Deathly Wind

chapter fourteen

Vincent Gilfillan had been busy all morning. He had dealt with his own chores before going on to feed Rhona’s goats and then do some work on her weaving quota. He knew that he and the others would have to get together and work out what they were going to do about her croft. But of course, the complication was simply the new laird, Jock McArdle. The possibility that he would repossess her croft and rescind the right of transfer seemed highly likely.

‘Damn the man,’ he muttered to himself. ‘We should have been in contact with the Crofters Commission to find out exactly what rights we have.’ He shook his head sadly as he tidied up and left Rhona’s weaving shed. It was exactly the sort of thing that Rhona would have seen to. And she would have done if she hadn’t died so suddenly.

At the thought of her death, he pictured the new laird and he felt his anger seethe to boiling point. In his mind he saw him going into the cottage hospital with Inspector McKinnon and he thought back to what he had wished he had done. Part of him wished that he had not stopped Alistair McKinley from going out to challenge him. But then he thought of Rhona lying there, her face alabaster white.

He pushed open the door of her cottage, went through to the main room, lined with bookcases, antiques and numerous handmade mats covering the polished wood floor. He slumped down on the settee beside the holdall containing the things he had brought back from the hospital. The smell of her perfume and the odour of her cigarettes was all around him and he felt slightly heady. He gave a deep sigh of despair and leaned forward, sinking his head in his hands as he began to sob.

He was still sobbing when Inspector Torquil McKinnon found him there ten minutes later when he pushed open the door.

‘I thought I heard someone in here,’ Torquil said, coming in and pulling off his large leather gauntlets. ‘And I am glad to find that it is you, Vincent. We need to talk. But first, I have to tell you that we are investigating a murder.’

Vincent looked up and wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Whose murder, Inspector?’

‘One of Jock McArdle’s employees. The tall flashy-dressed one with attitude. It was his body that we found by the Wee Kingdom causeway.’

‘He had a bad attitude, right enough. I met him yesterday. In Geordie Morrison’s croft. I was there with Megan Munro and he came in and gave us a letter each from the new laird.’ He wrinkled his nose distastefully. ‘I thought that he smelled of whisky.’

‘What were the letters about, Vincent?’

‘I think you know already, Inspector,’ Vincent returned. ‘The same as the letter that McArdle devil gave Rhona.’ His face twisted in distaste. ‘You know – the one that killed her! The one about having wind towers put up on the common grazing ground by our crofts.’

‘Have you got your letter?’

‘Not here. I think I may even have just screwed it up.’ He chewed his lip reflectively. ‘But Rhona’s letter should be here in this holdall. I haven’t had a chance, or the inclination, to unpack her stuff.’ He unzipped the bag, opened the sides and pulled out the letter.

Torquil read it and nodded. ‘Enough to give anyone a shock, let alone someone who had just had a heart attack.’ He held out the letter for Vincent to see. ‘I understand from Dr McLelland that it looked as if she was trying to write a message when she collapsed. Any idea what she meant by this CARD IN?’

Vincent shook his head. ‘No idea. It may mean one of those get-well cards that she had. They are all in there as well. As I said, I haven’t had time to check her things.’

Torquil put the letter back into the holdall. ‘I think that I had better take the bag back to the station. There may be something of relevance. I’ll give you a receipt for it all.’

Vincent looked at him with puzzled brows. ‘I thought you were investigating the murder of that young thug. Why do you need Rhona’s things?’

‘There have been several deaths. Too many for comfort. We’re keeping an open mind about them all.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking yesterday, Inspector. That’s why I was in Geordie’s cottage. I was looking to see if I could find some clue as to where he’d taken his family.’

‘And what was Megan Munro doing there?’

‘I think she had the same idea. But she was upset.’

‘Tell me more.’

Vincent stood up and stretched the muscles of his back. ‘I’m not sure that I should be saying anything about Megan’s problems.’

Torquil eyed him sternly. ‘I repeat, I am investigating a murder. Why was she upset?’

Vincent sighed. ‘I think she is having man trouble with Nial Urquart. She was upset, I comforted her, and that Liam Sartori fellow walked in.’ He held his hands palms up in a gesture of helplessness. ‘She threw herself into my arms and I was giving her a friendly hug, that’s all. There was nothing more.’

‘And what did Sartori say?’

‘Nothing much. Just a smart comment, then he gave us the letters and said he was going on to see Alistair McKinley.’

‘And that was the last you saw of him?’

‘Yes. I had chores to do and Megan was desperate to find Nial. I had already taken care of Geordie’s chickens and collected the eggs. And to tell you the truth I was a bit peeved with him. He’s always going off and taking his family with him, and he’s never too good at telling us where he’s gone.’

‘Who does he usually tell?’

Vincent hesitated for a moment, his expression grim. ‘Rhona.’

‘And presumably she hadn’t told you where they went?’

‘No, but she wouldn’t, would she?’ he replied brusquely.

‘Do I detect a touch of pique there, Vincent?’ Torquil asked.

Vincent ran his hands across his face. ‘Aye, maybe. Look, the truth is that Rhona liked younger men. She always had. Never anything deep. She liked to be in charge of her life.’ He gestured round the room at the bookcases packed with books, the upright piano by the wall, the old manual typewriter and the reams of neatly stacked paper on an old roll-top desk; then, ‘Geordie was the latest.’

‘And does everyone on the Wee Kingdom know that?’

The crofter shook his head. ‘I knew it, and I suspect that Alistair McKinley knew it too. But I’m pretty sure that Sallie, Geordie’s wife doesn’t.’

‘Or perhaps she found out and that’s why they’ve gone off somewhere.’

‘Maybe,’ Vincent returned doubtfully. ‘Geordie is an unpredictable man. I am just not sure what to think.’

‘And were you one of Rhona’s lovers?’ Torquil asked matter-of-factly.

Vincent gave a soft whistle, and then smiled winsomely. ‘You don’t pull punches, do you, Inspector?’ He glanced at a photograph of all of the Wee Kingdom crofters on the mantelpiece. A smiling Rhona was in the middle. ‘The answer is yes, years ago, for a few months. When I first came to the Wee Kingdom to take over my croft when my mother’s cousin died. But not since then. I loved her then.’

Torquil nodded. ‘The Padre tells me that you’ve been here about twenty years now.’

Vincent nodded. ‘That’s right.’ He seemed to look into the distance, into the past. ‘Twenty years, how time flies. Rhona was sort of playing at crofting back then. She was still commuting back and forth to the mainland, and working as a writer in Glasgow or Edinburgh.’

‘She was a journalist, I believe,’ said Torquil. And crossing to the roll-top desk he looked at the piles of neatly stacked papers and the documents in the pigeon holes of the desk. ‘It looks as if she was still busy with writing.’

‘Aye, she hadn’t written anything for years, but she started again – just articles – a few months ago. Mainly about lifestyles and crofting.’

‘She seems to have been very methodical.’

‘Rhona was the administrator of all of the Wee Kingdom business outlets. She did all the paperwork for us.’ He shook his head. ‘God knows how we’ll cope now. I’m helpless at that sort of thing.’

‘And what about the wind towers that McArdle is having put up?’

Vincent snorted with derision. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for.’

‘It looks as if one of his men has already paid for him, with his life.’

‘Aye, maybe so.’

Calum Steele had been busy on the internet. In his own mind he was an investigative journalist par excellence. He felt born to the job, being by nature both curious about his fellow citizens, and having an almost pathological urge to gossip.

‘Calum Steele! You would spear the inside out of a clam with your questions!’ Miss Melville, his teacher at the local school used to say upon being barraged with his questioning. ‘You need to go and be a journalist.’

And indeed that was precisely what he had done, the only thing being that he had done it locally, ultimately becoming the sole staff member of the West Uist Chronicle. Being somewhat thick-skinned, it had never occurred to him that it had been Miss Melville’s hope that he would leave the island to seek his fortune.

Calum had grasped the new technology with both hands. Although he liked to cultivate the image of always having a spiral-bound notebook with him, he always carried a state of the art Dictaphone in his anorak as well as his latest love, his digital camera. He was still rankling at the criminal loss of his last one, which had forced him to shell out £500 on the new one at his elbow.

To his credit, he single-handedly produced enough copy to fill the eight pages that made up the local paper six days a week. Admittedly, four pages were taken up with advertising, but anything on the island that was remotely newsworthy, whether that was the purchase of a new tractor, the number of overdue library books, or the belief that eagles were attacking people, Calum would investigate and write it up. And a murder investigation to him was like manna from heaven.

Not being of a naturally sentimental nature, Calum had found himself in a strange place lately. The loss of PC Ewan McPhee had affected him more than he had thought it would. He had become maudlin and he found himself valuing his friends more than usual. Torquil McKinnon and the Drummond twins, who had all been at school at the same time, and Morag Driscoll, the police sergeant whom he had secretly adored for years, they all seemed vitally important in his life. He had become patriotic, territorial, and he taken a great dislike to the brazenness of the new laird, Jock McArdle and his bully-boy tactics. He had decided to take up a crusade against the wind towers that were being erected on the Wee Kingdom.

‘So, Mr McArdle, it’s not just the king of ice cream that you are, is it!’ he grinned to himself as he printed out his findings. ‘Let’s see what Kirstie Macroon at Scottish TV makes of this.’

And he reached for his mobile telephone.

Alistair McKinley lowered his shotgun.

‘Lachlan McKinnon, what in the blazes are you doing up here?’ He flicked his eyes at his shotgun. ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on a man with a shotgun. Accidents have been known to happen.’

The Padre waved a finger. ‘Alistair McKinley, I was not sneaking up on anyone. If you must know, I came up here for inspiration. I am having trouble writing sermons and eulogies lately and I was preparing one for Kenneth. I thought that if I came up here, where he had his accident, I might get a sense of how he died. I imagine that is pretty much the same reason that you are up here yourself.’

Then he pointed to the shotgun. ‘Or were you here in some misguided sense of revenge?’ He looked up at the misty Corlins. ‘Were you hoping to pot a golden eagle? That would be foolish, you know.’

‘Ach, maybe it would strike you as foolish, Padre, but you haven’t lost your son. And it is better than me taking my gun and doing away with the real villain of the piece. The man who caused Kenneth’s death and now Rhona’s – that bastard McArdle!’

Lachlan put an arm about the old crofter’s shoulder. ‘Alistair McKinley, you are an old fool. Look at you, up here in these conditions in your bare feet! Is that the action of a sober man? Come on now; let’s get you back safe and sound to your croft. I’ll come with you and we’ll have a dram.’

Despite himself Alistair gave a short laugh. ‘You are not the usual type of minister at all, are you, Lachlan McKinnon? Always encouraging me to have a dram. But I’ll come with you. Will you need a lift?’

‘I have my Red Hunter down below,’ replied the Padre. He looked at the cliff edge. ‘And if you will take my advice you will take the path down with me, and not make any more foolish attempts to climb in your bare feet.’

He waited while Alistair unloaded his shotgun and slid it into his shotgun bag.

As they made their way down the path Lachlan fancied that he heard the heavy flap of eagle wings overhead. He smiled to himself, for he had no doubt that he had at least saved one life that day.

Morag sent the Drummonds off and went back into Torquil’s office where she had left Megan Munro with a cup of tea.

‘I have sent my special constables onto the job,’ she said, sitting in Torquil’s chair opposite Megan.

‘He’s not safe, Sergeant. He says he’s off to start that hedgehog cull, but I don’t believe him. He said he was in a killing mood, and with that poor man falling and getting killed the other day I thought that I should report him to the police.’

‘Well, the Drummond twins will investigate and see if they can locate him. Just to be on the safe side.’ She produced her silver pen and her notebook and laid them on the desk in front of her. She had only met Megan Munro once or twice before, but she knew all about her and her hedgehog-rescue operation. A pretty girl, she thought. Pity that she has to cover up her hair in those beanie hats and wear those mannish dungarees. Could she be a lesbian, Morag wondered? But surely not. She was living with that bird protection officer, Nial Urquart.

‘I am afraid that I have to tell you, that death you just referred to – well, we are treating it as suspicious.’

Megan’s eyes opened wide. ‘Suicide, you mean?’

Morag shook her head. ‘Possibly murder.’

Megan let out a gasp and covered her mouth with both hands. ‘But it couldn’t be. I saw him myself yesterday afternoon. He was delivering those awful letters from the new laird, about the wind towers. I didn’t like him. He smelled of whisky and I had to stop Vincent from getting beaten up by him. I’m sure if I hadn’t been there he would have been violent.’

And as she recounted the meeting in Geordie Morrison’s cottage, Morag made notes.

‘Where is Geordie Morrison and his family?’ Morag asked.

‘We don’t know. I think with all the other tragedies that have been going on lately, we’re all a bit worried that something might have happened to them.’

‘What does your partner think of it all?’

At the question Megan suddenly burst into tears. Morag patted her hand and pushed a box of tissues across the desk to her. ‘I am sorry, Megan. Is there something upsetting you?’

‘It – it’s Nial. We had a row yesterday. Two actually, one in the morning and one when he got home last night. And he’s barely talked to me this morning. He was up and out before I woke.’

Morag made a note in her book. ‘Are you worried about him?’

Megan nodded. ‘Oh, I don’t think anything bad has happened to him. In fact, I think I know where he is. And who he’s with!’

Morag said nothing; experience having long since told her that people will often volunteer their information.

‘He will be with that vet, Katrina Tulloch. He drools over her. I know that now. He’s gone from my bed to hers.’

‘That isn’t something that I can do anything about, I am afraid.’

‘No, but perhaps you ought to know about him. He’s not exactly the harmless bird officer that everyone thinks. He’s opinionated and he gets a bee in his bonnet about things. When he does that he can be … tenacious.’

‘I don’t follow?’

‘We first met at an animal rights meeting.’

‘Go on,’ Morag urged.

‘He used to be an activist. He—’

‘Has he a record, Megan? Is that what you are saying?’

Megan bit her lip as if she was having an internal argument as to what she should divulge. Then, finally, ‘He told me that he once fire-bombed the warehouse of a factory that was involved in supplying a laboratory with animals for animal experimentation.’

Lachlan stood looking out of the window of Alistair McKinley’s cottage, a glass of whisky in his hand. ‘It is a magnificent view that you have here. I hadn’t realized that you had such a good sight of the old lighthouse.’

‘Aye, and from the other side of the house we’ll soon be able to see all these wind towers that fool of a laird is planning.’

‘Are you sure that it is all legal, though, Alistair? Have you had it checked out? I am no expert, but I would have thought he would have at least needed planning permission rather than just hoicking them up.’

Alistair sipped his whisky. ‘Rhona usually saw to all the business and legal side of the Wee Kingdom. I suppose one of us will have to see to it now.’

There was a knock on the open door and Wallace Drummond popped his head round the frame. ‘Ah Padre, we were not expecting to see you here.’

His brother Douglas appeared beside him. ‘It is Alistair McKinley that we are needing to see.’

‘Come away in lads,’ the old crofter urged. ‘We were having a dram. Will you have one too? In memory of my lad.’

Wallace shook his head with a pained expression. ‘I am sorry. We would have loved to join you, but we are here on duty. Our sergeant sent us on an errand. It’s a bit tricky.’

‘Out with it then,’ said Alistair.

Douglas pointed to the shotgun bag leaning against the wall. ‘We have been told that we are to confiscate your guns. Until further notice, the West Uist Police have put a ban on any hedgehog cull on the island.’

Jock McArdle and Danny Reid were watching the evening Scottish TV news in the large sitting-room at Dunshiffin Castle while they waited for Jesmond to call them to dinner.

‘See that Kirstie Macroon, boss,’ Danny said with a slightly lascivious tone as he handed his employer a whisky and lemonade. ‘Liam fair fancied her.’

The redheaded newsreader went through the headlines while they sat and drank. Then the backdrop behind her changed to a picture of Dunshiffin Castle.

‘Here that’s us!’ exclaimed Danny Reid. ‘We’re on the news!’

Jock McArdle waved his hand irritably and sat upright. ‘Let’s listen then.’

‘And now to West Uist and the revelation by the editor of the West Uist Chronicle that the death yesterday of Liam Sartori, one of the employees of the new owner of the Dunshiffin Castle estate was not due to an eagle attack, as we previously reported, but was in fact due to – murder!

‘The local editor, Calum Steele is on the phone now.

Jock McArdle swallowed the rest of his whisky and lemonade and held the glass out to Danny Reid for a refill.

Then Calum Steele’s voice came over the television:

‘The new owner of Dunshffin Castle is himself causing quite a stir on the island. He has embarked upon a programme of windmill erection, which is of questionable legality.’

Jock McArdle cursed. ‘Careful you wee bastard!’ he said to the screen, which showed Kirstie Macroon nodding her head as she listened to Calum.

And our investigations have revealed that Mr McArdle has a cavalier approach to business. Today it can be revealed that whereas he is publicly proclaimed to be an ice cream and confectionary mogul, in fact he has many investments, most notably in a string of companies involved in animal research. He has previously been the target—’

Jock McArdle shot to his feet. ‘Get the Porsche. It’s time that wee busybody learned not to meddle in my business.’

Nial Urquart had just walked into the sitting-room of Katrina’s flat with a cup of coffee in his hand. He switched on the television and caught Calum Steele’s piece on the news.

‘Bastard!’ he exclaimed.

‘Who is a bastard?’ Katrina called through from the kitchen.

Nial flicked the channel control to the BBC. ‘Oh no one. Sorry for my language. It’s just my team. They lost in the league.’

Then he switched the television off.

The Bonnie Prince Charlie was busy as usual and Mollie McFadden and her staff were occupied with pulling pints of Heather Ale and dispensing whiskies. At the centre of the bar Calum Steele was holding court, clearly enjoying his newfound celebrity status on Scottish TV.

He was just telling an eager group of listeners for the third time how he had winkled out the information from the internet, when he felt a tap on his shoulder and then felt himself being whirled round.

‘I don’t allow anyone to broadcast my business affairs!’ Jock McArdle snapped.

‘And I’ve warned you once before, chubby,’ said Danny Reid, running a finger up and down the zip of Calum’s anorak. He looked aside at his employer who nodded his head.

Calum swallowed hard and held his chin up. ‘The press have a perfect right to keep the public informed.’

‘Is that so?’ Jock McArdle said, as Danny Reid grasping the zip fastener of Calum’s greasy yellow anorak. ‘Well, let me give you a friendly warning, Mr Calum Steele. In future you will keep your nose out of my affairs and you will be … respectful of my position.’ He leaned forward and took the fastener out of Danny Reid’s hand. ‘In other words – zip up!’

And he yanked the fastener all the way up and caught a tiny fold of Calum’s double chin in the zip.

Calum howled in pain.

‘Just a warning!’ McArdle said. ‘Good night everyone.’

As he and Danny Reid reached the door, Mollie McFadden’s voice rang out. ‘Aye, that’s the door Mr McArdle. Laird or no laird, you and your bodyguard are herewith banned! You are not welcome here again!’

Jock McArdle turned and sneered. ‘See, darling, that’s OK. Why would anyone want to drink in this hovel anyway? Good night and God bless.’

It was ten o’clock by the old grandmother clock in her sitting-room and Megan Munro had cried all evening. She had sent three texts to Nial Urquart and tried to phone him half-a-dozen times, but without success. So desperate had she felt that she had even contemplated trying to drink a glass of wine, but the thought alone revolted her. But music usually helped her, loud music to try to lift her mood. Yet not even Queen nor the Red Hot Chili Peppers could help. She turned off the CD player and went to switch off the lights. It was then that she thought she heard the sound of crackling, and smelled smoke.

She looked out of the window and saw the glow from Gordon MacDonald’s croft. The cottage was in flames and next to it, like a couple of beacons, the two wind towers were engulfed in flames.