Deadly Still

CHAPTER TWO

PC Ewan McPhee had ridden ‘Nippy,’ his mother’s old Morris 50 cc moped through the early Monday morning mist on his way up to the Hoolish Stones, passing by Dunshiffin Castle on the way. As he climbed higher the mist became fog and the moisture-laden atmosphere made myriads of spiderwebs stand out on the heather by the side of the gravel road whenever the headlight shone on them.

Every morning that he could, before going on duty and weather permitting, he liked to either go to the beach for a run along the sands and the machair, or head to the moor to practice his hammer throwing technique. The Western Isles champion at both wrestling and with the heavy hammer five times in a row, he worked hard to maintain his strength and his fitness. While he often moaned to his superior officers about not having official police transport, he secretly enjoyed riding the moped, especially since the machine was of the vintage where the pedals were actually functional, so he was able to give the machine a wee hand by using them on hills.

The vapours swirled, presenting variable visibility, sometimes closing in so that the moped’s beam cut a mere fifteen feet or so into it, or it dissipated eerily to give reasonable views of the surrounding terrain. The road continued to rise gently through woodland and then opened out again into an undulating landscape of boulders and heather-covered moors with great swathes of bracken. Further over towards the coast there were a series of crofts with cottages both large and small, some of which had peat- or woodsmoke billowing from their chimneys, while others were unoccupied and some were falling into decay and dereliction. Others were such ancient ruins that no-one remembered who had once lived in them, or indeed, whether they had even been used for human habitation. Nettles and gorse swallowed them up or sheep and rabbits took up temporary residence.

During one of the more lucid breaks in the misty veil a glint of light from a nearby patch of bracken caught Ewan’s eye and he realised that there was a figure crouched down. He automatically slowed down and stopped.

‘Madainn mhath,’ he called out. ‘A good morning to you.’

Slowly, a figure rose from the heather. It was a man in a camouflage waterproof jacket and hat. In his hands he was holding a pair of binoculars. Ewan recognised Cameron Beamish, one half of the Kyleshiffin law practice. He was in his early forties, a stocky man of average height with a slightly round face. Large, round, black-framed spectacles rested on a small hooked nose and gave him a slightly owlish look.

‘Hello there, Constable McPhee,’ Cameron said, wading towards Ewan through the bracken. ‘Are you on police business out on the moor at this hour?’

Ewan grinned and pointed to the pannier behind him from which protruded the stick of his hammer. ‘No, just a spot of training. I’m headed further in where the ground is flat. I’ll maybe frighten a few sheep or rabbits, I dare say. How about yourself?’

The solicitor raised his binoculars and laughed. ‘Och, I’m just out doing a spot of birdwatching.’

‘Birdwatching? I didn’t know that was your thing.’

Cameron Beamish tapped the side of his nose. ‘I keep it quiet, Ewan. I don’t like folk to think of the local legal eagle as being a secret twitcher!’

Ewan gave a hearty laugh. ‘I can see that might give the lads in the pub a laugh.’

‘So, not a word, eh?’

Ewan patted Nippy’s handlebars. ‘Mum’s the word, Cameron. I’d better get going if I want to get my practice in before work.’ He grinned then added, jokingly: ‘Happy twitching.’

Twenty minutes later Ewan was well into his practising.

‘Oh, son of the devil!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Ewan McPhee, you have little chance of lifting a sixth title this year when you throw like an auld fish wife.’ He strode over the heather to retrieve his hammer after his third throw.

Once again he wound himself up, whirling four times and then hurling for all he was worth. His curse came out of his mouth as soon as he turned to see the hammer sail through the air, forty-five degrees off target.

The Royal Mail van seemed to appear from nowhere. It came past a thicket of rowan trees and gorse bushes that had screened the road.

‘No!’ cried Ewan as the hammer began its descent and bounced on the road mere feet in front of the van.

Behind the wheel the driver slammed on the brake, causing the van to skid on the light gravel of the moor road and slew across it, coming to a halt inches in front of a ditch.

The driver opened the door as Ewan charged towards him through the heather.

‘Were you actually trying to take out the Royal Mail, Constable McPhee, or did you just throw that hammer thingie of yours too far?’

Ewan jogged up to him, realising immediately that Stan Wilkinson, the relatively new rural postie, was joking. Ewan ran his fingers through his red hair and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I hadn’t heard your van coming, Stan. The truth is that distance-wise it wasn’t a half bad throw, but the direction was all to pot. I’m right sorry I made you stop.’

‘No damage and no harm, Ewan,’ Stan replied, dropping the official police title and grinning. He was a small wiry fellow with mousy brown hair and a full beard. Of a cheery disposition, he nodded at the hammer, which had bounced and rolled to the verge of the ditch, having left a small crater in the road surface. ‘Well, no damage done, except you created a new pothole there.’

Ewan bit his lip. ‘It’s not exactly a pothole, Stan. More a dint, that’s all.’

Stan winked. ‘I was only kidding.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened if I had my proper shoes with me,’ Ewan explained. He raised a foot and pointed to his sodden trainer. ‘See this, it’s useless. I cannot get any purchase with these things, so I’ve been trying to anchor myself in the heather. I broke one of the blades on my old murder shoes, you see.’

‘Murder shoes?’ Stan repeated, doubtfully. ‘Did I hear you right, Ewan?’

Ewan suddenly laughed. ‘Forgive me, Stan. I sometimes get too keen when talking about my sport. I assume folk know the lingo. When we throw the highland hammer we wear special footwear that we call murder shoes.’

‘I’m still in the dark, Ewan. I’ve seen them tossing the hammer in athletics on the telly — not kicking them, so I don’t see why you would need murder shoes?’

Ewan’s eyes twinkled with merriment. ‘Of course, you’re English so you’ll not have seen the proper hammer being thrown.’ He picked up the hammer by the cane. ‘The Olympic hammer thrower is allowed to rotate and spin like a discus thrower, but the highland hammer is thrown from a standing position. You need to be anchored, you see, so we wear boots or shoes with blades coming out the fronts. We dig them into the ground. They look like the shoes Olga Kleg wore in that James Bond story. Maybe you saw the film?’

Stan nodded enthusiastically. ‘I know the one, From Russia With Love. I can just see her clicking her heels together and a knife blade shoots out, dipped in poison, I think?’ He chuckled.

‘Aye, calling them murder shoes is just a wee joke in the hammer-throwing fraternity, you see. Talking of them, I’m due some new ones any day in the post. Could you have a rummage in that van for me? They’ll be addressed to the station.’

Stan thrust his hands deep into his pockets and shoved himself away from the van. He shook his head apologetically. ‘I can’t help, Ewan. It would be more than my job’s worth to do that. I’m not supposed to give mail before I arrive at the address. Rules, you see.’

Ewan nodded emphatically. ‘Of course, I shouldn’t have put you in such an awkward position, Stan. I apologise.’

Stan climbed into his seat and pulled the door closed. ‘No problem, Constable McPhee. Just be patient, and if your murder shoes are here, I’ll be delivering them later on when I get back to Kyleshiffin.’

Ewan laughed and then watched the Royal Mail van drive off, soon disappearing in the mist. That Stan is a good fellow, he thought. That’s just what we need on West Uist, chaps like him with a natural respect for rules and the law. And gentle types like Cameron Beamish too, who care about nature.

He chuckled to himself as he thought of the owlish solicitor with his high-powered binoculars. Aye, in this mist he’ll need all the help he can get to spot any birds at all.

The Kyleshiffin police station was a converted pebble-dashed bungalow off Lady’s Wynd, which ran parallel to Harbour Street. After his training session Ewan McPhee had let himself in and then locked the door and changed into his regulation Police Scotland uniform, which they were now forced to wear instead of the casual blue Arran sweaters that they used pre-2013 when they were just members of the Hebridean Constabulary. Now they had to wear black trousers, matching black wicking top with zip-up collar, epaulettes with numbers and rank and a utility belt with all the accoutrements of law enforcement. Ewan didn’t mind it at all, but he was aware that the others resented it, especially when they had to wear high-vis jackets and caps.

At quarter to eight he nipped out to Allardyce, the baker’s shop on Harbour Street to get a supply of butter rolls for when the others arrived. He planned to make the tea when he returned, so it was fresh for them.

There was a queue inside the shop already.

‘Latha math. And it’s a good morning to the big lawman himself,’ said a small tubby man in a yellow anorak, wearing thick spectacles. Ahead of him a young woman turned and smiled at Ewan.

‘Hello Ewan, what time do you call this?’ she asked, with an impish grin.

‘Good morning Calum and Cora. Don’t tell me, the West Uist Chronicle’s news team have been up all night working on the next issue,’ Ewan replied, cheerily.

‘Aye, you got it in one, Ewan,’ said Calum. He leaned towards the big policeman and spoke in hushed tones lest any of the other customers should hear. ‘The truth is, we were scratching our heads about what to put in. There’s been nothing happening lately and we’ve been scouring the internet to write feature articles. We’re written a long one about you, actually.’

‘He’s only kidding,’ said Cora, elbowing the editor of the local newspaper in the ribs. ‘We’ve been plenty busy. We at the West Uist Chronicle are now 24/7 purveyors of the news with our newspaper, website, blog and Facebook page.’

‘You mean you are dragging Calum screaming into the digital age, Cora?’

Cora Melville giggled and slipped her arms around her boss — and boyfriend’s —waist and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘He needs a bit of dragging around sometimes,’ she added with another giggle.

Gordon Allardyce, a ruddy-faced, middle-aged bachelor and notorious flirt winked at Cora as he reached behind the counter for some pies for the customer he was serving. ‘You could drag me around anytime, sweetheart. Besides, you never know which gutter the editor of our local rag has been wallowing in.’

Calum knocked a knuckle on the glass counter. ‘We’ll have less of the flirting with my chief reporter if you don’t mind, Gordon. And a bit more respect for the press. After all, we have the law beside us today and if you’re not careful we’ll tell him what you lace your pasties with.’

A few minutes later the two journalists and Ewan emerged onto the mist-shrouded Harbour Street which was beginning to get busy at the start of the day.

‘Look, there’s Nathan Westwood and Helen Beamish over by the harbour wall,’ said Calum as he took a bite on a mutton pie. ‘Let’s have a chat. I like to watch an artist at work.’ He nodded towards the harbour where a tall man in a rollneck sweater and chinos was leaning against the wall sketching something on an artist’s pad, while chatting to a petite, striking woman with auburn hair tied back in a ponytail.

Ewan glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to open the station up, so I’d better be on my way.’ Clutching his bag of butter rolls he touched his cap in a half salute and strode off towards Lady’s Wynd.

‘Latha math — good morning to you both,’ Calum said, announcing his approach halfway across the road. ‘What on earth are you drawing in this mizzle, Nathan? Are you not getting your paper wet?’

Nathan Westwood was an Englishman who ran Westwood’s Art and Antique Gallery, a pink-facaded shop with two large bay windows halfway along Harbour Street. In one half of the gallery he displayed his own watercolour paintings and those of other Western Isles artists, while in the other half he ran a thriving antique business.

Nathan turned round and laid his sketch pad on the wall beside a bridge camera. ‘Good morning to you all,’ he greeted in a smooth Surrey accent. ‘Wonderful foggy day, isn’t it?’

Cora wrinkled her nose. ‘I wouldn’t call it wonderful, exactly. It’s a bit dreich.’

Helen Beamish laughed. ‘That’s exactly what I was explaining to him. Its cheerless, dismal and to be expected in Scotland.’

Nathan shook his head with a broad smile. ‘But I don’t see it in those terms. Look at it, it’s wonderful stuff. It swirls, it scintillates and it makes everything so magical and mysterious. Look at the masts of the boats down there. Ghostly shapes, aren’t they? And the sight of the ferries coming in when it’s like this is a sight to behold. That’s why I photograph it and make sketches whenever it seems right to catch it. Mist, mizzle and fog, I love the way they all blur and soften what you see.’

‘Catching mist must be like capturing moonbeams,’ said Calum with a chuckle. He turned and pointed at Nathan’s gallery with his pie. ‘Yet you obviously do all right by painting it, judging by the Jaguar you have parked outside your gallery.’

Helen Beamish gave Calum a friendly tap on the arm. ‘Calum Steele, you shouldn’t say things like that. It’s not polite.’

‘I think what Calum meant to say was that he likes your car,’ Cora said to Nathan with one of the sweet apologetic smiles that she had learned to use when Calum had been bullish, over-zealous or just downright rude to someone.

The artist smiled. ‘I understand. I am fortunate to have people who like my work enough to keep buying it. And my antiques. The internet helps, of course.’

‘Exactly what I keep telling Calum,’ said Cora. ‘You have to have a digital presence.’

‘Everyone does these days,’ Helen agreed. ‘It’s a must in law practice.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Talking of which, I’ll need to go, too. I’ll catch you later about that watercolour commission for my office, Nathan.’

As Helen went, Nathan picked up his camera and sketchpad and smiled at the West Uist Chronicle duo. ‘Why don’t you drop into the gallery sometimes, Cora. I can show you some of my misty pictures and convince you that there is magic in dreich, as you called it.’ He nodded goodbye and sauntered across the street to leave the editor and his assistant to contemplate the mist over the harbour.

‘So what now, boss? I’m not ready to sleep yet. Shall we wander about looking for news or wait for an ambulance to chase?’

Calum laughed. ‘What did I tell you the other day about tempting providence. It’s a good thing we’re not superstitious. Let’s wait for the ferry to come in out of the mist and see if we can see the magic that Nathan says is around it.’

‘Why not take a few pictures?’ Cora snapped her fingers. ‘We could maybe start a regular slot in the Chronicle of pictures of the island in the mist. I’m thinking of a catchy title, like Dreich Sketches, or Magical Mist-ery Tours. You know, a play on the Beatles.’

Calum laughed and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re getting the hang of this, my wee darling. Also, you never know, there might just be someone interesting coming over on the ferry.’

After washing and putting the breakfast things away and then dealing with a couple of parish matters over the phone the Padre picked up his golf bag and let himself out of the back door of the manse. He went down the drive, crossed the road and mounted the old style that led onto the ten-acre plot of undulating dunes and machair that he and several other local worthies had years before transformed into the St Ninian’s Golf Course.

Using the natural lie of the land they had constructed six holes with billiard smooth greens surrounded by barbed wire square fences to keep the sheep off, in contrast to the coarse grass fairways where they were allowed to graze freely. Each hole had three separate tee positions, each one giving its route to the hole a special name in both English and Gaelic, thereby allowing players the choice of following the conventional eighteen holes or any combination. The Padre was proud of telling people that while it was not exactly St Andrews, it was a good test of golf.

It was his habit to play three random holes on his way to St Ninian’s church and he was relieved that the fog had lifted enough to make golf possible, at least for a while. He stood for a few moments by the honesty box, where players could deposit their green fee and stuffed tobacco from his old yellow oilskin pouch into an equally old cracked briar pipe. Then, lighting it, he picked up his bag and strode over the hillock to the first hole.

A man was standing on the tee, about to drive off.

‘Ah, Padre, you are just in time to join me, if you have a mind for some company?’

‘George, latha math. This is a surprise, but it would be a pleasure. I’m just playing three holes on my way to the kirk. You are out early. Does that distillery of yours not need you any longer?’

George Corlin-MacLeod, the co-owner with his wife of the Glen Corlin estate and its famous whisky distillery, grinned, showing perfect, Hollywood-white teeth, quite in keeping with the local celebrity image that he enjoyed and cultivated. He was a handsome fifty-something, who looked far younger, thanks to the wonders of cosmetic surgery, which both he and his wife, Esther Corlin-MacLeod could afford to indulge in.

‘Lachlan, you know very well that the distillery has little need of me, at least not for the whisky production. Esther does far more of the running than I do. I’m more use in advertising, promotion and overseas sales.’

‘Have you brought a sample in a hipflask then?’ the Padre asked with a grin.

George shook his head and smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not, Lachlan. Although I promote our products, I don’t imbibe very often. Esther’s parents and her late cousin, from whom we inherited the business, put me off drinking.’

The Padre nodded sagely. ‘I understand, George. I was only teasing.’

‘I’m already teed up, so are you all right with ready golf?’

The Padre nodded. ‘Away you go.’

George took a couple of practice swings before launching himself into his drive. There was a resounding click and the ball shot away on a slight left to right trajectory to land two hundred and eighty yards or so in the light rough on the right, just within the limits of visibility in the mist.

‘Good drive, George,’ said the Padre, pulling his three wood from his old canvas golf pencil bag.

‘Still using the wooden headed clubs, Lachlan? You must be one of the last golfers to do so.’

‘Aye, I cannot abide that hollow, tin can sound these modern affairs make. I’m an unashamed traditionalist, you see.’ He teed his ball up, took a single practice swing and then drove the ball with his usual controlled draw two hundred and sixty yards into the middle of the fairway.

‘Bravo, Lachlan. Effortless efficiency.’

They walked down the fairway together until they came to Lachlan’s ball. He gauged the remaining distance and with an easy swing lobbed the ball onto the green to roll up to ten feet from the hole. A few moments later George took out a pitching wedge and matched the Padre’s shot. On the green they each two putted and halved the hole in pars.

Lachlan patted George on the shoulder. ‘That’s good enough, for a gimme. Now would you like to tell me why you really came out to the course today? I know when I’ve been ambushed.’

George Corlin-MacLeod grimaced. ‘Actually, you are right, I have a problem that I’d like your advice on. The thing is — it’s really a wee bit difficult. Awkward, even!’

Lachlan pointed to the whitewashed church. ‘Why don’t we adjourn to my place of work, then, George? The pews will all be empty this morning and my boss up above likes to test me with things difficult and awkward.’

For the second time that morning Stan Wilkinson was shocked to look out the side window of his van and see someone charging at him. This time it was a woman, waving her arms like windmills as she ran through the heather covered slopes from the pillbox on Harpoon Hill. He recognised her as Morag Driscoll, the local police sergeant.

He stopped and pressed the button to lower the window. ‘Sergeant Driscoll, what can I —?’ he began.

‘Ah, Stan Wilkinson, if ever I needed someone, it’s certainly yourself. I have an emergency on my hands and I have no phone.’

The postman climbed quickly out of his van and pulled his phone from his pocket. He unlocked it and handed it to her and listened in awe as she briefly explained the situation while she coded in Doctor Ralph McLelland’s number.

‘Teenagers. Three of them have been drinking all night up in the old pillbox. One’s dead, I’m sorry to say, and one’s got visual trouble and can’t see.’

‘Christ Almighty!’ Stan exclaimed, his jaw dropping and his face paling instantly. ‘I saw Constable McPhee earlier on my round. Should I drive back and see if I can find him. Maybe he —’

Morag raised a hand to silence him while she spoke to Ralph McLelland. Then once she had finished: ‘There is no point. Ewan McPhee will have been practising his hammer throwing, I am thinking. He’s probably back at the police station by now. I’m going to need you to take Catriona McDonald up to Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital. Doctor McLelland said he’ll meet you in the accident and emergency room.’

She next called the station and was relieved when Ewan answered immediately. She dispensed with niceties and quickly issued instructions to him before turning to Stan. ‘Right, now let’s get Catriona,’ she ordered in her no-nonsense professional manner, as she led the way up the slope.

A few moments later Catriona McDonald, no longer sobbing or screaming, but clearly in shock, was strapped into the passenger seat of the Royal Mail van. Morag told her to stop rubbing her eyes and to just keep them closed with her hands over them, to rest them until the doctor saw her.

‘You said there were three, so what about the third one?’ Stan asked, circling the van to get into the driver’s seat.

‘That’s just what I need to find out. I had a look to make sure she hadn’t fallen over the cliff in this fog and thank god she hasn’t. I’ll get our special constables, the Drummond lads, up here to help.’ As Stan held his hand out for his phone she shrugged her shoulders apologetically. ‘I’m afraid that as it’s such an emergency I’m going to have to ask you to leave your phone with me.’

Stan hesitated for a moment, then nodded with a thin smile. ‘Of course. You’ll need my pass code number. It’s 1066.’

‘Ah, the Battle of Hastings,’ Morag mused. ‘I can remember that fine. I’ll get it back to you once I get back to the station and charge my own up. Now, please Stan, be quick, but drive safely.’

As she made her way back up over the heather slope Morag realised that she was now shaking. Jamie Mackintosh was only a few years older than her girls and now he was dead. They’d been drinking themselves stupid all night and all of them were underage. Celebrating finishing exams, she guessed.

Damn! Damn! Damn! Why the hell couldn’t I do anything for Jamie? The important question now is where on earth is Vicky Spiers?

She felt sick, but suppressed the urge to vomit as she had no time even for that. Before she went back into the pillbox to begin doing the things she needed to do, she called Torquil’s number. There was no answer and it went straight onto voicemail. She left a message to call her urgently. A minute later she called again, with the same result.

Then she felt unable to hold back the wave of nausea any longer. She ran back down the slope to the roadside and vomited some distance from the pillbox. She had been careful not to contaminate a potential crime scene.

The killer was not prone to self-doubt. Yet there were differences between the mundane considerations of normal life and the inevitably pedantic ruminations that followed a murder.

Have I left any sort of clue? Is there anything that could link me to the bastard? Was I too sure of myself and made a stupid mistake that the local plods might fathom out?

Such thoughts had been nagging away every minute of every hour since the killing. All the bits and pieces that needed to be disposed of had either been destroyed or washed and discretely discarded. The laptop had been thoroughly searched and any suspicious files had been carefully disposed of. There was no link.

My god! But there is something I haven’t thought of.

I’ll have to risk it and go back.

But, no. It’s a thousand to one that anyone will notice. I’ll leave it and trust in fate.