Deadly Still

CHAPTER SIX

Ralph had a rather brisk consultation with Charlie McDonald and his ex-wife Bridget. Charlie had gone in on the offensive, backed up immediately by Bridget.

‘What the hell is happening here, Dr McLelland? How come Catriona’s been admitted?’

‘Why did PC McPhee say it was an emergency, Doctor?’ Bridget enquired.

Her ex-husband jabbed the air in front of him. ‘I need answers and I’m warning you, if I’m not satisfied, I’ll be straight on the phone to my solicitor.’

Ralph adroitly deflected their questions and tried to assuage their anxiety as best he could, at the same time leaving them in no doubt that the situation was urgent.

‘Who was she up there with?’ Charlie McDonald asked forcefully.

‘I don’t have the information and I’m not at liberty to say anyway. That is for the police to tell you.’

‘Look here, if my daughter —!’

Bridget McDonald put a restraining hand on her ex-husband’s arm. ‘Charlie, be quiet, can you not understand what Dr McLelland is telling you, you big lummox? He needs to start treatment right away to save her sight.’ Shaking her head in exasperation, she held out her hands for the consent form attached to a clipboard. ‘Let me sign and let’s get on with it.’ As she did so the tears started to trickle down her cheeks. ‘Please, Ralph, do whatever you have to do.’

‘I will. I’ve just spoken to the consultant ophthalmologist and the kidney specialist at Stornoway. As soon as I’ve initiated treatment and I’ll get her over to the Western Isles Hospital for dialysis.’

Charlie McDonald grabbed his arm, tears welling up in his eyes. ‘She’s my wee girl, Ralph. Do what you must.’

After initiating treatment and seeing some improvement in the clinical condition of her eyes, albeit accompanied by progressive deepening of her inebriation, Ralph left Catriona in the capable hands of Lizzie, while he arranged the air ambulance to transfer her to Stornoway, along with her mother.

Then he left in the Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital ambulance, which was actually a fairly old camper van that been donated by a former laird and adapted at public cost.

He parked below the pillbox and jumped out with his old Gladstone bag swinging from his hand.

‘Thanks for coming, Ralph,’ Torquil called down from above, where he and Morag were waiting. ‘This is a hell of a business and we’ve not enough folk on the ground.’

‘Any news on Vicky Spiers?’ the doctor asked as he ducked under the police tape.

‘The twins are out looking for her, but unfortunately they haven’t found any tracks. Can you come and take a look at Jamie Mackintosh?’

Although it was clear to Ralph that the youngster was dead, he was too professional to skimp on his examination to certify death. By the light of the lantern inside the pillbox he felt the body for pulses, listened with his stethoscope for a heartbeat and breath sounds, but found none.

‘His pupils are fixed and dilated,’ he said over his shoulder to Torquil and Morag. He gently lifted the head and turned it to the right and left. ‘No automatic movement of the eyes, they move in unison with the head, so that is a positive doll’s sign. And there is no blink response if I touch the eyeball, meaning no corneal reflex.’

Reaching into his Gladstone bag he drew out his ophthalmoscope and spent some time examining the inside of each eye through it. ‘There is cattle-trucking all over.’

‘What’s that mean, Ralph?’ Torquil asked.

‘It means that the blood in the retinal blood vessels have lots of little bubbles in them. It makes the vessels look like lines of cattle-trucks.’

‘Does that tell us anything?’

‘Just that he’s dead. Gas is released from the blood after death as tiny bubbles.’

‘What about rigor mortis?’ Morag asked.

‘It’s developing. So, I am afraid that I can certify that life is extinct.’

‘How long has he been dead, can you tell us?’

‘Some hours, that’s as much as I can say. It will be a Procurator Fiscal case and then a forensic post-mortem. That’s out of my remit, though.’

‘Has he inhaled vomit, do you think?’ Morag asked.

‘Possible, but the post-mortem will tell. He reeks of booze and from all the facts it is likely that he had a convulsion. He could have inhaled vomit as a result of that and asphyxiated.’ He rose to his feet, winding his stethoscope up. ‘So, I suspect that it was death from a convulsion and an overdose of methanol. That’s methyl alcohol. One thing that would be worth doing and which would help the forensics and the pathologist would be for me to take blood now. The longer you leave it the more inaccurate the readings can be because of post-mortem changes. Shall I do that? It would need to be your decision.’

‘Please, go ahead, Ralph,’ Torquil told him. ‘Then I’d better go and find his father to tell him the bad news. The trouble is that Ewan hasn’t been able to contact him yet.’

‘And someone had better go and see Vicky’s parents,’ said Morag with a sigh. ‘Ewan contacted them to say that we’re looking for her. Her mum wanted to come up and search herself, but he told her to stay and look after her husband in case she turns up there. Poor Brock Spiers can’t walk, of course, after his accident. He’s in a wheelchair and his wife Jeannie spends her time looking after him. They must be going frantic.’

‘Better get Wallace or Douglas back here to look after the site, Morag,’ Torquil replied. ‘Now that Ralph has confirmed death you and I need to get back and get onto the Procurator Fiscal. We badly need more folk up here to look for Vicky and we need the Scene Examiner as soon as possible.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And for starts I’ll need to get the new DC onto the job.’

Ewan had been busy telephoning round various people as he followed the instructions given to him by Morag. He had still been unable to locate Jamie Mackintosh’s father, which troubled him considering the enormity of the situation. It didn’t surprise him though, as Angus Mackintosh was well known for going off on benders ever since his wife had died three years before. Young Jimmy Mackintosh had virtually brought himself up.

The bell went off as the outer door of the station opened and Stan Wilkinson came in carrying a parcel and a wad of mail. Gone was his ready smile, replaced by a glum and shocked expression.

‘You’ll know all that’s happened, Ewan?’ he asked as he deposited the parcel and the mail on the counter.

‘I cannot say how sad I am about this, Stan. It’s a tragedy, losing a young island lad like that. Morag told me you took Catriona McDonald to the hospital.’

‘I did, and I left her in the doctor’s care. She was in a right state, Ewan. I didn’t know how to comfort her. I just drove as fast as I could.’ He leaned his elbows on the counter and cupped his bearded chin in his hands. ‘Any news on the third teenager?’

‘We’re looking for her.’ Ewan shivered. ‘Let’s hope she’s OK.’

Stan sighed and stood upright again with a sigh. ‘It looks like your murder shoes have arrived.’

Ewan opened and unwrapped the parcel to reveal a large shoebox. He opened it and pulled out two heavy brown lace-up boots, with additional leather wraparound straps and buckles above the ankles. They had been specially made with four inch steel blades protruding from the front of the toes.

Stan whistled. ‘Wow! I see why you call them murder shoes. May I have a closer look? I’ve never seen anything like them.’

Ewan shrugged and handed them over for the postman to inspect.

The bell went as the outer door opened and a tall woman stepped inside. She was about five ten with auburn hair cut in a short natural style. She was wearing smart jeans, trainers and a light blue quilted waterproof jacket. Ewan thought he had never seen anyone so pretty in real life.

He put on his customary welcoming smile. ‘Madainn mhath, a good morning to you. Can I help you, miss?’

She smiled and advanced to the counter, nodding at Stan before turning her attention to Ewan. ‘I’m DC Penny Faversham,’ she said, showing him her warrant card. ‘I was supposed to meet DI McKinnon when I got off the ferry, but somehow he —’ she shrugged and stowed her warrant card in a shoulder bag. ‘He didn’t show.’ She gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Could be the story of my life. Men not showing, I mean.’

Ewan wanted to say he found that hard to believe, but his natural shyness prevented the words from coming. Instead, he raised his hands apologetically.

‘Pleased to meet you, DI Faversham. I’m Constable Ewan McPhee. The thing is we’ve had an emergency this morning.’ He leaned closer and spoke in hushed tones. ‘Three teenagers had been out drinking dirty alcohol all night. One’s dead, one’s missing and one’s been taken to hospital. The boss is still up at the scene.’

Penny gasped. ‘That’s terrible!’ She turned to Stan who was still holding one of the boots and rubbing the blade between his fingers and thumb. ‘That’s a lethal looking boot you have there,’ she said.

Stan looked up at her with a start, his face like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. Then, as if suddenly snapping out of a trance he looked down at the boot and hastily handed it back to Ewan as if it had suddenly become electrified. He stood staring awkwardly at Penny.

‘I’m sorry, it’s been a hell of a morning and when you said that word “lethal” — well, it gave me the willies.’ He ran a hand over his beard and pointed at the door. ‘I’d better be on my way, though. I’m still nowhere near finished my round.’ And he abruptly turned and headed for the exit.

Once he had gone Penny pointed at the boot in Ewan’s hands. ‘What is that? Why has it got a blade sticking out of it?’

‘Oh, these are my murder shoes.’ Then seeing her eyebrows rise quizzically: ‘Sorry, we call them that in the hammer-throwing fraternity. The proper name for them is hammer boots. We dig them into the ground when we throw the hammer, you see. I was explaining that to Stan, because he’s English like you and didn’t understand about the highland hammer.’

Penny was still looking puzzled.

‘Are you OK, Penny? I mean, I hope it’s OK to call you Penny?’

She shivered and then smiled. ‘Sorry, I just had a strange sense of déjà vu. It was something about your murder shoes.’

‘Maybe it was because we’ve had this death?’ Ewan suggested. Then, raising the counter flap: ‘Come on through. We’ll have a good mug of strong tea while we wait for the boss to come back.’

‘Have I got an office somewhere?’ Penny asked doubtfully.

‘Oh aye, its — er — not very big, but I think it will have all you need,’ Ewan said, opening a door next to Torquil’s office to reveal what was once literally a broom cupboard. ‘No window, I’m afraid, but you have a desk, filing cabinet, computer and a bookcase for your files.’ He went in and clicked on an old fashioned green-shaded desk lamp. ‘I went out and bought this to make up for the lack of a window. It sort of gives it a real detective feel, I think.’ He beamed at her and added, ‘I was tempted to get a big magnifying glass to leave on the desk, but thought that was maybe going too far.’

Penny was not overly impressed by the size of the office space, but she couldn’t help being soothed by the big constable’s smile and his almost melodic island accent.

Calum and Cora had gone back to the West Uist Chronicle offices in something of a hurry. In fact, ‘newspaper offices’ was a rather grandiloquent title, for although there was a large printed sign attached to the wall beside the door, the offices consisted of two floors, both of which had been used exclusively by Calum, until the happy day that Cora Melville, the great niece of Miss Bella Melville, Calum’s old teacher, had walked into the office and into his life.

The actual news office itself, where Calum interviewed people and took orders for photographs that appeared in the paper, occupied the first room on the ground floor, with the archives of back issues in the room at the back. Upstairs was where the actual work took place. At the front was the room with a cluttered old oak desk where Calum wrote his articles on a vintage Mackintosh computer or on his spanking new laptop. Sitting between the two computers was a dusty old Remington typewriter, which served no real purpose other than to help him feel the part of a writer. In his mind he had been touched with the literary genius of Hemingway, the incisive mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the investigative journalism skills of Woodward and Bernstein.

The rest of the room was occupied with his digital printing press, paper and stationary supplies, and in the corner was the space where he stacked the next issue of the newspaper ready for distribution. Across the landing was a larger room which had been divided up to form kitchenette, a shower, a toilet, and a space with a room containing a battered old settee and a camp bed, which Calum used to use when he was either working late or when he felt too inebriated to return home. As the editor, printer and sole reporter of the paper he used to work flexible hours, his only rule being that however he managed it he would produce a paper every Tuesday and Friday. Sometimes he even produced extra editions, which he called ‘specials’ when there was something of significant newsworthiness that he felt the good folk of West Uist needed to know about.

When Cora joined him as his chief reporter and introduced new technology, he had forked out for a new desk and computer for her and the West Uist Chronicle hit cyberspace, with its own website and a digital edition for those readers who had embraced social media.

‘You really are the most amazing man, Calum Steele,’ Cora trilled as she and Calum lay ensnared together in post-coital somnolence.

‘And you are the most —’ he began, only to be interrupted by his mobile phone suddenly ringing. ‘That’ll be Ralph,’ he said, clicking it onto speaker mode. ‘West Uist Chronicle. Is that you, Ralph?’

‘No, Calum, it’s me — Torquil. And I need your help.’

The editor swung his stocky legs over the side of the camp bed and sat up. ‘Is it about Catriona McDonald? Me and Cora saw her being taken into the hospital. Ralph was going to call me with news when he was able. I saw Charlie and Bridget, but they were too distressed to talk and I didn’t press them.’

Torquil fleetingly told him about the three teenagers.

‘That’s awful news, Torquil. Jamie used to be one of my delivery lads before he started studying for his Highers. I knew it must be something serious with Catriona, what with her being brought in by Stan Wilkinson in the post van. He was driving along Harbour Street in the mist like a bat out of hell.’

‘Aye, well, Ralph is arranging the transfer for Catriona to the Western Isles Hospital in Stornoway.’

‘And Vicky Spiers?’

‘We can’t say too much yet to the public, but we badly need help. That’s why I can’t go to television or the radio. It’s going to take time that we haven’t got to get extra officers over from Lewis, so I need islanders up at the old pillbox on Harpoon Hill to search for Vicky Spiers. That’s why I need your network.’

‘The West Uist Chronicle is at your service, Piper. We’ve got emails from almost everyone on the island.’

‘Well, maybe just email those folk who have suitable vehicles and who are physically able enough to go trekking across the moors.’

‘And the beaches?’

There was a pause, then: ‘Aye, anywhere the lassie could have wondered to. That includes anywhere she could have fallen. So far, the Drummond lads haven’t found anything.’

‘We’ll get on the case straight away.’

‘Thanks, pal. Just one thing, though. This is going to be incredibly sensitive, so please avoid sensationalism in the email.’

Calum opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it when Cora dug her fingers into his chest. ‘Understood. Let’s just get the lassie home safe first.’

‘Good man, Calum. I promise you I’ll give you a full statement for the Chronicle as soon as I can. Just hold on until then.’

Cora kissed Calum’s cheek as the phone went dead. She shot off the camp bed and skipped naked through to her desk and computer.

‘I’ll get the email list up and start weeding out the folk that won’t be up to going on a search party. If you compose the email you want to send out to them then I’ll make some tea and toast. I guess we’ll need it.’ As she sat down and moved her mouse to fire up her computer she beamed at him. ‘I’m so proud of you for holding back, Calum.’

Calum waved his hand dismissively. ‘Two more lessons in journalism for you, my wee darling. First, respect your sources and be mindful of their wishes. Secondly, sometimes a scoop doesn’t have to appear in print. Everyone who receives the email we’re going to send will appreciate that the news is coming from the West Uist Chronicle.’

Charlie McDonald had waited until Catriona was taken onto the air ambulance.

‘She’s going to be fine, Bridgie,’ he began. ‘I’ll make sure —’

‘I told you, don’t call me that. And don’t ever expect me to believe that you’ll make sure of anything, you stupid man. If you’d been a half decent father, then —’

Catriona groaned on the stretcher. ‘Mum … Dad … don’t start, please,’ she pleaded in a voice slurred from the ethanol she had been given.

Sister Lamb touched Charlie’s arm. ‘They need to go, Councillor McDonald. And Bridget, you’ll need to get in now.’

Charlie had watched the helicopter rise swiftly into the air and head off as the rain started to come down. He pulled his jacket collar up and ran for his Mercedes. It was only when he got in and started up the ignition to put on his windscreen wipers that he noticed the Land Rover Defender parked outside the hospital grounds. Its lights flashed and then it started off and headed down the road, turning quickly uphill to head inland.

He followed at a discrete distance until he was well clear of Kyleshiffin and then accelerated to keep up with it. After a couple of miles the Land Rover turned off the road onto a track leading to the woods, one of their secret rendezvous spots. She always liked outdoor sex and told him that the risk of being discovered gave their relationship an extra frisson.

He drew into the small clearing where her vehicle was already parked. Esther Corlin-MacLeod was leaning against it. She was dressed elegantly in a quilted Barbour jacket over West Uist tweeds with knee high leather boots that looked more fashionable than necessary for a woodland walk. Indeed, with her ponytail protruding from under a stylish country cap she could have a model on a shoot for Country Life rather than the entrepreneurial owner of a leading distillery and renowned Hebridean shooting estate.

‘Is your daughter going to be all right, Charlie?’ Esther asked as he got out and crossed to her. ‘I’ve been worried about her since you rang me.’

‘She’s on her way to the Western Isles Hospital in Stornoway. Dr McLelland is sure she’ll be OK, but he’s still worried about her sight.’

Charlie’s arms went around her waist and she snaked her arms about his neck and drew him to her as their lips met in a passionate kiss.

‘Christ, are you sure you want to,’ she muttered in his ear a few moments later as he ran his hands under her cashmere jumper, while she started to undo his belt.

‘I bloody need it, Esther. Especially after the morning I’ve had.’

They were too preoccupied when both their mobile phones made sounds, indicating that they had each received a new email.

Helen Beamish had been busy all morning and still had a number of case files waiting her attention in the three baskets on her desk. She had dictated numerous letters and made many phone calls. Calum Steel’s email had immediately grabbed her attention. The subject box read:

URGENT— MISSING TEENAGER — WE NEED YOU

She had read the short missive and immediately decide that action was needed. She pulled on her purple jacket from the back of her chair and alerted Hazie, her secretary, that she had received an email from the West Uist Chronicle, only to be told that both Hazie and Kathleen, Cameron Beamish’s secretary had received the same email.

‘I’d better get on with these reports, Helen,’ Hazie said, ‘but I’ll text my Henry and get him to go out.’

‘And I’d better stay and man Cameron’s phone,’ Kathleen said.

Helen was reaching for the reception door when it opened and her husband came in.

‘Cameron!’ she exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you back today. What’s happened? You’re supposed to be in Oban until tomorrow.’ Cameron had been away resolving a case on the mainland.

Cameron smiled and shrugged. ‘The other side decided to settle and so I caught the ferry and came back early to see my beautiful wife.’

‘We’ve got an emergency, Cameron,’ Helen interrupted. ‘There’s a missing teenager, Vicky Spiers, somewhere out on the moors by Harpoon Hill. The police have asked Calum Steele to get as many people as possible out looking for her, on the moors, on the beaches, anywhere. I’ve got to get going to help out.’

He looked down at his suit. ‘I’d better pop home and get my wet weather clothes on. I’ll follow you as soon as I change.’

‘I’ll see you later, then,’ Helen said, kissing his cheek on her way out.

Once in her car she sat and thought for a moment before pulling out her phone and making a call.

Norma had finished breakfasts and went over all the management plans with her three team leaders, one for each floor of the home, before she was able to leave the Hydro. She drove her Fiat 500 over to Lochiel’s Copse, where Robbie Ochterlonie lived alone in the log cabin that he had built himself. She knew that he liked his privacy and had aspirations to be a writer. A log cabin on the edge of woods with wildlife all around, he had told her, was a prime requisite to creative writing. Millie McKendrick was the first to tell her that he actually liked his solitude to drink his peatreek, the illicit whisky that he also peddled to some of the residents. Then Norma realised that the sweet odour that she was often aware of in the mornings was due to his drinking the night before.

His drinking was one of the things that Norma turned a blind eye to, but worried about in case the owners of the Hydro should find out. It would undoubtedly mean a scandal for the residential home and the sack for Robbie.

The cabin curtains were all still drawn shut when she got out of the car.

She knocked on the door and prayed that she’d hear him stirring inside. But she was greeted with silence.

She felt her heart quicken, for Doreen McGuire had implanted the fear that he might be unwell, possibly lying in a diabetic coma.

‘Please, Robbie, just be drunk,’ she whispered to herself as she tried the door handle. It was unlocked and opened easily.

‘Robbie?’ she called as she tentatively pushed the door open. ‘It’s me, Norma. Are you OK?’

The lights were still on and she saw Robbie lying face down in a pool of blood and vomit.

A scream threatened to burst forth, but she suppressed it and bent down to feel his neck for his carotid pulse.

There was none. His skin was cold and the tissues under it were already stiffening. Norma had seen enough dead bodies to know the worst. Robbie Ochterlonie was stone dead.