Deathly Wind

chapter seven

Wallace and Douglas Drummond, the two West Uist Police special constables were only fifteen minutes late, which was actually pretty reasonable for them. They had been out fishing from the early hours and were still dressed in their yellow oilskins and smelled strongly of fish with just a hint of tobacco. They were drinking tea from thick mugs and chatting with Morag when Torquil came out of his office. They both shuffled awkwardly and shook hands with their inspector, whom they had known since their childhood.

‘It is a sad business, Piper,’ said Douglas.

‘And it will never be the same without Ewan,’ agreed Wallace. There was a tear in his eye and a rueful smile on his lips as he held up his mug. ‘He liked a strong cup of tea.’

Torquil nodded. Although six foot tall himself, he had always felt small in comparison with Ewan, the Western Isles champion hammer-thrower, and the two Drummond twins, who towered over him.

They were like peas in a pod, both about six foot five inches in height, without their bobble hats, and with lithe, strong bodies that had seen much toil on the seas and fought many a battle with the elements. Although both were fond of Heather Ale, which was well known across the island, their liking for marijuana was known only to the cognoscenti. As a member of that order, as well as being their superior officer, Torquil turned a blind eye. As long as they were discrete and did not allow it to interfere with their duties he thought it not unreasonable to take a liberal view about it.

‘Well, we’d better be going,’ Torquil said, pulling on his waterproof jacket. ‘Wish us luck, Morag.’

Five minutes later the Seaspray catamaran coasted out of Kyleshiffin’s crescent-shaped harbour, which was replete with small fishing vessels, yachts and cruisers, as it usually was in the summer months. Then when they hit open water Wallace opened her up and they scudded across the waves as they headed north to do a circuit around the island.

It was a hazy day with patches of mist. As they cut a swathe through the water parallel to the stacks and skerries of the coast they attracted a following of gulls. Eventually, when they sensed that there would be no food forthcoming from the Seaspray they dispersed and rejoined the swarms of birds that seemed to eternally circle the great basalt columns. It took about twenty minutes to round the northern tip of the island, during which time Torquil had been scanning the shores with binoculars for any signs of a body. As they coasted down the west coast towards the curious star-shaped peninsula of the Wee Kingdom the songs of the fulmar and gannets rose above the winds as adult birds zigzagged back and forth to countless nests in the cracks and hollows of the steep sea cliffs.

Torquil scanned the rocks and sea caves on the shoreline. ‘It would be on these rocks that a body would most likely be swept up,’ he said aloud to the twins.

‘And thank God he hasn’t been,’ replied Wallace. ‘It would be awful to find his body churned and hacked up on those rocks.’

They skirted the three great basalt stacks, each a virtual islet, atop the last of which was the ruins of the old West Uist lighthouse and the derelict shell of the keeper’s cottage. Then they rounded the south-west shore with the machair stretching to the lush undulating hills and gullies, beyond which was the small central Loch Linne. On the hills above the McKinley croft they saw the black-coated Soay sheep that old Alistair McKinley was so proud of.

As the Seaspray headed south, passing the oyster beds and the little jetty alongside which the crofters’ boats were moored, Douglas pointed towards the Wind’s Eye croft where a large container lorry was parked beside the old thatched cottage. A tall metal tower had been newly erected and a couple of figures could be seen working on scaffolding around it.

‘Well bloody hell! There’s the first of those monstrosities on old Gordon MacDonald’s croft. They haven’t wasted much time.’

Wallace whistled. ‘Just two men, as well. I must say though that I thought those windmills would be taller than that. It only looks to be about thirty or forty feet high.’

‘It may just be an experimental one,’ said Torquil. ‘I guess they will have to put up all sorts of wind-measuring anemometers and things before they put up permanent structures.’

‘Well I don’t like it,’ Douglas said gloomily. ‘And nor would Ewan. When we last had a pint of Heather Ale he was having a real go about them.’

And at mention of the big PC they brought their minds back to the task in hand. Torquil shaded his eyes and peered seawards, towards the distant Cruadalach isles, an archipelago of about a dozen machair and gorse-covered islets.

‘We’ll go and check out the Cruadalachs now,’ he said. ‘It was beyond there that you found the Seaspray drifting wasn’t it?’

‘It was, Torquil,’ replied Douglas. ‘But we checked them out already.’

‘And the helicopters went over them, too,’ agreed Wallace.

‘I know, I read the reports. But I want to see for myself. And when we’ve done that we’ll come back and do a full sweep round the east of the island.’

Wallace swung the Seaspray round and they headed off towards the mist-swathed Cruadalach isles.

‘Why do you think he was out this far?’ Torquil asked, ten minutes later as they approached the first of the islets.

The twins exchanged troubled looks, then Wallace bit his lip. ‘We think it was because he was in love.’

‘In love?’ Torquil queried. ‘That happened fast, didn’t it? I haven’t been away from the island all that long.’

‘Aye, Piper,’ said Douglas. ‘Fair besotted was Ewan. With Katrina Tulloch, the vet.’ He made an apologetic clicking noise with his lips. ‘He was careful not to say anything to you about it, especially after you and Fiona, and everything.’

Torquil waved his hand dismissively. His own tragedy was something that he wanted to forget. ‘And was she in love with him, too?’

‘They were pretty close, Piper. But we think Ewan was keener than her. And he was beginning to think that he had a rival.’

‘Who?’

‘We only think it, Piper; we’ve nothing in the way of proof. But Kenneth McKinley was very keen on her.’

‘But she must have been six or seven years older than him?’

‘Aye, but what does age matter? Hormones and love, and all that,’ Douglas commented sagely.

Torquil shook his head and raised his binoculars as Wallace cut their speed and they coasted around the little islets. Then he picked up the microphone and clicked on the loudhailer. ‘This is the West Uist Police,’ his voice boomed out through the mist. ‘Is there anyone on the island?’

There was silence except for the motor of the Seaspray and the wind.

‘Are you expecting anyone to be here, Piper?’ Wallace asked.

Torquil shook his head. ‘No. But there’s something odd about the atmosphere of the place, don’t you think’? I think there’s something wrong.’

The twins looked at him blankly. ‘Like what?’

‘There is the smell of death in the air,’ Torquil replied softly.

Wallace sighed. ‘If you are after trying to freak us out, Piper McKinnon, you are succeeding.’

Torquil smiled at his friend. ‘I’m sorry, lads, but does it not just strike you as odd that there is no sign of life here?’ He raised his eyes to the sky. ‘No gulls. No seals.’

‘Bloody hell, Wallace!’ Douglas exclaimed. ‘He’s right. And there should be, there is rich fishing round here, as we well know.’

‘Come on then,’ said Torquil pointing towards the nearest isle. ‘Let’s take a look at them one by one.’

It took them the better part of an hour to land and have a look at all of the Cruadalach isles. And it was not until they landed on the last one, a long undulating beach and machair islet with tall, coarse marram grass and yellow-blossomed gorse bushes, that they heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Ewan’s body isn’t here, thank God,’ said Wallace.

‘But someone has been here,’ Torquil announced, after a few moments study of the beach. He pointed to a piece of driftwood that lay some feet away. ‘Look at the pattern of sand on it. It looks as if it was used as a kind of rake, maybe to eradicate footsteps.’ And, as the twins watched him, he crouched down and started examining the machair.

‘Bird watchers, do you think?’ Wallace suggested.

Torquil seemed to be on some sort of a trail, slowly working up the beach onto the machair. Finally, he disappeared behind a large clump of tall marram grass.

‘Or maybe not just wanting to watch birds!’ Torquil said, rising to his feet and coming out of the grass holding his cupped hand out. ‘Maybe whoever it was had killing them in mind. Look at this. An empty cartridge.’

The twins joined him and Douglas prodded the cartridge with a finger. ‘That’s a .308. That’s more firepower than you need to pot a few gulls. That’d be enough to kill—’

His face suddenly drained of colour and he looked aghast at his inspector.

‘Torquil, you don’t think—?’

But Torquil didn’t say anything for a moment. He was busy studying the cartridge. ‘I don’t know what to think yet,’ he said at last. ‘Except that maybe we had better check all the firearm licence holders on the island. Kenneth McKinley had a live .308 lying beside his body.’ He took out a small plastic bag from a pocket and dropped the cartridge case inside.

‘Come on then, we need to get back.’

Neither of the twins thought that a bad idea.

The Padre had played four holes before propping his bag in the porch of St Ninian’s Church, which bounded the green of the hole called Creideamh, meaning ‘Faith’. On the other side of the green was the cemetery, where his brother and sister-in-law, Torquil’s parents, were buried. It had been his intention to go into the church to pray, but a thought struck him and he turned and strode over the green, filling his pipe on the way. He struck a light to the bowl and let himself through the wrought-iron gate into the graveyard.

‘Well, Brother,’ he said, a few moments later as he stood over his brother’s grave. ‘A lot has been happening here lately.’ He took his pipe from his mouth and stared at the bowl. ‘But I suppose you know all that already. I just wish you could give us a hand and find Ewan’s body. Torquil is fairly chewing himself up over it.’ He leaned forward and ran a hand over the smooth marble face. ‘You would have been proud of him, you know. He’s made a fine officer – Inspector McKinnon, the youngest inspector in the west of Scotland.’ He grinned to himself. ‘But his friends all call him Piper – because he’s the champion piper of the isles now. In fact—’

He was interrupted in his reverie when he heard a noise from the road on the far side of the cemetery and looked round.

Jessie McPhee was dismounting from an ancient bicycle.

‘I am glad to catch you, Padre,’ she said, letting herself in by the little iron gate, a bunch of pink carnations in her hand. ‘I am just coming to tidy Balloch’s grave and lay a few flowers. I hoped that he’d – you know, look out for Ewan.’

Lachlan put his arm about her shoulders. ‘I was going into the Kirk, Jessie. Would you care to come with me? We can say a prayer together if you like.’

Jessie nodded with a sad smile. ‘That would be good, right enough. But another part of the reason I hoped that I’d see you was so that you could give Torquil this.’ And she held up a small black book. ‘Ewan was no great writer, but lately he’d taken to jotting things down at night. I think he was in love. I’ve not read it myself, I didn’t think it was right. But maybe Torquil as his friend and Inspector could. I only thought about it after he had gone yesterday.’

The Kyleshiffin market was in full swing as the Seaspray cruised into its mooring. Holidaymakers and locals were milling around the market stalls that were clustered along the harbour wall, or bobbing in and out of the half moon of multicoloured shops that gave Kyleshiffin a strange sort kasbah atmosphere. Calum Steele was sitting on the harbour wall, eating a mutton pie, obviously waiting for them.

‘Latha math! Good morning,’ he called in both Gaelic and English as Torquil hopped off the Seaspray while the Drummonds tied her up. He wiped a trickle of grease from the first of his two chins and raised his eyebrows hopefully. ‘Any news, Piper?

‘Nothing, Calum,’ Torquil replied with practised guardedness. Although they were old friends, everyone on the island knew that Calum Steele took his role as a newspaperman very seriously. He saw himself as a man of letters, an investigative journalist with a duty to keep the good folk of West Uist up to date with the news. He virtually produced the daily West Uist Chronicle by himself, which was how he liked it because it meant that he had no one to please except himself. And although most of the time the paper consisted mainly of local gossip, advertising and exchange and barter columns, yet it managed enough of a circulation to keep a roof over Calum’s head and enough in his expense account for Heather Ale and petrol for his Lambretta scooter. The truth was that the islanders liked local gossip as much as anyone else, and Calum Steele was an avid peddler of it. Consequently, everyone was wary of him, especially if they might end up in the Chronicle the next day.

‘Is that the truth, Piper, or is it the official response?’

Torquil raised his eyebrows and touched his own chin. Calum reflexively wiped another errant trickle of pie grease from his face and then rolled the paper bag that he had been using to collect pastry crumbs between his palms.

‘I am hoping that you are not thinking of littering, Calum Steele,’ Wallace Drummond jibed as he jumped down onto the harbour.

‘It is an offence, you know,’ agreed Douglas, joining him. ‘You don’t want to be committing an offence in front of officers of the law.’

Calum spluttered. ‘Officers of the law! You two are a couple of fishing teuchters. I’ve a good mind to write something up in the Chronicle about harassment of the press.’

‘Is it a threat of defamation now, then?’ asked Wallace.

‘That’s an offence too, Calum Steele,’ Douglas said. ‘And you’ve got crumbs on your anorak now. You want to watch all those calories you know.’

Calum flushed. ‘You pair of malnourished, long-limbed Neanderthals, I’ll give you calories – where they hurt!’

The twins looked at each other and nodded their heads. ‘Oh he’s good with words, isn’t he? No wonder he’s the editor of the local rag.’

‘A rag! You two should learn to read and then you’d know if it was a rag or not!’ But then as they both burst into laugher, and even Torquil grinned he shook his head resignedly. ‘One day I’ll sort the pair of you out.’

And then he said to Torquil, ‘I saw Ralph McLelland, Piper. He told me about Kenneth McKinley. That’s a sad accident, so it is.’

‘Aye, I don’t know what old Alistair will do without him,’ Torquil returned.

‘I’m going to go over and see him. Do a proper obituary.’ He pulled out a small camera from his anorak. ‘I thought I’d take a few pictures of the Wee Kingdom while I’m up there. Give it a bit of colour and link it up with the piece I’m doing about the wind farm.’

‘Aye, there’s some sort of wind tower being put up on Gordon MacDonald’s croft now,’ Torquil informed him. ‘We saw it from the sea.’

‘This new laird could change the whole nature of the island if he gets his way,’ Calum said. ‘I’m going to see if I can get an interview with him. It would be a good thing to introduce the folk of the island to the new laird with a photo-feature. What do you think, boys?’

‘I’m wondering if you’ve got a licence for that digital camera, Calum Steele?’ Douglas Drummond said with a twinkle in his eye.

Jock McArdle was at that moment standing on the shore of Loch Hynish tossing sticks as far as he could into the loch in the direction of the crannog with its ancient ruined tower. His two Rottweilers, Dallas and Tulsa launched themselves in and swam powerfully to retrieve them, depositing them on the pebble shore with much barking as they pleaded for more.

McArdle was a dog lover. He especially loved big powerful animals like these. He appreciated their strong muscles, their loyalty and the verve with which they attacked life. They were both bitches; mother and daughter. Dallas was the youngest and seemed capable of swimming forever. Tulsa had been just the same when she was young, and even now amazed McArdle by being able to keep up with her daughter. Especially on this late afternoon, after she had seemed so off colour in the morning and had vomited up her morning meal. He had thought she was coming down with a bug.

‘Fetch, girls! Fetch!’ he yelled, lobbing a large stick as far as he could.

The dogs charged in together and after a couple of lolloping splashes were soon out of their depth and were swimming in pursuit of the stick. The laird of Dunshiffin watched the progress of the big black and tan heads, yelling encouragement to them both. He delighted in the fact that they were both revelling in the competition. They reached the stick together and turned, each with an end in their mouth as they started to swim for shore.

Then the younger Dallas growled and managed to wrench the stick from her mother.

‘G’wan, Tulsa, don’t let her get away with that!’ McArdle shouted.

Dallas edged away and Tulsa seemed to put on a spurt as well. Then she gave a strange yelping bark and stopped. Dallas swam on, growling and working the stick into her mouth, her powerful teeth biting into the wood.

Tulsa’s head momentarily disappeared beneath the surface of the loch.

‘Tulsa!’ McArdle cried, as Dallas reached the shallows and bounded out of the water with the stick.

Tulsa’s head resurfaced again and McArdle began to heave a sigh of relief. Then her head started to sink again, but she spluttered and started to swim on weakly. Dallas, confused, stood in the water and barked continuously.

‘Come on, you stupid bitch!’ the laird screeched. ‘Come on!’

Once again the head started to sink and McArdle finally realized that his beloved dog was in real danger of drowning. He peeled off his jacket and tugged off his shoes, then went racing into the water, launching himself into a dive. As a youngster in Govan he had learned to swim competently. Now with a powerful crawl he swam as he had never done before, intent on saving one of the few living creatures that he actually felt anything for.

Ahead of him he saw the dog’s head spluttering as it attempted to swim on. And then he was on her. He grabbed her thick studded collar and immediately turned onto his back and began hauling her back towards the shore. A part of his mind reflected upon those life-saving classes that he had taken as a youngster, but never expected to use. And certainly not on saving a dog.

Tulsa was a dead weight by the time he reached the shore, and he himself was in a state of near panic.

‘Shut the hell up!’ he cried at Dallas, who was barking and running around in the shallow water in a frenzy.

He manhandled Tulsa through the shallows, immediately conscious of her weight increasing dramatically as they arrived on solid ground. He pulled her onto the pebble beach and stared, unsure of what to do next.

Then Tulsa began to convulse.