Deathly Wind

chapter three

The Macbeth ferry The Laird o’ the Isles slowly loomed out of the morning mist and manoeuvred into the crescent-shaped harbour of Kyleshiffin. As the great landing doors slowly and noisily descended to allow the walking passengers to disembark before the inevitable cavalcade of traffic, Sergeant Morag Driscoll blew into her hands and stamped her feet. She felt cold and shivery, and not just because of the outside temperature. She was waiting for her boss, Inspector Torquil McKinnon, to return to the island after his extended leave. And she did not relish the news that she had to give him.

‘Morag! I thought I would find you here,’ came the Padre’s booming voice. She turned to see Torquil’s uncle hurrying along the harbour to join her, his mane of white hair blown awry.

‘Lachlan, have you been on that motor bike of yours without a helmet again?’ she chided him with a smile. ‘You know full well it’s the law.’

‘Och Morag Driscoll, I was in a hurry to meet Torquil. He’s been away a good long while, you know.’

‘I know, Padre, and I was just teasing.’ Her face became serious again. ‘How is Rhona?’

Lachlan clicked his tongue. ‘As well as can be expected. Doctor McLelland has her trussed up with wires all over the place and a monitor that bleeps every second. There’s a no-smoking policy in the cottage hospital and she’s threatening to discharge herself because of that alone. She hasn’t had a cigarette since the wake yesterday. That’s an age and a half for Rhona.’

‘Is it a heart attack, then?’

He nodded. ‘Her third. She’s going to have to take it steady from now on.’

‘Not easy when you work a croft in the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Not easy when your name is Rhona McIvor, you mean.’

‘It sounds as if the new laird of Dunshiffin Castle is causing quite a stir in the Wee Kingdom. There are a lot of rumours going around.’

They moved aside as a stream of walking passengers disembarked from the ferry, fully expecting that Torquil would be among the motor cyclists that were usually permitted off ahead of the heavier vehicles. Half-a-dozen motorcyclists rode down the gangway with much gunning of engines, but there was no Torquil. Instead, a large container lorry edged off.

‘I wonder if he isn’t coming after all,’ mused the Padre.

Morag bit her lip. ‘I hope he comes soon, Padre, or I’m in a fix. There’s only me and the Drummond twins to run the show, and they’re only special constables.’

‘Aye, and they have their fishing business to run,’ the Padre agreed.

The container lorry stopped and the driver wound his window down. ‘Excuse me, darling,’ he called to Morag. ‘Are you with the police?’

Morag smiled up at the man, a large fairly good-looking man with a pony-tail and tattoos on hefty forearms. She understood his question since the West Uist division of the Hebridean constabulary had a fairly liberal attitude towards uniform. She was dressed in jeans and trainers, the only indication that she was in the force being the blue Arran pullover with three small white stripes on the right sleeve. ‘Right this minute I am the police. What can I do for you?’

The man nodded at a swarthy, surly-looking youth wearing a red baseball cap sitting in the cab beside him. ‘Me and the young un here need to find a place called the Wee Kingdom. We’ve got a consignment for the Laird of Dunshiffin.’ He grinned and winked at her, adding, ‘It’s the first of many. I’ll be coming here fairly regularly you ken.’

Morag was a pretty, thirty-something, single mother of three. She recognized the man’s unsubtle meaning and treated it with the contempt she thought it deserved. ‘Follow the road past Loch Hynish, then turn left at the big T junction. The Wee Kingdom is signposted from there. Watch out for the sheep by the roadsides and don’t exceed the speed limit at any time. My colleagues are out with the mobile speed cameras today and we always prosecute.’

His charm having failed to impress her, the smile vanished from his face. He muttered a remark to the silent youth beside him then looked back at Morag, tapped his forehead and started off again.

‘That was a wee bit harsh, was it not, Sergeant Driscoll,’ said Lachlan with mock severity. Then before she could reply he pointed to the side of the lorry as it passed. It bore a large picture depicting a row of windmills linked by lightning bolts. Underneath in red lettering were the words: NATURE’S OWN ENERGY.

‘So it’s really going to happen, is it?’ Morag asked. ‘The new laird is going to build a wind farm.’

A stream of cars followed the lorry off, drowning out the Padre’s reply. Then the all too familiar noise of Torquil McKinnon’s Royal Enfield Bullet was gunning its way down the ramp towards them. He was wearing his usual goggles and Cromwell helmet and looked tanned and healthy, despite several days’ growth of stubble. He swung the classic motor bike up onto the harbour road and dismounted. He swept Morag off her feet in a warm hug and then pumped his uncle’s hand.

‘I’m so glad that you two are here to meet me.’

‘Torquil, we need to—’ began Morag.

‘I’ve been with the Tartan Army in Belgium,’ Torquil went on. ‘There were about a dozen of us with our pipes,’ he said, pointing to the pannier on the Bullet, from whence his travel sticker-covered bagpipe case was protruding. ‘The football wasn’t up to much, but that Roi Baudouin stadium in Brussels is something else. And the Belgians just love the kilts and the pipes. It was just the break that I needed.’

‘Torquil, Morag has—’

‘And then I caught the ferry from Zeebrugge back to Rosyth and just tootled up the East coast. I even managed to take in a couple of Highland Games Days.’

He clapped his uncle on the shoulder. ‘I won a pibroch cup at Strathpeffer and a Strathspey at Dornoch. I’ve had lots of time to think things over and I’ve made a decision: I’m leaving the force.’

Morag and the Padre stared at each other in astonishment.

‘But you can’t leave, Torquil!’ Morag exclaimed.

But her inspector put an arm about her shoulder. ‘I know, we’ve been through a lot together, Morag. But it will all be for the best. After Fiona’s death I need to move on. I want you to be happy for me. And I—’

The Padre grabbed his nephew’s wrist and held it firm. ‘Torquil, hold your breath for a minute and listen to Morag.’

Torquil turned to his sergeant and raised an eyebrow quizzically. Then he realized how pained she looked. He felt a shiver of anticipation run up and down his spine.

‘Torquil you can’t leave,’ said Morag, her voice quaking. ‘Ewan is missing! He’s gone!’

Torquil stared from one to the other, his dark, handsome features registering bewilderment. ‘Gone? Gone where?’

The Padre put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This is the fourth day since he disappeared.’ He took a deep breath; then, ‘We think he’s drowned.’

Ten minutes later in his office in the Kyleshiffin Police Station off Kirk Wynd, with a mug of hot, sweet tea in front of him, Torquil listened in shocked amazement as Morag recounted all that they knew about Ewan’s disappearance.

‘He was on the morning round of the islands and due back at ten o’clock, but he never showed up. The Drummond twins were out fishing and found the Seaspray catamaran drifting beyond the Cruadalach isles at about two in the afternoon.’

‘And Ewan?’

Morag shook her head. ‘There was no sign of him. The boat was just drifting and had run out of fuel.’ Her normally unflappable visage was showing signs of strain. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘We think that he must have tumbled overboard.’

Torquil rubbed his eyes and sighed. ‘It’s not possible, Morag. Ewan McPhee, the Western Isles hammer-throwing champion, who’s been a strong swimmer since he was a lad – there’s no way that he could have just fallen overboard. And even if he had, he would have pulled himself back on board, no bother.’

‘We’ve agonized over all that ourselves, Torquil,’ the Padre pointed out. ‘But if the boat had been moving fast—’

‘And he may not have been well, Torquil,’ said Morag. ‘There was blood on the side of the catamaran.’

Torquil eyed her quizzically. ‘You think he may have banged his head and fallen overboard?’

‘No I think he may have had one of his nose-bleeds. You know how prone he is to them when he’s stressed.’

‘And how squeamish he is,’ the Padre added.

Morag went on, ‘The Drummonds notified me immediately and they tried to retrace the route of the Seaspray, but they could only guess at the direction he had taken. I called out the coastguard helicopter from Benbecula and the RAF at Macrahanish despatched two Sea Kings – they spent two days looking for his body. They combed the whole area but found no trace of him. And you know full well that’s what usually happens. We are waiting day by day to hear about the body washing up somewhere along the coast or on one of the islands.’

Torquil picked up his mug of tea and began pacing the room. He sipped it, thinking of the many gallons of stewed tea that Ewan had made him over the years. ‘I just can’t believe it. He was my friend.’

‘He was a good friend to all of us, Torquil,’ Morag said. ‘The Drummonds are both cut up about it and even Calum Steele has been writing sentimental pieces in the West Uist Chronicle about him.’ She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Now do you see why you can’t go resigning? I need you, Torquil.’

He turned and smiled down at her. Like Ewan McPhee, Morag was a good friend, as well as being his sergeant. He noticed how tired and drained she looked. And how much weight she had lost, although now he realized that it must have been from worry. He gave her a big hug. ‘Och, of course I won’t leave, Morag – for now anyway.’ He released her, then asked, ‘How is Jessie, his mother?’

The Padre struck a light to his pipe despite the prominent No Smoking notices scattered all over the station. ‘She’s struggling, Torquil. But she’s a tough old lady. She lost her husband in a fishing-boat accident when Ewan was only five, so it’s bound to be stirring up old wounds.’ He sighed. ‘But until the Fatal Accident Enquiry, whenever that is, we can do nothing.’

‘Poor Ewan, he’d been through the mill, hadn’t he?’ Torquil said. ‘What with that last relationship and everything.’

‘A relationship may have had something to do with this, Piper,’ said Morag, using the name that Torquil was often known by throughout the island. ‘You know how involved Ewan can get? Well, I think he had fallen head over heels. His mind hasn’t been on the job for days. The trouble was, I don’t think the lassie knew exactly how much he felt for her.’

‘Who is she?’ Torquil queried.

‘Katrina Tulloch – the new vet.’

Torquil nodded his head as he put the face to the name. ‘Old Tam Tulloch’s niece. I met her a couple of times before I left. She’s a bonnie lassie, right enough.’

The Padre blew smoke ceiling-wards. ‘Actually, I think she did know he liked her, Morag. She was upset yesterday at Gordon MaDonald’s wake. She left in a hurry after Kenneth McKinley said something to her about there not being many police officers left on West Uist.’

‘Gordon MacDonald is dead?’ Torquil repeated.

‘Aye, from a stroke. That was Ralph McLelland’s opinion, and he’d been Gordon’s GP for years. He’d been dead for a couple of days before he was found. Rhona McIvor discovered him when he didn’t show up to help her with the geese.’ He shook his head. ‘And now poor Rhona is in the cottage hospital herself after having another heart attack.’

And he told Torquil about the events at the wake.

‘So the new laird, this Jock McArdle, is really going to set up a wind farm?’ Torquil asked in disbelief. ‘Here on West Uist? There will be an outcry.’

‘Morag and I just saw the first one,’ said the Padre. ‘That lorry that just came off before you looked as if it was carrying the components for a windmill.’

‘I can’t believe that all this has happened since I went away,’ said Torquil with a sad shake of the head. ‘Especially Ewan falling in love again. And falling overboard and drowning.’

‘We’re all trying to get our heads round it, laddie,’ agreed the Padre.

At that very moment Katrina Tulloch, the veterinary surgeon in question, was not feeling at all caring towards one of her patients. She had been feeling tense and on edge ever since Ewan had disappeared. She knew perfectly well that the big constable had fallen for her, but over the last couple of weeks he had seemed to be preoccupied with something and his attitude towards her had been slightly strained, as if he was suspicious of her.

God! How do I get myself in such emotional messes? she mentally chided herself. Without any active encouragement she had seemed to have had at least three men fawning over her since she had taken over her uncle’s practice. And she had felt torn and confused to say the least. Which of them did she really want? Dammit, it was all so bloody—

Her wandering attention was brought back to bear on the large dog that had begun to snarl at her again.

‘Zimba has always been a wee bit protective of his bottom,’ explained the dog’s owner, Annie McConville, one of Kyleshiffin’s renowned eccentrics. She ran a dog sanctuary that covered the whole of the Western Isles, and she was an almost daily visitor at both the local police station, where she would lodge complaints about local ordinances, and the local veterinary practice with at least one of her many canine charges. Zimba was a large Alsatian who had developed a limp over the preceding week, which had done nothing for his somewhat mercurial disposition.

‘I think I’ll have to take him in for a general anaesthetic, Miss McConville,’ Katrina said, edging backwards, peeling off her latex rubber gloves as she did so. ‘Zimba isn’t going to let me near enough to examine that abscess.’

‘Oh, so it is an abscess that he has? And there was me thinking it was just a bad case of worms again. He sits down and pulls himself along to scratch his bottom a lot.’

Katrina smiled uncertainly, scarcely believing that Annie McConville hadn’t seen the abscess as large as a duck’s egg to the left of the Alsatian’s anus. Attempting to examine the brute had almost cost her a couple of fingers.

‘I’ll make an appointment then shall I, Miss Tulloch?’ Annie asked, alternately stroking the Alsatian and tugging on the chain leash to encourage him off the examination table.

‘Just see Jennie at the reception and we’ll get him in tonight. He’ll need an operation tomorrow.’

The Alsatian jumped down and yowled with pain.

‘See, he’s not liking that proposition,’ said Annie.

And while Katrina sprayed the table with disinfectant and then washed her hands in preparation for her next client, she mused that in many ways human medicine seemed preferable to veterinary work.

‘Hi, Katrina,’ came a familiar male voice.

She spun round at once, her face registering surprised joy, which was quickly suppressed by professional bedside manner. ‘Oh Nial,’ she said, on recognizing the Scottish Bird Protection officer-cum smallholder. He was holding a cage containing a young fulmar. ‘You sounded just like someone else.’

Nial Urquart pressed his lips together. ‘I’m, sorry, Katrina. You mean Ewan McPhee, don’t you?’

Katrina shook her head and smiled dismissively. ‘Forget it. What can I do for you, Nial? A wounded fulmar is it?’

The bird protection officer nodded and laid the cage on the table. He undid the front grille and, reaching in gingerly, removed the bird.

‘Just hold her on the table, will you, while I give her the once over,’ Katrina said. And swiftly and skilfully she assessed her patient. ‘She’s been lucky,’ she announced. ‘She’s got a pretty bloodstained wing, but the wound is superficial. No bone damage that I can find.’ She looked up at him, instantly aware that his eyes had been roving appreciatively over her upper torso. She pretended not to notice, instead asking, ‘What was it, an eagle?’

‘It was one of the golden eagles from up in the Corlins. I saw it swoop on her in mid-flight, and just failed to keep hold. I saw her fall and the eagle just flew on and took the next fulmar it spotted. The last I saw it was heading back towards its eyrie in the Corlins.’

‘You really love those eagles, don’t you, Nial?’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘They are majestic creatures, Katrina.’ He put the fulmar back in its cage, then turned to her with a smile. ‘I love all beautiful creatures.’

Katrina chose to ignore the flattery, if flattery was intended. Instead, she continued conversationally, ‘I’m heading up to the Wee Kingdom after I finish surgery here. I’ve got to go and see Alistair McKinley’s sheep. He’s worried that a couple might have a touch of foot rot.’ There was silence for a moment, then she asked, ‘Any news of Rhona?’

‘I’ve just been to the cottage hospital. She’s was really out of it, with morphine I guess. She just came round enough to ask me to get her some cigarettes, then she fell asleep again. I don’t know if she actually realized that it was me. That set-to with the new laird didn’t help one iota.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘The bastard! Him and his two Glaswegian lackies.’

‘Yes,’ Katrina agreed. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for if he caused Rhona to have a heart attack.’

Nial Urquart picked up the bird cage and prepared to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought he plucked a couple of leaflets from a side pocket of his waterproof jacket. ‘Could I leave a few of these in your waiting-room? They’re for a protest meeting against the wind farm.’

Katrina looked at him with concern. ‘Be careful, Nial. The new laird doesn’t sound as if he’s the sort that it is wise to cross.’

The bird protection officer grinned. ‘I didn’t know you cared, Katrina.’

‘It’s Morag I’m worried about,’ she lied.

It was actually after lunch before Katrina could get out to the Wee Kingdom to see Alistair McKinley’s sheep. It was misty for one thing. For another the causeway across to the little islet was blocked by a large container lorry that could only just get across, by literally edging its way inch by inch, each move directed by a swarthy well-built youth in a red baseball hat. After waiting behind it for about quarter of an hour she zipped past in her battered old Mini-van, ignoring the wolf whistles from the driver and his mate as they pulled into the side of the road prior to negotiating the pock-marked drive up to Wind’s Eye croft.

As Katrina expected, she found the old crofter working away at his hand loom in one of the outhouses, outside which Shep, his nervous but friendly old collie stood guard. After a cursory bark the collie advanced with tail wagging at half mast. Katrina patted him, stroked his head then entered the outhouse. ‘You never stop, do you, Alistair?’ she said admiringly.

‘Time is money, Vet,’ he returned, barely looking up to acknowledge her entry. ‘Just let me finish off this bit of weaving, and then I’ll be with you.’

Katrina watched admiringly for a few minutes as he operated the foot treadles which raised the heddles to open a shed for the shuttle, which was thrown across when he pulled a string with his right hand. That done, he swung the sleay back and forth, gradually transforming a seemingly impossibly complicated arrangement of threads of yarn into the famous patterned West Uist cloth. There was something almost hypnotic about the pleasing rattle-tattle noise of the most basic technology.

‘It really is a cottage industry in every sense, isn’t it?’ she commented. ‘West Uist Tweed is sold all over the west of Scotland, yet I guess few buyers in the fancy shops realize that it is all made by hand in the crofts of the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Aye, that’s right. We don’t have the market of the Harris Tweed, of course, but we have our own style. All of the crofters contribute and we all aim to make our quota each month. It’s the way it has always been.’

‘And will it always be done like this, Alistair?’

Alistair McKinley finished and tapped the shuttle, ‘I have my doubts, Veterinary. Especially if that new laird has anything to do with it.’ He looked as if he was about to spit, but thought better of it. ‘Windmills!’ he exclaimed in exasperation. ‘He’s just sent poor Rhona into hospital and as for my Kenneth—’

‘He’s sent Kenneth where, Alistair?’

The old crofter turned sharp penetrating eyes on her. ‘Are you interested in Kenneth, Katrina? I saw he got your blood up yesterday at the wake.’

Despite herself, Katrina flushed. ‘I interrupted you, Alistair. What do you mean, am I interested in Kenneth?’

‘Are you just being polite when you ask where he is, or are you interested in my son?’

Katrina smiled and gently shook her head. ‘I think we are talking at cross purposes here, Alistair. I had heard that Rhona had been sent to hospital and I somehow thought you meant that Kenneth had gone too. And to answer your question – your very direct question – I am not interested in Kenneth as a boyfriend. He’s a good-looking lad, but he’s … a lot younger than me.’

‘Not all that much, lassie. He’s twenty-two now you know.’ Still the penetrating eyes fixed on her. ‘And he likes you, you ken.’

Katrina pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest. ‘OK, how can I say this,’ she said pensively. ‘I am interested in—’ She hesitated and bit her lip. ‘I was interested in someone else.’

‘Young McPhee, the policeman?’

Katrina stared at him for a moment, saying nothing. Then she glanced at her watch. ‘Maybe I could see those sheep you’re worried about.’

Alistair McKinley shrugged and stood up. ‘This way then,’ he said. At the door he stopped and looked at her pointedly. ‘But look, lassie, I think you need to be realistic. It’s been days since the accident. I doubt that we’ll ever see Ewan McPhee again.’

The mists had rolled down from the tops of the Corlins making the ascent perilous. Yet the assassin was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Or rather, he usually was. Having slept rough overnight he had eaten snails, a few worms and taken a goodly few drams of whisky from his flask. The combination had slightly numbed his senses and he was aware that he had taken one or two chances that he would not normally have taken. Even so, he shinned up the almost sheer slope of the crag that levelled to a small shelf in a little less than half an hour. He pulled himself over the jutting overhang and after resting for a moment or two to get his breath he stood up and adjusted his rucksack. The mist swirled around him making it hard to see more than an outline of the upward crag, atop of which he knew rested the eyrie.

‘It’s illegal to steal golden eagle eggs you know,’ said the voice from out of the mist.

He started despite himself, his hand reaching over his shoulder for the rifle in its shoulder bag. Then he regained his composure, and he laughed. ‘It is also illegal to kill eagles, but I am going to.’

The figure came out of the mist. ‘No, you will not! You will restrict yourself to the tasks I give you. And there will be no more killing.’

He scowled angrily. ‘I take orders from no one.’

‘What did you do with the bodies anyway?’

‘I … disposed of them.’

He swung his rucksack off and delved inside, pulling out a small thermos flask. He tossed it over and watched with amusement as the other raised it and gently shook it. Their eyes locked, then, ‘Are they iced?’

‘Just as you said.’

He watched as the lid was unscrewed and some crushed ice was allowed to escape before a polythene bag fell out into the waiting hand. He half-expected a reaction upon seeing the gory contents, but there was none. Instead:

‘And what about the policeman?’

He sneered, ‘I already told you.’

‘You were lying.’

His eyes narrowed, then he bit his lip. ‘He got in the way.’

‘You fool!’

‘Never call me that!’ he snapped, swinging the rifle bag off his shoulder and undoing the press studs to withdraw the weapon. ‘I did what I had to do and that’s that. And maybe now I should be the one to give orders.’

They both heard the sound of flapping wings followed by the characteristic chirping noise that it made as it returned towards its nest.

The assassin screwed on the silencer on the barrel of his Steyr-Mannlicher rifle.

‘What did you do with—?’

‘With him?’ He laughed. ‘That’s my wee secret. Now get out of my way. I’ve got another job to do.’

‘I won’t let you this time.’

‘Don’t try to stop me.’ He put the rifle to his shoulder and squinted through the mist in the direction of the last screech. ‘Come to me, birdie!’ he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.

‘I said – no!’

‘Shut up!’ he hissed.

The mists swirled and he thought he saw a shape flit across the Leupold ’scope. He swung the weapon, squeezed the trigger and there was a popping as the report was muffled by the silencer. Looking up he scowled and took a step backwards towards the ledge to get a better view upwards.

He had no time to deflect the blow. He felt a thump on the side of his head, a searing pain in his face – and then he was falling backwards, the rifle slipping from his hands as he clawed futilely at space. His scream rang out and died upon the moment of impact on the rocks below.

The other stared down, only dimly conscious of the flap of retreating wings.