Deathly Wind

chapter eight

Katrina Tulloch bit her lip and rose from the dead body. She removed the earpieces of her stethoscope from her ears and coiled the instrument in her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mr McArdle, but she’s gone!’

McArdle stared at her through tears. He swallowed back a lump in his throat. ‘How the hell? She was only eight, for God’s sake?’

Katrina looked down at the Rottweiler’s corpse lying in its own excrement, aware of the howling of Dallas, the younger dog in the back of the nearby 4 x 4. She had been in the vicinity when the laird’s call had come through via her automatic redirect to her mobile.

‘She was a powerful animal,’ she said. ‘Looked healthy enough and no obvious signs of death. Had she shown any symptoms in the last day or two?’

‘She’d been off her food a bit. She puked up food this morning.’

‘Anything else. Cough, weeing more? Any diarrhoea?’

McArdle shivered slightly as he stood in his sodden clothing. ‘Aye, as a matter of fact she’s had a bit of diarrhoea lately and seemed thirstier than usual. Oh, and Jesmond, the butler, was complaining about her slobbering on his precious hall floor.’

Katrina bent down and pulled open the dog’s lower jaw. She sniffed, then rose looking puzzled.

‘What’s wrong?’ McArdle snapped.

‘I thought I smelled garlic. Dogs don’t usually like that.’

‘Tulsa would eat anything,’ McArdle replied dismissively. ‘But what killed her?’

‘I won’t be able to tell anything else without doing a post-mortem.’

The laird shook his head. ‘No! You are not cutting up my Tulsa.’

Katrina shook her head sympathetically. ‘I can understand that, but what about some blood tests? I can run a screen and might be able to come up with an answer.’ She pointed to his wet clothes as involuntarily he shivered again. ‘And I think you’d better get home and get into some dry clothes, Mr McArdle. You don’t want to go down with something yourself.’

‘I’ll be OK. I’ve phoned for my boys to come and bring me some clothes. Can you take the blood here and now?’

Katrina hesitated. ‘I suppose so; it’s just that it might be easier if I took her body back to my surgery. If you want I could arrange for her to be cremated.’

McArdle shuddered rather than shivered this time. ‘I’m taking her back to the castle. She didn’t know it for long, but she seemed to like it well enough. Besides, I know that Dallas there will be feeling it, so burying her in the grounds seems right.’

Katrina went back to her van and got out her venepuncture kit and a few specimen bottles. She bent down by Tulsa’s body. ‘Did she have any different food in the last few days?’

‘She always has the best, and whatever extra scraps the boys give her. Why, what are you thinking?’

‘Just wondering if she could have taken something bad into her system.’

He glared at her. ‘Do you mean poison?’

‘I meant food poisoning, actually. But I suppose we’d need to consider if she could have eaten anything else. You don’t have rat poison down at the castle, do you?’

He turned away as she sank the needle into a vessel and pulled back on the syringe, dark purple blood oozing back into the plastic cylinder.

‘Are you a wee bit squeamish, Mr McArdle,’ Katrina asked matter-of-factly.

McArdle’s reply was curt. ‘I’m squeamish about nothing! And I’m scared of nothing.’

‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she replied apologetically. ‘You’ve had a shock, what with having to pull her out and everything.’

‘Never mind that,’ he replied. ‘What you were just saying though? About poison. Could someone have poisoned my dog?’

‘I can’t say without the results.’

‘But it is possible?’

‘Yes. If she was convulsing, like you said.’

The noise of a fast car coming along the road was followed by a screech of brakes and a skidding of wheels on gravel as a black Porsche Boxter ground to a halt. Liam Sartori and Danny Reid jumped out.

‘You OK, boss?’ cried Liam, as they jogged down to the loch side.

‘God! Is that Tulsa?’ Danny Reid asked. ‘Crikes, I am sorry to see that, boss.’

‘And is this the vet?’ asked Liam Sartori, eyeing Katrina admiringly. ‘Do you need a hand, dear?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t call me “dear”,’ Katrina returned, frostily. ‘And yes, I am the vet – and no, I don’t need any help.’

Sartori held his hands up in mock defence. ‘No offence meant.’

‘What are we going to do with Tulsa, boss?’ Danny Reid asked. ‘Dallas sounds upset.’

‘We’ll take her back to the castle,’ McArdle replied sourly. ‘Or rather you boys will in the four by four. I’ve got an appointment in the town. Did you bring me fresh togs?’

Liam Sartori was returning from the Boxter with a holdall of fresh clothes when the characteristic whine of a scooter was followed by the appearance round the bend of Calum Steele. The West Uist Chronicle editor-in-chief parked behind the Boxter and came jauntily down the slope to join them.

‘Hello, Katrina, what have you there? A drowned dog, is it?’

With the dexterity of a seasoned conjuror his digital camera had appeared in his hand and he had taken a couple of shots before he even reached a standstill beside the group. He nodded at Jock McArdle. ‘It’s not the usual attire for swimming, so I deduce that you went in and brought the beast out?’ He grinned and held out his hand. ‘You must be Mr McArdle, the new owner of Dunshiffin castle? I was meaning to make an appointment with you and see how you’re settling in. Get your comments on the wind farm and all.’

‘I don’t give interviews to the newspapers,’ McArdle replied emphatically, ignoring Calum’s outstretched hand.

Calum continued to grin good-humouredly. ‘Ah, but maybe you don’t know about the Chronicle. My paper is the epitome of responsible journalism. You ask anyone on West Uist. You see, it’s the best PR you could have on the island.’ He raised his camera and took a photograph of the new laird and his two employees. ‘How about a more smiling one this time? Then we could maybe go and have a chat and a drink—’

‘I don’t do photographs either.’

‘Och, as the new laird you are news, whether you like it or not,’ Calum persisted bullishly. ‘The public have a right and a desire to know all about you.’

Katrina had put her blood specimen containers away in her bag and now stood up. She felt uneasy at the hard expression that had come over McArdle’s face. ‘I’ll – er – be away now then, Mr McArdle. I should have the blood results in a couple of hours and I’ll be in touch if I find anything odd.’

Calum’s head swivelled quickly on his stocky neck. ‘Odd? Is there something odd about this dead dog?’

‘This dead dog, as you so politely put it, was my dearly beloved pet. If there is anything odd about her death then it is nobody’s business except mine and the vet’s here.’

Calum was not renowned for his sensitivity. He pointed the camera at the dead animal and snapped another picture. ‘You’re not thinking that it was poisoned, are you?’

‘Why did you ask that?’ McArdle snapped. ‘Why use the word poison?’

For the first time Calum discerned the hostility that Katrina had found almost palpable. ‘Well, I suppose I meant polluted rather than poisoned. Blue-green algae in Loch Hynish, that sort of thing. But I’m sure it isn’t. Everything is pure and fresh on West Uist.’ He smiled placatingly. ‘I am sure there is no reason to be concerned.’

‘But I am concerned about infringement on my privacy,’ McArdle returned drily. ‘Especially when I’m so recently bereaved.’ He nodded at his employees and immediately Calum found his right arm pinioned in a vice-like grip by Liam Sartori, while Danny Reid prised the camera from his hand.

Calum watched dumbfounded as the Glaswegian hurled the camera as far as he could into the waters of Loch Hynish.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ he demanded. ‘That’s criminal! That was an expensive camera. I’ll have the law on you.’

‘I told you no interviews and no photographs,’ McArdle said coldly, through gritted teeth.

Katrina saw Calum’s face turn puce, just as she noted the belligerent and insolent grins on the faces of Reid and Sartori. And she was all too aware that the young Rottweiler was howling anew and throwing itself against the closed door of the 4 x4.

She caught Calum by the arm and pulled him away. ‘Come on, Calum. Leave it for now.’

Dr Ralph McLelland had gone out on his rounds after his morning surgery and, as luck would have it, was just leaving the house of one of his elderly patients on the easternmost point of the island when Agnes Calanish, the wife of the local postmaster decided to go into labour. But it was her fifth child and she wasted no time about it. The baby was delivered, her episiotomy was stitched up and the baby attached to the breast by the time Helen McNab, the midwife arrived.

‘A fine busy man you have been here, Dr McLelland,’ cooed Helen, as she took over. ‘And such a shame about Kenneth McKinley.’

‘How ever will old Alistair manage the croft without him?’ agreed Agnes, as her newborn babe suckled away contentedly. ‘And what with all these windmills that they say are going up.’

‘Windmills?’ Ralph queried.

Guthrie Calanish, the postmaster himself came in with a tray of tea to celebrate his latest offspring. ‘Aye, the first of them is up now and they are busy setting up a second. I was over at the Wee Kingdom this morning. There are two men and they seem to be setting them up like dandelion clocks.’ He looked regretfully at the local GP. ‘Are you sure you’ll not stay for a cup, Doctor?’

‘No. I’ll be back in tomorrow. But I’m afraid I have work to complete after Kenneth McKinley’s death.’

‘Paperwork, eh,’ sighed Guthrie. ‘The bane of a doctor’s existence, I am thinking.’

Ralph McLelland smiled and left. He had work to do all right, but it was not nearly as pleasant as filling out a few papers.

Kenneth McKinley’s body was waiting for him in the refrigerator of the Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital mortuary. He had promised to do the post-mortem before lunch, and then let Inspector Torquil McKinnon have a report first thing afterwards.

While Ralph McLelland was carrying out the post-mortem on Kenneth McKinley, Katrina Tulloch was back in her laboratory working with reagents on the blood tests she had taken from Tulsa, the dead Rottweiler. When she was at veterinary school she had taken an intercalated BSc degree in toxicology and was well able to do the lab work herself.

The garlic smell had worried her, and her preliminary test had shown that she was right to be worried. She packaged up the specimens for later despatch and full analysis at the department of veterinary toxicology at the University of Glasgow, and put them in the fridge. Yet in her own mind she had enough information. She phoned the mobile number that Jock McArdle had given her.

She hadn’t felt at all comfortable about the way McArdle and his heavies had treated Calum Steele. The man was a bully, that was clear. Yet she felt sorry for anyone who lost their pet under such circumstances.

Arsenic was a particularly nasty poison.

Calum Steele was leaning against the front desk recounting his experience on the shore of Loch Hynish to Morag when Torquil came in. So deep into his diatribe was the editor-in-chief of the West Uist Chronicle that he did not hear the Inspector come in.

‘Thugs! They’re just bloody thugs!’ Calum exclaimed, hammering his fist on the counter.

‘Who are thugs, Calum?’ Torquil asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

‘That new laird and his henchmen.’ And he recounted his meeting with them all over again, much to Morag’s chagrin. ‘One of them threw my digital camera into the loch. It was brand new. Chronicle property. I want to charge them with criminal damage.’

‘Are you sure about that, Calum. He’s a powerful man, I hear?’

Calum’s face went beetroot red. ‘The press will not be intimidated by a bunch of Glasgow bullyboys. I’m going to do an exposé on him.’

‘An exposé, Calum?’ Morag asked. ‘And what are you going to expose about him?’

‘His thuggery! His insensitivity. His intention to suppress the mouthpiece of the people – the Chronicle!’

‘Do you have a witness to all this, Calum?’ Torquil asked, trying hard to suppress a grin. The newspaperman was well known for losing his rag.

‘The vet, Katrina Tulloch. She saw it all. And she whisked me away just in time, or – or – I’d have shown them.’

‘In that case I’m glad that she did, Calum. It’s best to avoid physicality, as you well know.’

‘Huh. I’m not afraid of anyone. I’m from West Uist, born and bred, just like you. I’ll not be intimidated by Glasgow bullies.’

Torquil put an arm about Calum’s shoulders and gently moved him towards the door. ‘Calum, I’ll look into this, I promise. I’ll have a word with this new laird and get his side of the story.’

‘Aye, well, have a word with Katrina Tulloch, too. She’ll tell you exactly what happened.’

‘I’ll do that, Calum, don’t worry. I’m needing to have a word with her in any case.’

Calum nodded. ‘Well I’m off to write a piece on thuggery right now. Just tell that laird to start buying the Chronicle from now on. If he wants to take on the might of the fourth estate, he’s got a fight on his hands.’

Once he had gone Morag shook her head and frowned. ‘Let’s just hope Calum doesn’t go over the top. You know what he can be like when he gets a bee in his bonnet.’

‘Aye, he gets a sore head,’ replied Torquil with a grin. ‘And then we get a pain in the neck. He was like that when we were in Miss Melville’s class at school. But his heart is in the right place.’

Ralph McLelland was not happy. He had walked up to the police station with the manilla folder containing his report on the post-mortem, and accepted Morag’s offer of tea and biscuits in Torquil’s office.

‘There’s something wrong, Torquil,’ he said at last, as he dunked a shortbread in the tea.

‘About Kenneth McKinley’s cause of death?’ Torquil asked.

‘No, it’s clear enough that he died as a result of the injuries he sustained in the fall. He had multiple contusions and fractures of his skull, spine, pelvis and all four limbs. His rib cage was smashed to pieces and he had a ruptured liver and spleen and a torn right kidney. No, he died instantaneously, there is no doubt.’

‘Is it those marks on his face?’ Torquil asked. ‘Those scratches?’

‘Aye, partly that. There were three ugly gashes on his face.’

Morag swallowed a mouthful of Tea. ‘Do you think someone scratched him, Ralph?’

‘Something, I think. They were vicious raking wounds, like a claw of some sort.’

‘Or a talon,’ Torquil suggested. And he told them of his conversation with Annie McConville when she found his body.

‘Aye, well, that would fit right enough. But eagles don’t attack people do they?’

Morag interjected. ‘There have been reports about the Corlin eagles attacking animals. Megan Munro telephoned in a complaint about them. She said they’ve been killing hedgehogs in her sanctuary.’

Torquil eyed her with amusement. ‘And what does she want us to do about it? Arrest them?’

‘Och, you know what some of the folk say about eagles attacking small animals. It’s possible, I suppose.’ said Morag.

‘But not a man,’ returned Ralph, pushing his mug across the table and smiling benignly, in the expectation that it would be refilled.

Torquil blew out a puff of air between pursed lips. ‘What about if an eagle thought it was being attacked. If he’d been out there with a rifle, for example?’

Ralph and Morag considered the suggestion for a moment. ‘That would be possible, I think,’ said Ralph. ‘But I’m no expert on birds. Maybe you need to ask someone who knows.’

‘Nial Urquart might know,’ Morag suggested, pulling out her notebook and jotting a reminder to herself.

‘But he had no gun with him, did he?’ went on Torquil. ‘And I went back later and didn’t find anything either at the foot of the cliffs, or up on the ledge that he looks to have fallen from. There were a few scuffs, but no sign of anyone else being there.’ He shook his head and reached into his pocket. ‘But strangely, this morning when the twins and I were out checking the Cruadalach isles, I found this.’ He held out his hand to reveal the plastic bag with the empty cartridge. He laid it on the desk and opened his drawer, from which he took out another plastic bag containing a live bullet. ‘This was the .308 that we found beside his body. The question is, if they were from a rifle owned by Kenneth McKinley, what was he doing out there on the Cruadalach isles?’

‘Maybe we’d better be asking Alistair McKinley a few questions,’ Morag said. ‘But we’ll have to be easy with him. He’ll be in a pretty fragile shape.’

‘He said he felt guilty about letting Kenneth go off on his own,’ Torquil said. ‘And he told me that he had taken a rifle with him. The thing is – where is it now?’

Ralph McLelland clicked his tongue and drew the file towards him. He turned a page and tapped it with his middle finger. ‘I said there were a couple of things. One was the presence of those wounds. The other was the contents of his stomach. It was full of a strange goo, half digested of course. I had a look with the microscope and I’m pretty sure his last meal consisted of worms, slugs and a few snails. All raw!’

He waited as Morag curled up her nose and covered her mouth to indicate her revulsion at the idea. Then said, ‘Washed down with a few drams of whisky, judging by his blood alcohol level.’

‘All in all, not normal behaviour,’ said Torquil. He nodded at Morag. ‘You’re right, we need to ask Alistair a few questions. I’ll go over and see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

After Ralph left, Torquil spent the following half-hour writing up his report for Superintendent Lumsden. He duly faxed it through and was just preparing to head off to the Corlins for another look around near the eagle nest and the point where Kenneth McKinley had met his death, when the telephone rang and Morag informed him that the superintendent was on the line.

‘Good afternoon, Superintendent Lumsden, did you get my—’

‘What the hell is it with you, McKinnon? Do you have to be antagonistic?’

‘Antagonistic to whom, Superintendent?’

‘To your superiors!’

Torquil’s hackles rose immediately. ‘Are you suggesting that I have been antagonistic to a superior officer, Superintendent Lumsden?’

‘Christ, McKinnon, you’re at it again right now! But no, that wasn’t what I was meaning. I meant being antagonistic to your social superiors. This is the second laird who has come up against you and—’

‘Hold on a minute, Superintendent Lumsden. For one thing I have no idea what you are talking about. I have had no dealings at all with the present laird of Dunshiffin. And as for him being a social superior, that is balderdash! I have not even met the man, but I do know that he has simply bought an estate on West Uist. That gives him no rights over anyone. He is a landowner, pure and simple.’

‘Well I’ve just had him on the phone for ten minutes ranting about the attitude of the people of some place called the Wee Kingdom, and the antagonism of the people in general and the uselessness of the local constabulary!’

‘I repeat,’ said Torquil as civilly as he could, ‘I have had no dealings with him at all.’

‘He says one of his dogs has been poisoned and he wants action. I want you to give it to him, McKinnon. We have to maintain a good rapport with important people like him.’

Torquil took a deep breath and forced himself not to lose his cool any more than he was doing. ‘We will investigate his claims, sir.’

‘Good. And what about that report I wanted faxing through.’

‘It should be with you already, Superintendent.’

‘Well it hasn’t arrived. Send it again!’

There was a click, as of the receiver being slammed down on a telephone in Bara, and Torquil once again found himself staring at his dead receiver.

After sharing his frustration with Morag, Torquil telephoned Dunshiffin Castle and spoke to Jesmond.

‘The laird is not available, Inspector McKinnon. He has left instructions not to be disturbed. He is upset about the death of one of his Rottweilers. He is very unhappy.’

Torquil thought he detected a slight tone of irreverence as the butler mentioned the breed of dog. ‘Well tell the laird when he is available, that if he wishes to make a report about his dog’s death he can jolly well come into the station and file a report – personally. Goodbye, Jesmond.’

‘I shall tell him exactly that, Inspector. Goodbye.’ Torquil thought he detected a note of glee in the crusty old butler’s voice.

When Torquil arrived home that evening he opened the front door of the manse and was immediately assailed by the aroma of devilled rabbit, one of Lachlan’s specialities and by the sight of the Padre himself on his hands and knees in the hall, leaning over the carburettor of the classic Excelsior Talisman that the two of them had been gradually restoring over the past umpteen years. Bits and pieces of the said bike lay on oil-soaked newspapers along the side of the long hall.

‘Have you a problem, Uncle?’ Torquil asked, knowing all too well that when the Padre had something he needed to work out, he either went and hit golf balls or started tinkering with the Excelsior Talisman.

The Padre raised his eyes heavenwards and exhaled forcefully. Then he gave a wan smile, wiped his hands on an old rag and stood up. ‘You might say that, laddie. But I’ll solve it one day.’ And giving the carburettor a mock kick he pointed to the sitting-room with his chin. ‘You look as if you’ve had a tough day. Why don’t you pour a couple of drams while I check on the supper?’

And five minutes later, with a whisky in their hands they sat on each side of the old fireplace and exchanged news of the day. Lachlan listened with a deepening frown as he heard about the superintendent’s attitude over the telephone.

‘That man is nothing but a boor, Torquil! An obsequious boor at that. I think he kow-tows to the gentry.’

Torquil sipped his whisky. ‘I haven’t met this McArdle yet, but I don’t like the way he’s taking on the mantle of “the laird,” as if it gives him rights over the island.’

‘But he has land ownership rights. The Dunshiffin estate is pretty big, and, of course, he has substantial rights apparently over the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Well, I am thinking that I will be locking horns with him before too long.’

The Padre nodded sympathetically, then, ‘I saw Jessie McPhee this afternoon. She was visiting her husband’s grave.’ He omitted to tell his nephew that at the time he had been paying his own respects at Torquil’s parents’ graveside. ‘She’s making peace with herself over Ewan, the poor darling.’

He pulled out his pipe and was reaching into his pocket for his tobacco pouch when his hand touched the little black notebook that Jessie had given him. ‘Oh, you’d better have a look at this. It’s Ewan’s. Jessie said that he’d taken to making lots of wee notes. She particularly wanted you as his friend and senior officer to have a look.’

Torquil laid down his whisky glass and reached out for the notebook. He skimmed it, immediately recognizing the big constable’s untidy handwriting. It seemed to be quite shambolic, having no set order; quite typical of Ewan, Torquil thought. There were bits and pieces of observations, things he’d highlighted to do, to say to various people, including Torquil. But interspersed among it there were personal thoughts.

The Padre noticed his nephew’s change of posture, his expression of studied concentration. Slowly Torquil’s head came up, his eyes sharp. ‘He had a lot on his mind, Uncle. It looks like Ewan was feeling pretty desperate!’