has one. Jamie’s ran out last night. Oh Sergeant … I can’t see. What’s happened. I feel so, so…’ She suddenly bent down and vomited.

Pausing only long enough to make sure the youngster wasn’t going to faint Morag placed an arm about her shoulders. ‘Catriona, I have to see what I can do for Jamie. You’re freezing so I’m going to get you a blanket.’

She rushed back inside and picked up one of the blankets that the teenagers had brought with them and took it out to drape around Catriona, who had stopped retching and was on her hands and knees.

‘Catriona, listen to me. This is important. I have to see if I can revive Jamie. If you hear a vehicle call me straight away.’

Morag dashed back inside and began cardio-pulmonary resuscitation on the teenager, albeit with little hope of success.

God, please send someone to help, she silently prayed to herself as she began chest compressions. Her last CPR course had been only a month before and Doctor McLelland, the CPR instructor, had given them all tunes that they could use in their heads to get the right rhythm. Working on a plastic dummy humming the Bee Gee’s ‘Staying Alive’ or Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ had seemed vaguely amusing at the time. But now, with a teenager that she had known since he was a toddler, she disliked the idea intensely. He was a human being and she needed to do her utmost for him.

She counted thirty compressions and then with the back of her hand wiped the encrusted saliva from the teenager’s mouth before giving him two rescue breaths mouth to mouth. And then she started again.

She had been working solidly for ten minutes and felt her arms aching when Catriona screamed out her name. She stopped and listened. In the distance she distinctly heard the noise of a vehicle on the nearby road.

‘It has to be whisky, Lorna!’ Torquil McKinnon, the Detective Inspector of the West Uist Police said emphatically into his mobile phone as he crunched across the gravel drive leading up to the St Ninian’s manse and pushed open the front door of the porch. Wisps of mist followed and swirled about him. ‘Whisky is traditional at celebrations for the men on West Uist,’ he continued. ‘Uisge beatha! The Water of Life! A wee miniature of Glen Corlin would go down a treat with them. It’s one of the oldest malt whiskies in the Outer Hebrides.’

‘You’re not trying to pull rank on me, are you, Detective Inspector McKinnon?’ Lorna replied.

Torquil heard the humorous lilt in her voice and could just picture her sitting in her neat, crisp uniform in her open plan office in the Stornoway station, a cup of tea by her side and her desk in meticulous order. He could almost see her smile and he felt goosebumps all over, for he could never resist that smile, whether real or conjured up in his imagination.

Standing inside the porch he shook his head, as if she could see him. ‘Of course not, Sergeant Golspie!’ he replied jauntily. ‘When it comes to the wedding, our marriage and our life away from the force, we are totally equal partners. We always will be.’

‘And yet methinks the wedding favours seem to be one of our first bones of contention.’

‘Not at all. Look Lorna, if not Glen Corlin maybe we could give them a miniature of Hamish McNab’s Abhainn Dhonn? It’s not bad for such a young malt and after all it’s also distilled in West Uist. And as for the lassies, well everyone loves Kyleshiffin tablet, don’t they?’

‘Ha! You think so? Look Torquil, not everyone likes whisky. Artisan gin and rum are trendy these days and we could get that locally produced, too. In fact, I know exactly where we could get them. As for tablet and all that sugar for the “lassies” — do you not think that is a bit sexist? Maybe you’re being a bit too parochial here?’

‘Sexist and parochial, am I?’ Torquil spluttered. He pursed his lips and turned to whistle to Crusoe, his tri-coloured collie, who was busy sniffing back and forth among the molehills that dotted the manse lawns.

‘Is that you whistling to keep me quiet?’ Lorna said in his ear.

‘Och no! I was just calling —’

‘Crusoe! I deduced that, Torquil. Not bad, eh, what with me not being a detective like you.’ The humour in her tone removed any real suggestion of sarcasm. ‘Give him a cuddle from me.’

‘Of course I will, but listen, Lorna. I’m not sure about —’

‘Oh, there’s the boss coming in,’ she interrupted abruptly. ‘I’ll need to go. Just promise me you’ll think about it. Let’s talk when I get back at the end of the week. Love you.’

‘Aye and I —’

There was a click and the line went dead.

‘— love you, too,’ Torquil added wistfully before stowing the phone in a pocket of his jeans. He turned and whistled again to Crusoe. He opened the heavy oak door and stood aside to let him dash past him.

The length of the hall was home to an assortment of carburettor components, oil filters and gears which lay on spread-out oil-stained newspapers. They belonged to a classic Excelsior Talisman motorcycle that he and his uncle had been slowly ‘rebuilding’ over more years that they cared to remember. In the past they would tinker with them now and then, and talk of how fine it was going to be when they finally completed it and were able to take it out for its maiden trip. Other things had gradually diverted their interest, like golf in his uncle’s case and a certain female sergeant in Torquil’s, so that now the only real attention the components received was a weekly once-over with a feather duster and an occasional spot of oil so that the illusion of an on-going project was maintained. Even Crusoe had ceased to be intrigued by the engine smells and ignored them as he bounded round the corner.

The mouth-watering aroma of grilled bacon, black pudding and toast wafted through from the kitchen and Torquil hung up Crusoe’s lead on the ancient umbrella stand and followed the dog through.

His uncle, the Reverend Lachlan McKinnon, known throughout West Uist as the Padre, stood at the Aga stirring a pan of scrambled eggs with one hand while he read a golf magazine with the other.

‘Morning, laddie. I’ve got it all ready. A good breakfast is what you need before a hard day’s toil. Look at Crusoe, he’s straight into his.’

Torquil cast a glance at Crusoe who was noisily eating from his bowl in the corner of the kitchen. He smiled, then went over to the old enamel sink and washed his hands. ‘I must say that I haven’t much enthusiasm for work this morning, Uncle,’ he said as he sat down and unrolled his napkin.

There was an obvious resemblance between the two men. Both were tall and had the same slightly hawk-like features. Torquil had been the youngest ever inspector in the Hebridean Constabulary, before it was absorbed into the modern national Police Scotland and he became the Detective Inspector for West Uist and Bara. He was thirty, well-built with raven black hair. His uncle, whom he had lived with ever since his parents had drowned in a boating accident in the Minch when he was a youngster, was sixty-six years old, but looked at least ten years younger with the healthy, weather-beaten complexion of an islander and a mane of white hair that defied the rule of brush and comb. With his horn-rimmed spectacles and clerical collar there was never a doubt about his calling.

‘I can understand that, laddie,’ Lachlan replied as he ladled out scrambled egg on a plate along with bacon, black pudding and tomatoes and lay it in front of his nephew. ‘It’s no fun for you and Lorna being apart so much of the time like this, especially when you’ve a wedding to plan for.’

Torquil started to butter a slice of toast while his uncle poured tea. ‘Superintendent Lumsden is determined to make life difficult for us, just as he always has.’

Lachlan sat down and picked up his knife and fork in readiness to start on his breakfast. ‘So he’s not going to let her come back to the island permanently?’

Torquil gave a rueful laugh. ‘Only on days off.’

Superintendent Lumsden had originally sent Sergeant Lorna Golspie to the island to do an efficiency study on the way Torquil ran the West Uist Police Station. He had expected her to report on a mountain of inefficiency, but instead they had solved a murder case together and fallen in love.

‘He’s moved house from Benbecula so that he can be on the spot at the headquarters. Now he sits like a spider in that office of his in Stornoway, weaving his web, working out ways of catching me in it,’ Torquil said with a shrug.

Lachlan stirred his tea. ‘He needs to learn how to forgive and then forget.’

‘Easier said than done, Uncle. There has been bad blood between us ever since he was suspended from duty, pending investigation over that murder case I had been handling. I don’t know what was said to him, but after he was reinstated, he’s been even more of a stickler for the rulebook. He’s an ambitious man with his eye on climbing to the top of the force. He can’t really touch me now that I’m a DI, but if he can mess Lorna about and upset our plans then he’ll do so.’

He told the Padre about the conversation he had just had with his fiancée about wedding favours.

‘Ah, you have my sympathy there,’ Lachlan replied. ‘Wedding favours can always be tricky. Diplomacy and compromise, that’s my advice. How about a bottle of cologne or aftershave instead of alcohol? Maybe some perfume for the ladies? Maisie McIvor on Harbour Street has a line in all these fragrances, if it is local you are wanting.’

Torquil pursed his lips. ‘Aye, perhaps you are both right, although I know what some of the lads will think. But that’s another dilemma I’ve got.’

The Padre sipped some tea and nodded his head. ‘You mean that you haven’t decided who you are going to have as your best man?’

Torquil blew air through his lips. ‘Lorna had it easy. She’s asked Morag’s daughters to be her bridesmaids and Morag to be her matron of honour. My trouble is that I work with my friends and I see Calum Steele and Ralph McLelland almost every day. I wouldn’t say any of them were exactly fawning over me, but in one way or another they all seem to be trying to curry favour.’

‘An unenviable decision, my boy. Perhaps you should work out a handicap system to help you decide.’

His nephew almost choked on a mouthful of toast. ‘I might have known you’d bring it down to golf, Uncle.’

The Padre chuckled. ‘You may scoff, but the handicap is a perfect way of levelling things out according to ability. What other game allows a rank beginner to play against a professional and have a good chance of winning?’

‘I don’t see how it could help me.’

The Padre shrugged. ‘Work out their best man handicaps. Just like making a balance sheet. Bad points, like being a garrulous creature likely to bring out your most humiliating experiences in his speech, would build the handicap up.’

‘You’re thinking of Calum, our esteemed editor of the West Uist Chronicle?’

‘It would be wrong of me to name folk,’ the Padre replied innocently. ‘Good points, like being punctual, would reduce the handicap. You get my meaning?’

Torquil laughed. ‘So are you golfing today?’

Lachlan McKinnon began clearing away the breakfast things. ‘I think it is highly likely, once the mist clears enough to see the ball after a well struck drive with my three wood. How about yourself?’

Torquil took a last mouthful of tea and glanced at his watch. ‘First, I’m going to the cave for a practice on the pipes to blow off a bit of steam, then I have to get down to the ferry to meet my new DC.’

‘Of course, I had forgotten you have a newbie starting. It will increase your detective force by one hundred per cent, won’t it?’

Torquil hummed. ‘It will, which will be a help to me, as we will have responsibility for both West Uist, Barra, Eriskey and Benbecula. It’ll be a challenge for her and no mistake.’

The Padre raised his eyebrows.

His nephew frowned. ‘Now don’t you jump on Lorna’s bandwagon, Uncle. I merely meant it could challenge her because she’s English. She’s transferring straight here from Leeds. Do you think you could look after Crusoe?’

‘With pleasure. I’ll give him a run across the links to church. I think he likes the challenge of finding balls in the rough.’

Torquil gave a rueful smile. ‘He’s lucky that life is so uncomplicated. I would welcome a few less challenges in mine.’