chapter seventeen

Nial Urquart’s hair was dripping wet from his shower as he came into Katrina’s small sitting-room, a towel wrapped around his waist. Katrina was sitting in a silk dressing-gown with a mug of coffee in her hand as she watched the news flash on Scottish TV.

‘I thought you were going to make a great big fry-up after all our exertions of the night?’ he asked with a grin, as he slumped down beside her and wrapped an arm about her shoulders. ‘And right afterwards I’m going to sort things out with Megan.’

‘Just a minute, Nial,’ she said, raising a finger, her eyes wide with alarm, ‘This is important. There was a fire on the Wee Kingdom last night – and a death.’

‘A death? What? Who?’

Together they watched and listened to Kirstie Macroon’s conversation with Calum Steele.

‘Thank God it was none of the Wee Kingdom folk,’ whispered Katrina. She turned and looked at Nial. ‘This isn’t good, Nial. You ought to be there for Megan.’

But he was still watching the news as Kirstie Macroon talked to Jock McArdle, before signing off. ‘The bastard!’

‘Who?’ Katrina asked, bemusedly. She noted the sudden gleam of anger in his eyes.

‘McArdle! Him and his kind who profit out of suffering. It’s all his fault. And now he’s wanting police protection. Bastard!’

‘It must have happened very late last night. I think you had better get in touch with Megan. She’ll be frantic – as well as furious with us.’ She bit her lip. ‘It must have been awful. What did Calum Steele say, it was like a beacon, like the—’

She suddenly stood up and switched off the television. ‘Come on, Nial, we’ve got to get going. I’ve got a couple of visits to make then I have an operating session scheduled for this afternoon, and you need to go and talk to Megan.’

She disappeared into her room returning a few moments later after having thrown on a jumper and pulled on jeans and trainers. Nial watched her gather her case, a water bottle and then open a cupboard under the stairs and pull out a rifle bag.

‘Crikey, have you got to put some poor beast down?’ he asked with a humourless grin.

‘She nodded. ‘Always a possibility. Look Nial, could I borrow your boat?’

‘Sure, the keys are on the bedside table. It’s in the harbour, well-fuelled and ready.’

Katrina ducked back into the bedroom returning swiftly. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. ‘I need to rush. You talk to Megan. No, better still, you go and see her.’

He watched her through the window as she drove off in her van. He started humming as he flicked on the electric kettle and loaded a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

‘But first things first,’ he mused to himself, as he reached for his phone.

Torquil finished his call then pocketed his mobile phone. ‘That’s Calum Steele sorted,’ he said with a scowl.

‘How was he?’ Morag asked.

‘Peeved and a bit non-plussed. He feels that he has pulled off a major coup and performed a public service, and he was surprised to hear me say that I may be pressing charges on him as a police nuisance.’

‘And will you?’ asked Lachlan.

‘Of course not, but I just wanted to rattle him a bit, and get him off our case.’

Ralph McLelland had stood up and was packing his bag. ‘I feel a bit guilty there actually, Torquil. He collared me at breakfast and pumped me for information. I didn’t think he’d be straight on national news with it.’ He shook his head guiltily. ‘And I’m afraid I’ve got to be off. I have a surgery soon.’

Once he had gone, Torquil addressed the others. ‘Right, we’ve got a number of leads to follow up. First—’

He was interrupted by the phone ringing on the station counter. Morag went through to answer it. They waited until she answered it and came back.

‘That was Nial Urquart,’ she volunteered. ‘He says that he’s worried about Katrina Tulloch, the vet. She’s just left her flat in a hurry – he’d stayed the night he told me – and she’s taken some sort of a rifle. He says she looked preoccupied and went off as soon as she heard that news bulletin this morning.’

‘Calum again!’ said Torquil. And then after a moment’s thought, ‘But what could there be in that news bulletin to worry her?’

‘There’s more,’ said Morag. ‘She’s taken the keys of his boat.’

‘We’d better get after her and see what’s going on,’ said Torquil.

‘We’ll go,’ said Wallace standing up. ‘Shall we take the Seaspray?’

Morag stood in his way. ‘No, with respect, I think I should go. I know her better than you. She’s a woman and I’ve talked to her already. I know she’s a bit confused at the moment.’

Torquil nodded. ‘I agree; Morag should go.’

‘And I’ll keep her company, shall I?’ suggested Lachlan. ‘Better two people in the Seaspray catamaran.’ Then as she was about to remonstrate, he added, ‘Remember that Ewan went missing after going off on his own.’

‘Uncle Lachlan is right, Morag. Away you go. We’ll sort out the rest of the tasks.’

Vincent was feeling exhausted and guilty after a sleepless night. After taking Megan back to her croft he had listened to her rant about Nial Urquart’s betrayal. He had wiped her tears away, and together they had speculated about the cause of the fire. At about five in the morning they had drunk a couple of whiskies and each become aware of the chemistry that had been threatening to bubble to the surface for several months.

She kissed him and he recoiled.

‘Katrina, I’m old enough to be your—’

She silenced him with another kiss. And then another.

‘But what about you and Nial?’

‘There is no me and Nial now.’

And then they moved to the bedroom where they stayed, cocooned from the world by their love-making, until the cockerel and the geese roused them back to reality, and the ever-increasing problems that surrounded them. But now their love-making was like a drug and the hours seemed to drift by until Vincent finally heaved himself out of bed and started to pull on his clothes.

‘I don’t want you to go, Vincent,’ Megan pleaded, and she insisted that he stay for breakfast. As she prepared food and boiled the kettle, Vincent settled down on the settee and turned on the television. As they ate, they watched the morning farming programme, which was interrupted by the news bulletin from Kirstie Macroon. They sat and watched in horrified silence.

‘Oh my God,’ gasped Megan. ‘What is happening to this place? It is all falling apart. She leaned forward and put her hand on his. ‘But at least I have you to protect me now.’

Vincent shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Megan. It doesn’t feel right.’

‘It feels very right to me.’

‘What should we do, Megan?’

She wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘We need time to talk and see where we’re going here. But I have a job to do first. Wait a minute.’

And she disappeared into her bedroom, coming back after a few minutes with a large holdall and a rucksack. ‘These are Nial’s,’ she said. ‘Will you help me load them in the car?’

‘I had better come too.’

‘No, I have to do this myself.’

He helped her pack up the car and watched her drive off into the swirling mist. Then he purposefully strode back to his croft. He had an important job of his own to do.

Alistair McKinley had watched the firemen battle to contain the fire, then withdrew and watched the police go about their business after they discovered the body. After they had taken it away Alistair went back to his croft and catnapped in his armchair before washing and breakfasting. Then as usual he went out and tended to his livestock and did some work on the loom. Half expecting a news report on the fire he went in for a cup of tea and turned on the old television in time to see Kirstie Macroon’s report. As he watched, he became more and more irate.

‘So much death!’ he whispered to himself. ‘And all down to him!’

Methodically clearing up his breakfast things he set about doing the other chores that he did not feel could wait, before going back to the outhouse that housed his loom. Pushing several boxes of wool aside he prised up the flagstone in the corner, reached into the hollow beneath and drew out the rifle wrapped in polythene. He unwrapped it, gave it the once over, then reached into the hollow again and drew out his father’s old hunting bag, which contained his spare ammunition.

‘Just one more job to finish,’ he mused. ‘And this is in your memory, Kenneth my lad.’

Five minutes later Alistair McKinley’s jeep disappeared into the mist, its red tail lights swiftly disappearing in the swirling yellow vapours.

Then a lone figure came round the side of the croft, heading swiftly across the ground towards the Morrison family croft. He sniffed the air as he went past it, heading up the rise towards Wind’s Eye croft. And he stood by the burned-out shell surrounded as it was by the plastic police tapes.

‘Just one bloody great mess!’ Geordie Morrison muttered to himself. ‘Someone’s going to pay for this. And I am going to see to that!’

Morag and Lachlan had arrived at the Seaspray catamaran berth just in time to see Nial Urquart’s motorboat disappear out of the harbour, heading northwards.

‘It’s a nippy little thing that she’s got there,’ said Morag, ‘but we’ll soon catch her.’

She donned a waterproof and life-jacket and started the Seaspray up while Lachlan untied the mooring ropes and then boarded beside her. ‘Aye, as long as she doesn’t disappear into the mists,’ he said, as he donned waterproofs and life-jacket, while Morag went through preparations to leave harbour. ‘Have you any idea where she may be headed?’

‘None at all. But what worries me most is why she feels she might need a gun at sea.’

As she expertly manoeuvred out of the harbour before accelerating northwards it looked as if Lachlan’s fears might be correct. Already the boat had disappeared into the misty waters.

Morag switched on the radar and moments later she had a blipping image on the screen in front of her. ‘We can’t see her, but she’s there right enough. And it looks as if she’s heading around the coast.’

‘Towards the Wee Kingdom, do you think?’ Lachlan asked.

‘Maybe,’ Morag replied. ‘Or possibly to Dunshiffin Castle.’

‘Wallace, I want you to go to the Wee Kingdom and make sure that Vincent Gilfillan, Alistair McKinley and Megan Munro don’t leave their crofts. We’ll want to take statements from them later. Douglas, I want you to find Nial Urquart and bring him back here.’

‘Are you going to question him, Piper?’ Douglas asked.

‘I am. But I’m going to go over things here first and get my thoughts in order. And I’d better give the superintendent a ring and put him in the picture.’

Once he was alone Torquil went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

Then with his cup in his hand he went through to the Incident Room and stared at the whiteboard.

Jock McArdle! And now he wanted police protection! He grinned. There was only him available to give that protection now. But protection against whom?

The answer came when the station telephone rang.

‘Emergency!’ The rasping whispered voice had an unmistakable Glaswegian twang. ‘This is Jock McArdle at Dunshiffin Castle. I need help now! There’s a nutter here – with a gun!’

There was the deafening noise of a gun being discharged, then a strangled cry, then silence.

‘Bugger!’ cursed Torquil. He dashed out, stopping only to pick up his helmet and his gauntlets. Moments later he was hurtling along the mist-filled Harbour Street on the Bullet.

Like many native West Uist women Katrina had been used to handling boats since she was a youngster. She knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing. Her heart was racing and she felt more anxious than she thought possible.

She was unaware that she was being pursued.

It seemed to take an interminable time as she raced through the mist as fast as she dared go. And she was always conscious of getting too close to the coastline, with its innumerable stacks, skerries and hidden rocks. But at last she saw the Wee Kingdom loom out of the mists, and she steered a course parallel with it until she rounded the western tip, where three successive basalt stacks jutted out of the sea. On the top of the most westerly one, was the ruins of the old West Uist lighthouse and the derelict shell of the keeper’s cottage. She headed straight for it, slowed the boat and manoeuvred to a stop by the aged jetty. Quickly tying up, she unsheathed her rifle from its bag and gathered her medical bag and water bottle. As she turned to look at the bleak ruins of the lighthouse, she felt a shiver of fear run up and down her spine.

She mounted the steps to the ruin, which was nowadays no more than the bare husk of a tower. The door had long since gone and the inside was full of collapsed masonry and years of guano from the gulls that even now were circling it, protesting noisily at a human presence. Then she turned her attention to the derelict lighthouse-keeper’s cottage. She went along its frontage, trying to see through the wooden shutters that had been nailed in place years before. And then she was at the door, staring at the new looking padlock.

Another shiver ran up her spine as she tested her weight against the unyielding door. She listened with her ear at the door, but heard nothing.

Except the noise of an engine approaching through the mist.

Who the hell was this?

She had no time or inclination to find out. She dropped her bag and water bottle and taking careful aim with the Steyr-Mannlicher rifle, she fired point blank at the lock.

Morag and Lachlan heard a popping noise as they approached.

‘What was that?’ Lachlan asked.

‘It sounded like a muffled gunshot,’ said Morag.

‘You mean a shot from a gun with a silencer?’ Lachlan queried. ‘We’d best be careful here, Morag.’

And minutes later, having tied up beside the motorboat on the jetty they made their way warily to the open door of the old lighthouse-keeper’s cottage. Just inside the door a rifle was propped up against the wall, while inside they saw Katrina Tulloch sobbing her heart out and leaning over a body lying face down on the floor.

The turrets and battlements of Dunshiffin Castle, the thirteenth-century stronghold of the MacLeod family, were lost in the mist as Torquil approached on his Royal Enfield Bullet. He stopped a hundred yards away and parked his machine by the side of the road and then advanced on foot. He had no intention of announcing his arrival, so he took to the grass verge and jogged along towards the bridge that crossed the moat. Unfortunately, there was no way of entering the castle by any other route, so he kept close to the walls of the gateway tower and thanked the mist for giving him some cover. Once in the gravel courtyard he stepped carefully in his stout Ashman boots so as to avoid announcing his presence.

On the way there he had stopped to call for back-up, but cursed when his phone failed to connect with any of his staff. He had thought of taking a detour to the phone box on the Arderlour road, but the sound of the gunshot when McArdle had called him had indicated the urgency of the matter. He knew that he would just have to use his wits and trust to the message he left in the voice box and his ingenuity.

There were no lights on, but one side of the large double front door was standing ajar. Torquil made his way towards it by following the courtyard wall and then climbing up the side of the steps to come at it from the side. He wrapped his goggles around the end of his baton and edged it into the doorway, using it like an angle mirror. Seeing nothing suspicious he crept through the door to stand in the hall as swirls of mist wisped through the door.

On the oak-panelled walls hung numerous stag heads, antlers, shields, with criss-crossed claymores and pikestaffs. On either side of the stairway leading up from the great hall stood empty suits of armour. Having been in the castle on numerous occasions over the years, as both guest and as a piper for formal occasions he knew his way about the place. But the thing that led him at the moment in the chilly atmosphere was the unmistakable smell of a gun having been discharged. As he stealthily crept up the staircase, passed the larger than life size portrait of the Jacobite laird, Donal MacLeod the odour became stronger. He reached the top of the stairs where twin galleries ran east and west with doors dotted along them and corridors at either end leading off into the interior of the castle. And there the smell was very strong. Grasping his baton he headed for the west wing.

All of the curtains were closed and the long corridor was almost in pitch blackness, except for a line of light coming from a door at the end of the corridor. Torquil knew that this used to be the billiard-room in the previous laird’s day. He stopped for a moment to take off his boots and then crept softly along the corridor in his stockinged feet. As he did so he heard a click then a muffled thud, like the sound of a billiard cue striking a ball followed by it thumping into a pocket of a billiard table. It was then, as his eyes accustomed to the extra darkness of the long corridor that he was aware of a figure ahead of him, creeping along the wall towards the door.

He stopped to watch as the figure reached the door, seemed to peer through the crack, then gingerly push the door open. As he did so the smell of a gunshot mixed with cigar smoke seemed to grow even stronger.

Then a voice cried out from the room, ‘Don’t move a muscle, Cardini!’

Torquil moved swiftly on his tiptoes towards the door. Inside he saw the back of a man dressed in a smoking jacket bent over the billiard-table, as if frozen in time having just played a shot. Just behind him, a man was standing with his feet wide apart, arms outstretched, both hands holding an automatic weapon, pointed directly at the back of the other’s head.

There was no time for thought. Torquil was in the room in a couple of strides. With a swift upward strike of his baton he knocked the man’s gun upwards, where it discharged with a deafening explosion, shattering a window. Then, moving swiftly before the man gained control of the gun, he brought the baton down sharply on the back of his head.

As the assailant fell face down, Torquil kicked the gun under the table, and then leaned down to turn him over.

He was surprised to see himself looking down at the unconscious figure of Vincent Gilfillan.

‘Thank God for the West Uist police!’ came Jock McArdle’s voice. ‘You know, McKinnon, I think you’ve saved me a job.’

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