Deathly Wind

chapter sixteen

Torquil eyed the laird of Dunshiffin with interest. The man was rattled, he could see that. He seemed genuinely shocked and upset, but anger lurked close to the surface.

‘How long will this post-mortem be?’ Jock McArdle demanded.

Torquil shrugged his shoulders. ‘An hour maybe and then there will be all the other tests. I would be hoping for a preliminary result some time this morning.’

‘What is it with this place, McKinnon? My two dogs and my two boys. All dead. All murdered. What are you doing about it?’

‘I am interviewing you for a start, Mr McArdle,’ Torquil replied evenly. ‘For one thing, we are not sure if Danny Reid was murdered. His death is just suspicious.’

‘Suspicious!’ McArdle snapped, showing his temper for the first time in the interview. ‘You saw the frazzled state he was in. Of course he was murdered.’

‘What was he doing at the Wee Kingdom last night?’ Torquil persisted.

‘How should I know?’

‘He is your employee – I mean he was your employee. I would have thought you might have known, especially after your other employee’s death.’

Jock McArdle sucked air noisily through his lips. ‘My boys are not in my employ twenty-four hours a day. I don’t know what he was doing last night. I expect he’d been for a few drinks. My boys liked a drink. And they were very close. I expect he went up there because he wanted to investigate Liam’s death.’ He leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him. ‘You lot don’t seem to have got very far. And that’s why I take grave exception to this cock-eyed ban on the ferries. I want some of my boys to come over here.’

‘The ban is necessary, Mr McArdle. We are investigating a murder, possibly two. There will be no movement on or off the island, neither by sea nor air. And there will be no exceptions.’

‘I don’t like your tone, lad! I’ve had whipper-snappers like you for breakfast.’

Torquil stared him hard in the eye. ‘You would find me most indigestible, Mr McArdle. Now tell me, what were you doing last night?’

McArdle’s cheek muscles twitched. ‘I was at home, in my castle, working on papers. Ask my butler Jesmond.’

‘I will be doing so, of course. But do you think it is possible that he could have been trying to start a fire in the croft cottage and been overcome by the flames and the smoke?’ He paused and rested his chin on his fist. ‘Perhaps he had been drinking as you suggested, and maybe drank too much?’

‘Naw!’ Jock McArdle replied emphatically. ‘My boys could both handle their drink. And there is no way that Danny would have played with fire.’

‘But that isn’t so, is it, Mr McArdle?’ said Torquil, reaching into a wire basket beside his left elbow. ‘We ran a check on your employees.’ He smoothed the paper in front of him. ‘They both had records. Liam Sartori for burglary and possession of drugs and Danny Reid for … arson!’

Jock McArdle leaned back and shrugged. ‘So what!’

‘So it is suggestive, isn’t it? A man with a criminal record for arson is found dead in a burning building.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, McKinnon. Danny wouldn’t have torched my property.’

‘That’s Inspector McKinnon, by the way,’ he corrected calmly. ‘In that case, do you have any idea why anyone would want to set fire to your property? Especially with one of your employees in it?’

The new owner of Dunshiffin Castle clenched his teeth. ‘I am a businessman. A bloody successful businessman. I have had enemies in the past and I seem to have enemies now.’

‘Why is that, Mr McArdle? Could it be because of the way that you do business?’

‘Now you are beginning to get my goat. I am a successful businessman. Say anything else and I’ll have your guts for garters – I’ll sue you and your tuppence ha’penny police outfit for defamation.’

Torquil stared back with his best poker face. ‘There is no defamation in my questioning, Mr McArdle. But since you are so sensitive, let me rephrase the question. You have a robust way of conducting your affairs. People on West Uist have called it bullying. Take those wind towers of yours, for example.’

‘All perfectly legal.’

‘I understand that the legality is under question,’ replied Torquil. ‘And then there were those letters you sent to the Wee Kingdom crofters. And the one that you delivered yourself to Rhona McIvor – who collapsed and died immediately afterwards.’

Jock McArdle frowned. ‘I regret her death, of course, but I hope you are not suggesting a connection between my letter and the McIvor woman’s death?’

‘It has been suggested that there may be a connection,’ Torquil returned, casually.

‘Who suggested it?’ McArdle snapped.

‘Doctor McLelland, our local GP and police surgeon.’

Jock McArdle shrugged dismissively. ‘A country quack!’

‘Dr Ralph McLelland is a highly respected doctor, and my friend.’

The new laird of Dunshiffin smirked. ‘I rest my case. Can I go now?’

Torquil eyed him coldly for a moment then glanced at the notes on the desk in front of him. ‘Yes, I’ll be in touch when I have more news, or if I have more questions for you.’

Jock McArdle nodded curtly, stood up and crossed to the door.

‘Oh yes,’ Torquil said, as the laird put his hand on the door handle. ‘You always referred to your employees as your boys. Were you actually related to either of them?’

McArdle shook his head. ‘Neither of them had any family. It’s just an expression. Glasgow talk. I’ve always looked out for my boys.’

‘Is that so?’ Torquil asked, innocently.

McArdle’s eyes smouldered. ‘I should have looked after them better, maybe. But I’ll be looking after their memory, you mark my words – Inspector McKinnon.’

He tugged the door handle and stomped out, almost knocking Lachlan McKinnon over as he did so.

‘Excuse me, Padre,’ he snapped, then left.

Lachlan came in and stood in front of Torquil’s desk. ‘Our new laird seems in a hurry to leave,’ he remarked.

‘I wish people wouldn’t call him the new laird,’ Torquil replied, with a hint of irritation. Then, noticing his uncle’s look of surprise, ‘Sorry, Uncle. It was just a difficult interview. He was not in a good mood, understandably, after he had to identify his employee’s body.’

Lachlan winced. ‘I heard from Morag that it wasn’t a pretty sight. Was he—’ Torquil’s telephone interrupted him and Torquil picked it up straight away. ‘Yes, Ralph,’ he said, into the receiver. He nodded as he listened. Then said eventually, ‘Aye, it would help if you could confirm it with the other tests. Half an hour, that would be great.’ He replaced the receiver just as Morag tapped on the door and came in.

‘I’m sorry, Uncle, what was your question?’

The Padre had plucked his pipe from his breast pocket and was in the process of charging it with tobacco. ‘I was wondering if he was murdered?’

Torquil sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. Ralph says it is definite. He looked up at Morag and explained: ‘That was Ralph just now with the preliminary findings. He thought that there were a couple of things that I ought to be aware of. Firstly, that there was enough alcohol in his system to sink a battleship.’

‘And secondly?’ Morag queried.

‘His trachea was crushed and his neck was broken at the fifth cervical vertebra. It was murder all right. Someone throttled him and then snapped his neck like a chicken’s.’

In the Incident room half an hour later, Torquil stood by the white board with the Padre beside him, while Morag, the Drummond twins and Ralph McLelland sat around the table-tennis table that had been converted into the operations desk.

‘I know it is irregular, but has anyone any objection to my Uncle Lachlan sitting in with us? We’re depleted in numbers and I think he could prove useful in our investigations.’

There was a chorus of approval, and Lachlan sat down, immediately laying his unlit pipe down on the table in front of him.

‘We’ll start with Ralph’s preliminary report,’ Torquil said.

‘As the police surgeon gave a brief synopsis of his post-mortem examination Torquil added the name Danny Reid to the whiteboard. He drew a square around the name and added relevant notes underneath:

ALCOHOL. THREE TIMES LEGAL LIMIT

BODY BADLY BURNED

MEDALLION IN MOUTH

MULTIPLE BODY PIERCINGS

BROKEN NECK – FIFTH CERVICAL VERTEBRA

‘Thanks, Ralph,’ Torquil said, as the local doctor finished his report and sat down. ‘So we have two definite murders here.’ He tapped the boxed names on the whiteboard and went on, ‘And a missing police officer – presumed dead, an entire family missing, an accidental death in a rock-climbing accident and a sudden death from a heart attack.’

‘A tangled skein, right enough,’ mused Wallace Drummond. ‘And don’t forget the two dead dogs, Piper.’

The Padre picked up his pipe and tapped the mouthpiece against his teeth. ‘And it all seems to revolve around Jock McArdle.’

‘Who can hardly be a suspect though, can he?’ said Douglas Drummond. ‘He wouldn’t be killing his own boys, would he?’

Torquil nodded. ‘Ah yes, his boys. Well, while I was interviewing him earlier this morning Morag was busy on the internet doing some research and liaising with her contacts on the Glasgow force. She has made some interesting discoveries about the “laird of Dunshiffin”. He isn’t quite who he seems.’ He nodded to his sergeant, and then sat down.

‘He certainly isn’t,’ went on Morag. ‘Mr Jock McArdle died ten years ago.’

There was a chorus of surprised murmurings.

‘Do you mean identity theft?’ Lachlan asked.

‘Not exactly. There was a Jock McArdle in Glasgow, but he had nothing to do with our supposed laird. No, he quite legitimately changed his name by deed-poll ten years ago from Giuseppe Cardini.’

‘The plot thickens,’ said Wallace Drummond.

‘But why did he change his name?’ Douglas asked.

Morag stared back at him with raised eyebrows. ‘Presumably it was because he had just come out of prison after five years – for culpable homicide!’

The first thing that Jock McArdle did when he arrived back at Dunshiffin Castle was to pour himself a large malt whisky, which he gulped down in one. Then he poured another and carried it through to the library which he used as an office. He sat down behind the leather-topped desk, cluttered with papers and gadgets, and unlocked the desk drawer. He stared inside for a moment then smiled and reached for the telephone.

Superintendent Lumsden answered almost immediately and the two men talked animatedly for a few minutes.

‘McKinnon is a bit of a maverick, I know,’ Superintendent Lumsden said eventually. ‘But I’ll make sure that he plays ball.’

‘I appreciate it, Kenneth. We Glasgow boys have to stick together, especially in a situation like this.’ And after a few pleasantries he replaced his phone on the hook.

He took another sip of whisky and smiled to himself. He was still grinning when there was a tap on the door and he looked up.

‘May I offer you my most sincere condolences, Mr McArdle,’ said his butler.

Jock McArdle leaned back and gestured for him to come in. He smiled wistfully. ‘Thank you, Jesmond. Take a seat. Let’s not be so formal. That’s not my way, you see.’

‘Thank you, sir. I realize that you like informality, sir,’ he said, gingerly taking a seat on the other side of the desk from his employer.

‘So from now on, I’m going to call you Norman. That’s OK, isn’t it?’

Norman Jesmond smiled uncertainly. ‘That’s good of you, sir. It is a privilege, sir.’

Jock McArdle smiled. ‘Well, Norman, there’s something that I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. Something I found in the pantry.’

The butler swallowed hard, conscious that little beads of perspiration had begun to form on his brow. ‘In … in the pantry, sir?’

‘Aye, in the pantry, sir!’ Jock McArdle repeated abruptly; then leaning forward his hand dipped into the open drawer and came out again with a tin that he placed on the desk. ‘And I wanted to talk about my dogs, Dallas and Tulsa – and this tin of – arsenic, I think!’

‘I – er – don’t understand, sir.’

The butler’s eyes widened as Jock McArdle’s hand again dipped into the drawer and came out again, but this time with a short-barrelled revolver. He laid it carefully on the desk beside the tin.

‘Aye, let’s talk about my dogs and how they may have had some of this … arsenic,’ he said in an unnervingly quiet and calm voice.

Torquil groaned when Morag told him that Superintendent Lumsden was on the telephone again.

‘Your laird is mightily displeased with your attitude, McKinnon, and I have to admit that I think he’s got a point. He is thinking of lodging an official complaint. He feels that you were heavy-handed with him this morning when he identified his employee.’

Torquil had felt his temper rise as his superior officer used the word ‘laird’ again.

‘We have information about McArdle, sir. He isn’t what—’

‘Inspector McKinnon,’ Superintendent Lumsden interrupted, ‘you seem to have a problem with Jock McArdle, I realize that. But just let me tell you, he is an influential man.’

‘You mean he has a lot of money, Superintendent?’

The voice on the other end of the line sounded as if it now came through gritted teeth. ‘I mean that he has powerful friends. You would do well to realize that, Inspector. Two of his employees have been killed and he wants police protection.’

Torquil gasped. ‘Protection?’

‘That’s right. And I said you would see to it. So see to it and keep me informed about the case.’

There was a click and Torquil found himself staring at a dead line again.

Moments later he relayed the superintendent’s message to the Incident Room.

‘The man is a fool,’ said the Padre, voicing his disbelief.

‘Didn’t you tell him about Morag’s information, Torquil?’ Ralph McLelland asked.

Torquil shook his head. ‘I didn’t really have time. The superintendent rarely listens. Besides, I’m not sure that he needs to know just yet.’

‘Be careful, laddie. Remember that the superintendent had it in for you in the past,’ said his uncle.

Torquil nodded. ‘I’ll be careful, Uncle.’

He looked at Morag. ‘Go on now, Morag. Tell us about McArdle, or Cardini.’

‘Well, my contacts at Glasgow told me that Giuseppe Cardini served five years in Barlinnie Prison in Glasgow for culpable homicide. But apparently it was touch and go as to whether he went down for the murder of one Peter Mulholland, one of the twins who jointly ran one of the biggest gangs in the Glasgow area. They were into drugs, prostitution and extortion in the city. Giuseppe Cardini was thought to have murdered Peter Mulholland, although he claimed it was self-defence.’

Morag looked up at the assembled men in the room. ‘And now comes the interesting bit. The police had been put onto him by an investigative journalist who had infiltrated the gang that Cardini worked for. Her name was Rhona McIvor.’

Ralph gasped. ‘Well, I’m damned! I knew that she was a writer of sorts, but I didn’t know she was into that sort of writing.’

‘I thought I might be able to get a copy of her article off the internet, but I couldn’t access it,’ went on Morag. ‘But I did manage to get a copy faxed from the records department. I have a cousin who works there. It was her first job of the day.’ She opened a file and pushed a copy of the article across the desk for Torquil to see. ‘I’ve highlighted a few interesting bits,’ she pointed out. ‘Matthew Mulholland, the other twin, had also claimed to have been attacked by someone, and a bullet-riddled car was pulled out of the River Clyde.

‘So Cardini went to prison and while he was inside Luigi Dragonetti, the head of the gang, died of a heart attack. When Cardini was finally released, he just disappeared for a few months. It was then that he changed his name by deed-poll to Jock McArdle. And somehow he seemed to have been able to finance himself in the confectionary business, although the Glasgow police believe, and still believe but have been unable to prove, that he made his money through vice and extortion.’

‘But what about the other gang?’ Torquil asked, as he scanned Rhona’s article.

‘Mathew Mulholland, the surviving twin, died of a stroke on his way home from a Celtic match a week after Cardini reinvented himself as McArdle. Apparently he ran his Mercedes into a wall. Somehow the gang just disappeared – or rather a lot of the gang “went straight” and ended up on the new Jock McArdle’s payroll. He just went from strength to strength, invested in several companies and became a millionaire.’

‘And what about this animal rights thing?’ the Padre asked.

‘Ah yes, that was one of his companies. They bred mice, rats and guinea pigs and supplied them to several university and government laboratories. Highly lucrative, until they attracted the attention of animal rights activists. Unluckily for them!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Torquil, raising his head from the article.

‘There is nothing concrete to go on here, but apparently there was an active cell of animal rights activists operating in the south of Scotland. There were a couple of attacks on the homes of some of the McArdle company workers, and even a fire-bomb attack on Jock McArdle’s house. A few weeks later a couple of bodies turned up in the river. They were identified as being members of the animal rights cell.’

The Padre whistled softly. ‘Not a nice chap, it seems. And now he says he wants police protection.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Well, I should let him wait a while if I were you. What about Sartori and Reid? Where do they fit in?’

Torquil tapped the article in front of him. ‘I am thinking that they were what Rhona called enforcers or punishers. That is how she described Cardini when he was a young man. That would certainly fit with their bully-boy antics on West Uist.’

Wallace Drummond raised a hand. ‘Excuse me, but what was the significance of the bullet-riddled car?’

Morag shrugged. ‘I am not sure. Rhona made the point that the Mulhollands had probably killed whoever was in that car.’

‘But was there was no body?’ Douglas asked.

‘No body, so no charge against Matthew Mulholland. He denied any connection. It was only supposition that it was connected. False number plates and everything. But inside the glove pocket they found a gun, a Mauser, and a library book about guinea pigs.’

‘Guinea pigs?’ repeated Wallace.

‘Could that be the animal rights folk again?’ his brother asked.

‘The police checked and the book had been taken out by someone called Enrico Mercanti, who was on the Dragonetti gang payroll. The police think that he was a fellow punisher with Cardini-McArdle.’

Torquil stood up and went over to the whiteboard, and added a few more notes under Jock McArdle’s name.

CARDINI

PUNISHER

PRISON – 5 YEARS

ANIMAL RIGHTS CELL – BODIES FOUND

He drew a line between McArdle’s name and Rhona and added a balloon with the word ARTICLE inside.

‘Cardini to McArdle. Sounds similar, as if he wanted to retain the sound of his name. So does the Italian connection have more significance than we thought?’ He suddenly snapped his fingers and added in capital letters the word FAMILY to the notes under McArdle’s name. Then he drew a line from there to the notes relating to Ewan McPhee’s diary, where the same word stood out prominently.

‘Could Ewan have been meaning this family, McArdle’s family?

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Piper?’ Ralph asked.

‘Maybe! If you are thinking the word – mafia?’

Everyone started speaking at once, as the possibility hit home. But Torquil had been scrutinizing the ever-more complex spider web diagram that had been gradually developing. ‘There is something here,’ he mused, tracing out lines in his mind.

‘Look there!’ he cried, tapping the board under Rhona’s name. ‘CARD IN! We’ve assumed she had written a message about a card. I reckon she was writing Cardini! But why? What else was she trying to write?’

The phone rang and Morag answered it. ‘That was Calum Steele,’ she said a few moments later. ‘He was wanting to tell us to turn on the television. Scottish TV have a bulletin scheduled for the next few minutes.’

And as Wallace switched on the station television and found the channel, they found themselves confronted by Kirstie Macroon sitting at a desk behind which was a picture of the Kyleshiffin harbour. In a small square at the top of the picture was a smiling photograph of Calum Steele, to whom Kirstie was talking over a phone link.

‘And have we any idea who the dead man was, Calum?’

‘We have indeed, Kirstie. It was a man called Danny Reid, and he was in the employ of Jock McArdle, the Glaswegian millionaire who bought himself Dunshiffin Castle.’

‘And you say that the wind towers around the house were burning, as well as the cottage?’

‘It was awful, Kirstie. They were burning like beacons all night. It must have been a brighter sight from the sea than the old lighthouse itself. An inferno! And arson, without a shadow of doubt.’

‘And are the police treating the death of Danny Reid as suspicious?’

‘They have launched a murder investigation straight away. My old schoolfriend, Inspector Torquil McKinnon is leading the inquiry.’

‘Thank you, Calum. I am sure we will be in touch.’

‘My pleasure, Kirstie. I just view it as my duty to make the public aware of the news and do what I can to help the police.’

‘Thank you again, Calum.’

Calum Steele’s voice was heard again, but immediately cut off as Kirstie Macroon deftly continued with her bulletin.

‘That was Calum Steele, the editor of the West Uist Chronicle who has been keeping us up to date on the current story about the windmills of West Uist. So now—’

She stopped in mid-sentence and touched her earpiece.

‘Ah, I am just informed that we have been able to contact Mr McArdle, the new laird of Dunshiffin, and the man at the heart of the wind farm scheme.’

A picture of Jock McArdle on the day that he took possession of Dunshiffin Castle appeared, replacing that of Calum Steele.

‘McArdle, we understand that tragedy has afflicted you twice lately and we offer our condolences. Regarding the wind towers—’

She never finished her sentence. Jock McArdle’s thick Glaswegian accent broke out and continued in a staccato barrage of anger.

‘My wind towers have been criminally burned down and two of my employees have been murdered. This island should be called the Wild West, not West Uist! I am under attack here, and I have a pretty damned good idea who is behind it all – and why! I have been on the telephone this morning to the highest police officer I could contact and I demand police protection straight away. Meanwhile I am locking myself away in Dunshiffin Castle, and then I’m going to put the police straight. I’ll get justice for my boys.’

The phone went dead and Kirstie Macroon picked up again, as a photograph of Dunshiffin Castle now took up the backdrop behind her.

‘As you have just heard, Mr McArdle feels that the situation in West Uist is becoming highly dangerous and he has asked for police protection. This is Kirstie Macroon for Scottish TV. We hope to have more information on the lunchtime news.’

Wallace turned the sound down.

‘The wee fool,’ cursed Douglas, his brother. ‘What does Calum Steele think he’s playing at, giving out information like that on national news?’

‘Och, he’s a journalist, Douglas. You know well enough what he’s like.’

‘Well I think he’s a pain in the backside,’ persisted Wallace.

‘He’s worse than that, I’m afraid,’ said Torquil. ‘He may not realize it, but he may have just signed someone’s death warrant. Jock McArdle sounded as though he was preparing to pull up his drawbridge against a siege.’