Deathly Wind

chapter four

Megan Munro’s libido was always at its best in the early morning. As a self-styled neo-pagan, she believed that it was because she felt closest to the earth when her mother-earth force awakened and demanded satiation. Regardless of morning breath, overnight perspiration or flattened hair, the need was there, like a powerful itch. And the means of assuaging it was also there in the form of Nial Urquart her partner, always eager to please, and to be pleasured by her.

Afterwards they lay side by side, heart rates gradually recovering, thoughts turning from the carnal to the more mundane business of the day ahead. And as usual it was Megan who threw back the duvet and ran naked to the bathroom to brush teeth and perform ablutions before hitting the kitchen to make that first post-coital cup of tea.

Nial took a few sips then lay back dozing contentedly. Morning sex with Megan had been a revelation. It lifted him to heights of delirium then plummeted him into pleasant somnolence. She was like an enchantress, he mused, as he rolled over and burrowed further under the duvet. In many ways she liked to project a simple persona. She eschewed make-up, avoided alcohol, tobacco and drugs. She dressed simply and made no secret of her beliefs and opinions. She was vegetarian – on moral grounds – a former animal rights campaigner – as was he – and a paid up member of the Green Party. Yet in the bedroom, or any other room where the fancy took her for that matter, she was primal passion itself. Yes, that was it, he thought, passion was the key to her personality. She was passionate in everything that she thought or did.

Animals seemed to come first with her, even more so than they did with himself. But especially those blasted hedgehogs of hers. He grinned through his semi-conscious haze as he pictured her now, buff naked, running through the dew, to check the runs of her ‘Mistress Prickleback Sanctuary’. The islanders all thought that she was a nutter of course, with her New Age ideas, her views on animal rights and her obsession with the West Uist hedgehog population. To him she was more than that. She was a wonderful, eccentric nymphomaniac that he was happy to live with – for now. As to whether he would want to spend the rest of his life with her, however, was another matter. But, as he inhaled the scent of her body on the bedding, he felt the stirring of a fresh erection. And because she was not physically there his mind spiralled off in another direction, conjuring up an image of that other woman whom he found so attractive. He grinned as he thought how wonderful it would be …

Megan’s scream broke through his reverie and he shot out of bed, stopping only long enough to pull on a pair of underpants. The kitchen door was open and through it he saw her slowly walking up the path, as naked as she was born, her face contorted in horror as she stared at her outstretched, bloodstained hands.

Her eyes slowly rose to meet his and she screamed again.

The Padre was busily stirring a porridge pot on the Aga while a couple of herrings in oatmeal sizzled in a pan when Torquil slinked into the kitchen in a towelling dressing-gown and bare feet.

He was a tall, dark-haired young man of twenty-eight, handsome in the opinion of many an island lass, albeit with a slightly hawk-like profile that he himself disliked. Despite his exhaustion after all his recent travel, he had slept poorly, because his mind refused to stop thinking about Ewan McPhee, his friend as well as his constable. He had showered and shaved off his accumulated stubble, much to his uncle, the Padre’s approval.

‘That’s better, laddie,’ he said, lifting the porridge pot and taking it over to the table. ‘You look more like an inspector now and less like a tramp.’

Torquil grinned and ran the back of his hand over his freshly shaved chin. ‘And there was me toying with the idea of letting the beard grow.’ He took his seat and sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘I must say, I had dreams about having a good West Uist herring while I was away.’

‘Porridge first though, eh,’ said Lachlan, ladling out two bowls. He smiled at his nephew, then, ‘It is good to be having you home, laddie. I just wish it could be under happier circumstances.’

‘Like it was before we lost Ewan?’

The Padre nodded. ‘And before we lost Fiona.’

Torquil sighed. ‘It was losing Fiona that made me take time off. I thought I had it all sussed. That’s why I am thinking of leaving the force.’ He sprinkled a little salt on his porridge. ‘But I’ll have to put my plans on hold for a while. The Procurator Fiscal will need to be consulted, and a Fatal Accident Enquiry is likely.’

‘I keep hoping that we’ll find the lad’s body. There’s nothing worse than knowing somebody’s drowned, but not being able to pay your respects properly. I’ve been praying every day that we’ll find him washed up on some shore.’

Torquil shivered despite himself and reached for the previous day’s copy of the West Uist Chronicle that his uncle had been reading as he prepared the breakfast.

‘Calum Steele has written a fine piece about Ewan,’ Lachlan said. ‘He’s written a review of all of Ewan’s sporting achievements since he was a boy at the school. I doubt if his hammer record will ever be beaten.’

Torquil scanned the two-page article, then jabbed a photograph of a row of windmills. ‘Calum is taking up cudgels about windmills, I see. A regular Don Quixote, eh?’

The Padre raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Windmills indeed! Here on West Uist.’

‘But there has been talk of wind power in the Hebrides for years. Why are you against it, Lachlan?’

‘I’m not, in principle. I don’t much like the new laird of Dunshiffin though.’

‘That’s not like you. You usually give everyone the benefit of the doubt. What have you got against the man?

The Padre shook his head disdainfully. ‘He cheats at golf for one thing. You can tell a lot about someone’s character by the way they play golf.’

‘Ah, the hallowed game,’ Torquil said with a grin.

‘Aye, laddie, you may laugh, but it takes a lot—’ Then seeing his nephew’s grin growing wider he shook his head. ‘Suffice it to say that despite his cheating I took a fiver off him and put it straight into the “Say No to Wind Farms Group”’s kitty.’

Torquil finished his porridge and sat back. ‘So what exactly is the laird proposing?’

‘We don’t know precisely yet, beyond the fact that he’s already ordered the first one and is having it set up on Wind’s Eye, Gordon MacDonald’s croft on the Wee Kingdom. From what he said the other day I don’t think he’s planning to let anyone work the croft in the future.’

‘But I thought the crofters had a right to transfer their crofts to family or close friends if they had no offspring.’

‘That’s what everyone thought, but it doesn’t look to be the case. The laird has looked into it.’ Lachlan finished his own porridge then stood up and went over to the Aga where he had left the herrings at the side of the simmering plate. Transferring them to plates he returned to the table. ‘Och! And I don’t like the way he’s taken on the title of “laird.” He’s a puffed up Glaswegian—’

‘A Glaswegian what, Uncle?’

‘I don’t know exactly, Torquil. But I suspect that he’s a bully as well as a cheat. And I cannot abide a cheat.’ He sighed as he poured tea for them both. ‘The trouble is that I have seen his like before and I fear what may happen in the future. I am concerned about Rhona McIvor and the other crofters. I don’t like to take issue with the Good Book, but the fact is that the meek do not seem to inherit the earth. It is the bully-boys who do, and they are the ones who seem to know how to hang on to things.’ He started on his herring with gusto.

‘What is his background, Uncle?’

‘Bakery, I think. He calls himself an ice-cream and confectionary millionaire, but that’s a bit suspicious if you ask me. You know about the ice-cream wars in Glasgow back in the eighties? Well, he’s got a couple of heavies that he refers to as his boys with him.’

‘Sounds like I should check out his background.’

The Padre buttered an oatcake. It would do no harm to let him know that we have law here on West Uist.’

Torquil nodded. ‘Maybe I’ll take Ewan—’ He stopped, realizing that he had momentarily forgotten that he would never be able to take his friend Ewan McPhee, the big hammer-throwing champion, on official business again. He hit the side of his head with his fist and scowled. ‘Maybe I’ll take the Drummond lads with me.’

The Padre smiled sympathetically and nodded. ‘Aye, they are good lads and will not be intimidated by any number of Glasgow heavies.’ He sipped his tea then nodded reflectively. ‘So tell me, what were you planning to do if you left the force?’

Torquil leaned back and stretched his legs under the table. He nodded towards the open kitchen door where a half-stripped carburettor from one of their classic motor cycles could be seen leaking oil onto an old newspaper. The whole hallway was similarly littered with bike parts and repair equipment. ‘Mend motor cycles maybe,’ he said with a grin. ‘Or perhaps something to do with music and the pipes. Teaching maybe, or even set up a business.’

‘A piping business here on West Uist? You would starve, laddie! There’s only really you and I who play the pipes on the island.’

Torquil grinned. ‘The internet, uncle. Technology has changed the world. If you set up a decent website and do your homework you can soon have customers all over the world. And You’d be surprised how many people are now interested in piping. The Tartan Army showed me that. People love the Scottish football fans and their pipers.’

‘But you’ve put the idea on the back burner? You’re not going to leave the force? Morag really needs you right now.’

Torquil stood up and stretched. ‘Aye, I’m staying put for now. But later on, who knows.’

Nial Urquart stared transfixed at the blood on Megan’s hands and at the way her jaw trembled as she shifted her attention from them to him. But no words came, instead she screamed again, startling him into motion. He ran to her and gingerly put an arm about her shoulders, but she shrugged him off, her eyes wide with horror.

‘It is awful, Nial!’ she exclaimed. ‘The body! It has been—’

She did not finish, but suddenly bent double and vomited.

Nial patted her back, feeling uncertain how he could best comfort her. Then as she continued to retch he decided that action was the best course. ‘I’ll take a look, Megan,’ he said. He ran down the path and passed the outhouses, beyond which were the hedgehog runs and the tiny sheds filled with straw that were used to house Megan’s prickly waifs and strays.

The body was lying in between two of the runs, covered in blood and with deep lacerations from which the vital fluid had oozed. It looked as if it had literally dropped from the sky. And indeed, looking at its position between the runs, he assumed that must have been exactly what had happened.

He steeled himself and bent over the body of the dead hedgehog and pictured what had happened. He was sure that he had witnessed something similar the day before. The golden eagle swooping on the flock of fulmars, catching one, then dropping it and nonchalantly taking the next with barely a break in its flight. And now in his mind’s eye he saw the great bird swooping down from above, having spotted the hedgehog run. Grabbing one in its two-inch talons, rising a few feet, then dropping it and returning for the next unfortunate hedgehog that had not scurried to the safety of the small sheds, and flying off with it to the eyrie up in the Corlins. A natural killer, it wouldn’t have given a second’s thought to the exsanguinated hedgehog that it had left behind.

‘You’re a bit of a butterfingers, aren’t you!’ he mused with a grin.

He heard Megan behind him and instantly the grin on his face disappeared.

‘I … I thought it was still alive,’ she sobbed. ‘I picked it up—’ She looked down at her bloodstained hands, still held well away from her naked body. ‘They’re evil, Nial. They’re murderers. They enjoy killing.’

He was worried by the glazed stare in her eye. She was bordering on the hysterical. He stood to put himself between her and the sight of the dead hedgehog. ‘Come on, Megan, let’s get you into a bath then I’ll make you a good strong cup of chamomile tea.’

‘You’ll bury it, won’t you, Nial?’

He put an arm about her shoulder and shepherded her back to the cottage. ‘I’ll do it while you are having a bath,’ he assured her.

‘We have to get them, Nial. Kenneth McKinley was right. They’re vermin! Vermin!’

Vincent Gilfillan stood at the end of Rhona McIvor’s bed in the four-bedded unit of the Kyleshiffin cottage hospital. The fact that she was the only patient seemed oddly poignant, as if her health was particularly precarious. Tears threatened to form in the corners of his eyes as he looked down at the middle-aged woman who meant more to him than his own mother. This is all wrong, he thought. It shouldn’t be happening this way. Not to Rhona. Although she was twenty years older than him he loved her dearly.

He shuddered as he looked at the wavy green trace on the oscilloscope of the heart monitor, at the wires attached to her chest and the intravenous line that ran into the back of her heavily bandaged left wrist. There seemed to be flowers, fruit and Get-Well cards everywhere. He looked at his own modest collection of freesias and let out a disdainful puff of air through tight lips. It was enough to wake the dozing Rhona. She turned her head and saw him, her eyes momentarily opening wide in alarm. It was not the sort of reaction that he was used to from Rhona. She reached for her spectacles on the cabinet and put them on. Then, recognizing him, ‘Vincent,’ she said dreamily, almost with relief as if she had woken from a troubled sleep. She held out a hand to him. ‘You startled me.’

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Rhona, I’m sorry,’ he mumbled apologetically. ‘I heard as soon as I came off the ferry. I should have been here.’

‘For why, Vincent?’ she said with a smile. She reached up and stroked his wiry black beard that had recently begun to display a peppering of silver hairs. ‘Would you have stopped this old ticker of mine from having a heart attack?’

He shrugged awkwardly, indicating a particularly large bouquet of red roses that dominated the display. ‘It looks like someone has sent the contents of Betty Hanson’s florist shop.’

Rhona pushed herself up against the bank of pillows and harrumphed. ‘They’re from the new laird, Mr fine and dandy Jock McArdle. A peace offering, I think. Did you hear what happened?’

Vincent sat down on the side of the bed and handed her his Get-Well card. ‘I saw Morag Driscoll, the sergeant, on Harbour Street. She told me about his plan to put up windmills on Gordon MacDonald’s croft.’

‘And I told him it would be over my dead body,’ Rhona said, with shake of her head as she opened the card and smiled at the picture of an old goat in bed. She perched it on the bedside cabinet alongside the others. ‘And then one of his toadies sniggered and I saw red. I was about to give him a good skelp on the side of his head – and then I ended up in here.’

Vincent’s jaw muscles tightened. ‘I think I’ll be having a word with this lad then. He sounds as if he needs teaching a lesson.’

Rhona noticed the way his fist opened and closed. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Vincent. I can fight my own battles and I’ll not have you getting into trouble with the likes of him. It’s not your battle.’

‘It sounds as if it is a battle for all of us on the Wee Kingdom, Rhona. What have the others said about it?’

Rhona pouted. ‘Nial Urquart was round yesterday and he said that Megan was upset, of course. And they’ve had a bee in their bonnet about the wind farm threat anyway for a while. This has just sort of focused everything a bit.’ She bit her lip. ‘God, I could murder a cigarette!’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘You couldn’t sneak in a pack for me could you, Vincent?’

‘More than my life is worth, Rhona. And it is time you were stopping anyway.’

‘Ach! It’s too late for me now.’ She made to fold her arms, but being unable to do so because of the heavily bound wrist with its drip-line she swore volubly.

‘I am seeing that you cannot be too ill then,’ came Alistair McKinley’s voice from the end of the unit. He came forward, nodded to Vincent and bent to kiss Rhona on the cheek. ‘That was some fleg you gave us yesterday, Rhona. You’ll not be planning another I am hoping.’

Rhona scowled, then looked worried. ‘Will you manage my goats?’

‘Everything is taken care of,’ said Alistair. ‘All the animals are fed, the crops are doing well and the weaving will get done as and when we’ve time.’

Rhona gave a smile of resignation. ‘Of course, like always, the Wee Kingdom folk will pull together.’

Vincent put a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. ‘Will you point out the young fool that caused all this to me?’

‘Vincent!’ Rhona exclaimed. ‘I’ve told you already.’

‘Of course I will, Vincent,’ Alistair McKinley said, ignoring Rhona’s look of exasperation for a moment. ‘But I am thinking that you might need to stand in line if you are contemplating violence. Young Kenneth went off in one of his huffs and you know what a temper he has. He didn’t come home last night. He does that when he’s working himself up about something. And he’s been doing that a lot lately.’ He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the floor for a few moments, as if deep in his own thoughts. Then he added, ‘And as for that mad woman—’

‘Alistair! I’ve told you before about calling Megan Munro names! We have to be united in the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Ach, well, she is mad,’ replied Alistair. ‘Her and her hedgehogs. I don’t know what she gets up to sometimes, but I heard her screaming away this morning. Her man dropped another of those flyers of his on my doormat, but didn’t stop long enough to talk to me. No manners!’

‘What flyer was this, Alistair?’ Vincent asked.

‘This meeting he’s been on about for a while. The anti-windmill thing this afternoon. I suppose under the circumstances we should be there, don’t you?’

Rhona sat forward. ‘Of course the pair of you should go and represent our interests. But don’t do anything silly. No violence, or any of that nonsense.’

Vincent smiled and clicked his tongue. ‘This coming from the woman who was going to give that lad a “good skelp” herself!’