Flotsam and Jetsam

TEN

Morag found it hard not to walk around with a smile on her face the next morning. Ewan noticed it straight away, but was polite enough to wait until he had made her a mug of tea before asking her.

‘Did you have a good evening, Sergeant Morag?’

‘It was bliss, Ewan. Sandy is so … nice!’

‘Are you seeing him again?’

‘Uh huh. Tonight. We have—’

The door banged open and the Drummond twins came in. They were not so reticent.

‘You look flushed, Morag Driscoll. You must have had a good time with that football lad,’ said Douglas.

‘You just remember that you have wee ones at home. Not too much gallivanting at nights now,’ added Wallace.

‘I … I … don’t know what you—’

‘Yes you do,’ interrupted Wallace with a wink.

And before she could reply to this the door opened again and Torquil bounced in with Crusoe at his heels. He had his Cromwell helmet in one hand and a dossier of notes in the other. ‘I’ll be needing to get an extra helmet soon,’ he said, grinning at the dog.

Morag coughed. ‘Yes, well, I had been meaning to have a word with you about that, Torquil McKinnon. It is not legal to be riding about on that motor cycle with a dog in your pannier.’

Torquil stared at her for a moment, then noticed the amused, knowing looks on the faces of the others. He grinned, then asked, ‘Did you have a good evening, Morag?’

And then even before she could reply, he suddenly turned serious and waved the dossier in the air. ‘Come on, everybody into the rest room. There have been more developments. Ralph called me in last night to the mortuary. We have two murders on our hands now.’

To their amazement he told them of Ralph’s findings about Heather McQueen.

‘So, Morag, we really do need as much information about her as possible.’

‘I had it as my first task today already,’ she replied.

‘And, Ewan, I want you to go over and have a word with Rab McNeish.’

‘Why is that, Torquil? Is that so-called burglary of his relevant to these deaths?’

‘What so-called burglary, Ewan?’ Torquil asked.

‘Oh, didn’t I report it? Well it was weird actually. He came in to complain, like he always did. Then he said he had been sort of robbed, or something like that. Then Annie McConville came in and gave him what-for about his complaint about her. He got flustered then said he didn’t want to make a report and left.’

‘And so you didn’t record it as a burglary after all?’

‘Well, no. He retracted the whole thing.’

Torquil stood frowning. ‘Maybe all the more reason to have a word, then.’

‘And – er – what am I asking him about? I mean, is it just about this burglary?’ He scratched his head. ‘Because I am confused, sir. If it isn’t about that, then why am I going?’

‘Because he’s an undertaker, Ewan,’ Torquil replied, adding the name to the board and adding a circle to it. He drew a line between his circle and that of Heather McQueen. ‘He did her funeral.’

He tapped the end of the marker on the board as he looked at the notes he had made in the dossier that lay before him ‘And then there was another little puzzle that adds to this whole mystery.’ He wrote the word flowers under Heather McQueen’s circled name. ‘Lachlan found that someone had put flowers on her grave the other day. I asked the Reverend Canfield about it and he thinks they were put there by Digby Dent.’

The bell rang out to alert them that someone had just entered the office. Ewan excused himself and went through to see.

It was a very agitated-looking Chrissie Ferguson and an equally anxious looking Geordie Innes.

‘He hasn’t come home all night,’ Chrissie blurted out. ‘Something’s wrong!’ she cried. ‘You need to do something!’

‘We had to cancel the show at the last minute, last night,’ Geordie Innes said. ‘Do you have any idea what that does to a show’s ratings?’

‘Bugger the ratings, Geordie!’ exclaimed Chrissie in exasperation. ‘Something is wrong, very wrong. This isn’t just one of Fergie’s benders. He always contacts me, even when he’s ratted. Something is not right, I tell you. He had a bee in his bonnet about that old beachcomber refusing to come on the show after that Dent fiasco.’

Ewan calmly took all their details and their phone numbers and promised that they would start looking for him straight away and check with them about any progress later that morning.

Torquil was just about tying matters up when he returned to the rest room. Ewan gave him a quick report about Fergie Ferguson.

‘She said he had a bee in his bonnet about Guthrie Lovat not coming on their show.’

Torquil tapped the name Flotsam & Jetsam on the board and the names of the presenters underneath. ‘That is interesting. And he was peeved at Dr Dent, wasn’t he? And now his wife says that Guthrie Lovat refused to come on their show after Dr Dent’s death.’

‘I remember that they were sort of gloating in anticipation on the night of the show when Dr Dent came on drunk. It sounds as if old Guthrie must have cried off.’

‘What do you want us to do, Torquil?’ Wallace asked.

‘I want you to go to St Ninian’s Cave and scour the beach. Crusoe was washed up on the beach. It is just an idea, but have a look to see what else washes up there. Maybe have a look at some other beaches about there.’

He looked at everyone. ‘OK, are things clear? Let’s reconvene at lunchtime.’

Twenty minutes later Torquil was sitting at his desk staring down at the cord and the strange knots that had been used to lash Crusoe to the timber. There was something about them that he couldn’t seem to fathom.

His mobile went off and Lachlan’s name flashed on the little screen.

‘Torquil, I am with Kenneth Canfield. He has remembered something and he wondered if he ought to tell you.’

‘Put him on, Lachlan.’

‘Inspector McKinnon, I am sorry, but this has been niggling me. I know that I should have told you before. It is about Dr Dent and me.’

‘I am listening.’

‘I went to see him that afternoon. The afternoon before he went on the Flotsam & Jetsam show. I had gone to confront him about Heather McQueen. Well, we drank whisky. A lot of whisky.’

‘That would account for him being so drunk on the TV show. And what about this discussion? What did you talk about?’

‘That’s just it, Inspector. I cannot remember anything about it.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing, until I woke up in my hotel, vomiting my insides out. I had the hell of a headache.’

‘Is that unusual for you?’

There was a guilty silence for a few moments. ‘I have a problem with whisky, Inspector, but I can usually hold a lot without any problem. I am so sorry that I didn’t tell you before. I just felt so guilty and a bit frightened.’

‘Thank you for this information, Reverend. You do realize that it makes you a suspect in his death?’

Again there was a pause. Then, ‘Yes.’

‘Right, I will need to talk to you in more detail later. Don’t even think of trying to leave the island. I have already taken measures to stop all ferries from Kyleshiffin.’

Torquil sat for a moment after pocketing his mobile. Then he got up and grabbed his helmet. ‘Come on, Crusoe, we’re going to go for a ride.’

Morag was deep in conversation on the front phone when he went through.

‘I am going off to Half Moon Cove,’ he said softly.

‘Why?’ Morag mouthed.

‘It is all to do with bees. Ewan said that Fergie Ferguson had a bee in his bonnet about Guthrie Lovat. Well I have a bee in my own bonnet that I can’t get rid of. Maybe it will lead me to a hive. See you later.’

Morag waved then shook her head once the door had closed behind him. She had no idea what he was talking about.

Cora had come to work early and found that Calum had once again spent the night on his camp-bed. But to her relief she found that on this occasion there was no odour of stale whisky on his breath. Instead, he seemed to have a sparkle in his eye.

‘I have been having a good think, Cora. I find that I think best in the Chronicle offices. Being close to all the stories that I have written over the years seems to energize me.’

Cora giggled. ‘It sounds a bit mystical to me.’

‘Aye, well, journalism is a bit like a mystical journey, Cora. There is nothing like it when you get a story between your teeth.’

She sat down beside him. ‘I think I’m starting to get that feeling, boss.’

‘Hey, let’s drop the boss bit, shall we? It’s just plain Calum.’

She beamed at him. ‘I think your sixth sense might be starting to rub off on me. I sort of think I might have the essence of a story.’

‘Excellent! Go on, lassie. Spring it on me.’

‘Well, I think I know – I mean I think that maybe – Sandy King is here with Dan Farquarson because Farquarson is trying to buy him. You know, nobble him. Get him to throw matches and that. I was reading up about match-fixing on the internet. It is big business. Wee Hughie is Farquarson’s muscle.’

Calum suddenly threw his arms about her and kissed her hard on the cheek. ‘That’s it! That’s it! You’ve got the sense.’

He released her and they both beamed at each other. Then their proximity dawned on them.

‘Oh!’ said Cora.

‘Ah!’ said Calum.

‘So … so what do we do now – er – Calum?’

‘About what, Cora?’

‘A-About Sandy King and Farquarson?’ She averted her eyes and looked down at her feet. ‘Or about us?’ she whispered.

Calum swallowed hard. ‘I think we need to have a drink, Cora.’

She nodded absently. ‘You would like a whisky? Shall I get it?’

He patted the back of her hand affectionately. ‘No whisky, Cora. We have a story to chase. We need a cup of tea and some brain food. A mutton pie would be good.’ He winked at her. ‘Keep it professional, that’s what I say. At least while we have a story to close down.’ He smiled at her. ‘And then we can talk about us.’

She brightened and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Afterwards it is, Calum.’

Ewan coaxed Nippy along the road towards Sharkey’s Boot. It was hot and muggy and the midges were out in great swarms ready to ambush the unwary traveller. Considering the machine’s age, the speedometer needle never came within five miles of its maximum thirty miles per hour, which made him an ideal target for the swarms.

‘Blasted midges!’ he exclaimed, swiping at them with one hand and swerving about the road as a result. ‘I wonder if Dr Dent was getting closer to finding a solution for these wee nuisances?’

As he rode further into the huge haze of biting insects he scratched his neck, aware that already he had developed multiple tell-tale wounds. ‘I can see why somebody could get obsessed with the wee scunners. They must spread all kinds of disease.’

And, as he said it, he thought of Rab McNeish, who certainly seemed to have some sort of phobia about dogs. ‘Hmm! He sounded a bit subdued when I phoned him from the station. He didn’t even swear once, which isn’t like him. Still, we’ll soon see. And it will be interesting to hear if he has anything to add about this Heather McQueen case. All a bit of a mystery.’

He cleared the swarm and heaved a sigh of relief. He was tempted to stop for a moment to pull up his collar to protect his neck as best he could against further midge attacks, but he did not want Nippy to lose speed, especially as there was a slight rise to negotiate before the road dropped down to the peninsula-shaped spit of land whose shape had given its name to Sharkey’s Boot.

Towards the top of the rise he heard the noise of a vehicle coming in the other direction at speed. Then suddenly a canary yellow camper-van shot over the crest and zoomed towards him.

‘You fools!’ he yelled, as he swerved to avoid it.

He looked round immediately and saw it speeding off without stopping.

‘Huh! It is those bird-watching lads again. I will be having words with them if I catch hold of them again. I already told them about speeding on West Uist.’

Then he cursed as Nippy’s engine spluttered and threatened to stall. He began pedalling as hard as he could towards the crest of the rise.

Torquil opened up the throttle and let the Bullet have its head, conscious of Crusoe in the pannier.

‘Ha! You actually like that, don’t you, boy?’ he yelled into the wind and was answered by a bark of pleasure. ‘Now hold on, the road’s a bit like a chicane for half a mile.’

And so saying he entered the series of snake bends that characterized the stretch of road as he headed towards Half Moon Cove.

He slowed as he saw Alec Anderson’s mobile shop-cum Royal Mail van coming towards him.

He was about to wave as they approached one another but suddenly the haze of a midge cloud rose from the side of the road and, uncharacteristically, he faltered and the machine wobbled. It was all that he could do to maintain his balance.

The emporium van passed and once he had passed through the swarm he looked round at the retreating van. Then a couple of bars of a hornpipe rang out as the van horn was pumped.

Torquil grinned. ‘Those blasted midges, Crusoe. That would be an inglorious end for us, ending up under the wheels of Alec Anderson’s van.’

Crusoe barked, then whimpered and started biting at his fur.

‘Have you taken a few stray midges on board?’ Torquil asked. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give the Bullet a burst on the next straight bit. That’ll soon get rid of them.’

And with that he let the machine fly, much to Crusoe’s pleasure and bark of obvious relief.

Morag put the phone down and felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She was not sure that she could believe what she had just heard.

‘It is not possible! I’d better tell Torquil.’

But before she did that she felt a hollow feeling expand within her and she felt the need, a desperate need, to talk to Sandy.

She phoned his mobile and waited. The phone was picked up after several rings and she heard his voice.

‘Sandy, thank goodness. Listen I—’

‘… in a moment you will be connected to the voice mail of—’

With a grunt of exasperation she pressed the cancel button.

‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’ she moaned. She was about to phone Torquil then thought better of it.

‘Damn! I wish one of the others was here.’ She glanced at her watch and considered calling Ewan or the twins and bringing them back to look after the station. Then she made her decision. She locked up, grabbed the station’s Escort car keys and let herself out of the back door.

Calum and Cora had arrived at the luxury rented cottage on Calum’s old yellow Lambretta. Calum had grinned all the way there at the warm feeling that having Cora’s arms about his middle had given him.

You are a fool, Calum Steele; part of his mind had castigated himself. But she’s a bonny lassie and she’s lovely, another part protested.

And just to make him grin even more, from time to time he felt the grip tighten and he felt her face pressing against his back.

Be professional, Calum you numbskull! Later, you can ask her out.

He felt himself bristle when he turned off the engine and Wee Hughie appeared at the door. He came across the gravel to meet them, smiling broadly at Cora and ignoring him.

‘I’m glad that you rang us, Cora,’ Wee Hughie said. ‘I wasn’t sure what we were planning to do today. There’s been a bit of a problem here.’

‘What sort of problem?’ Calum interjected, as he pulled off his helmet.

‘A bit of a bust up between the boss and McNab. The bloke doesn’t seem to know which side his bread is buttered.’

‘What do you mean? Has Bruce McNab been dismissed?’

‘He sacked us, more like,’ returned Wee Hughie with a grin. ‘The boss is fair annoyed. People don’t talk to him like that.’

Cora smiled at Wee Hughie and Calum noticed how the big man melted. He could understand exactly how he felt, but it peeved him nonetheless.

‘Could we come in and talk to Mr Farquarson?’ Cora asked.

Wee Hughie laughed. ‘And here was me thinking that you had come to talk to me! Of course you can. And then maybe later you and I could—’

‘Actually, I think that Cora is going to be busy all day after we finish here,’ Calum said quickly.

Wee Hughie glared at him. ‘You’d better follow me then.’

And they followed him into the cottage and found Dan Farquarson busily texting someone on a Blackberry.

‘Dan,’ said Calum, ingratiatingly. ‘Thanks for letting us have a few minutes.’ He looked about the room. ‘Er – where’s Sandy?’

‘I thought you wanted to speak to me, not Sandy,’ Dan Farquarson asked without looking up from his Blackberry.

‘Oh aye, it’s you, Dan. For a feature in the Chronicle.’

‘No feature!’

‘Sorry?’ Calum returned.

‘I said, no feature. You can ask a few questions, but here are the rules first.’ He pressed the send button on his phone then flicked it closed and looked up. ‘You are the editor of the local rag, right? I am a Dundee businessman. I am here with my associate and with my good friend Sandy King. Those are facts. The first rule is you don’t leap to any conclusions. We are here on a hunting holiday, not on any kind of business trip.’

‘Of course, Dan,’ Calum began. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that—’

Dan Farquarson smiled; a smile without any warmth whatsoever. ‘Of course you weren’t. You have already had an interview with Sandy King. The second rule is that there must be no adverse publicity. Nothing! Understand?’

Calum nodded emphatically. ‘Totally understand, Dan. I just wanted—’

‘You just wanted to stick your nose in and make some sort of connection, didn’t you? You and your girlie here.’ He nodded at Wee Hughie. ‘Show him what we do to nosy-parkers, Hughie.’

Wee Hughie stared at his boss and then at Calum. Then at Cora. With a shrug he stood up and took a pace towards Calum.

‘Just you sit down, Hughie!’ said Cora, shooting to her feet. ‘What do you think you are doing listening to a windbag like that? He’s just a big bully and he’s using you, can’t you see that?’

‘Sit down, girlie!’ Dan Farquarson snapped.

‘Oh shut up, fatso,’ Cora returned. ‘We are not frightened of you. We are journalists. Calum Steele is the finest local paper editor in Scotland and he’s not frightened of you and your big bank roll, wherever it came from.’ She looked at Calum for support. ‘You’re not scared of the likes of him, are you, Calum?’

Calum stood and drew himself up to his full five foot six inches and puffed out his chest. ‘Not a bit of it, Cora. And this little conversation has just confirmed all that we needed to know. Read the paper tomorrow, Farquarson, and sue me if you dare.’

‘Hughie!’ Farquarson screeched. ‘Don’t just stand there.’

But Wee Hughie just looked at his boss and despite himself he tossed back his head and roared with laughter. ‘She’s right. You are just a windbag. And you’ve even been sacked by your gillie today. Well, let me make it three. I’ve sacked you, too. You can find someone else to do your dirty work. I’m going off with my friends here. They can have all the information they want.’

The Dundee businessman huffed and puffed and then slumped down in his chair.

Wee Hughie walked outside with them.

‘Cora, you are fantastic!’ he said.

Cora started to tremble and Calum immediately put a protective arm about her shoulder before Wee Hughie could act. ‘Aye, you were. And I am proud of you, lass. Dead proud.’

Wee Hughie shrugged as he saw the loving look she bestowed on Calum.

‘Do you want me to follow you into town for a wee chat about Farquarson? I’ve been meaning to kick the old fart into touch for a while now. It’s not the sort of work my old mother would like to see me doing.’

The sound of a car crunching up the gravel made them all turn. The West Uist police force’s Ford Escort pulled up beside them and Morag Driscoll leaned out of the window.

‘I need to speak to Sandy King,’ she said, addressing all three of them.

‘He’s not here,’ Wee Hughie volunteered. ‘I’m not sure where he is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had gone to sort things out with Bruce McNab.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ muttered Morag. ‘Thanks,’ she called, shoving the car into reverse and speeding back up the gravel drive.

Bruce McNab sat in his kitchen staring out of the window with a bottle by his side and his shotgun cradled over his knees. He had been drinking since cock crow. It was not something he normally did, but his spirits had sunk pretty low over the past few days. Farquarson’s party had been an increasing irritation, what with them showing up as and when it suited them rather than as arranged. After his second drink he had phoned Farquarson and told him what he could do with his party!

But it had been the break-in that had really got to him. It had been made to look like a common burglary, but he knew better. Whoever had done it was looking for something – and they had found it. It had made him doubt his sanity for a while, since he was sure that he had hidden it away where no one could find it. It had been taken right enough, even though he had checked over his whole cottage at least six times, just in case he had moved it in a drunken haze one night.

He stared at the whisky glass in his hand, hesitating to drink it. Then he bent his head back and poured it down his throat, wincing as the liquid fire hit his stomach.

‘You are a fool, McNab,’ he growled at himself. ‘Just like you were last summer. And now some bastard is coming for you.’

Out in their kennels his two chocolate Labradors started to bark.

‘So you are about, are you? Well, come on, you bastard. If you want me, here I am!’

He ran a finger along the barrel of the gun and his face broke into a cynical sneer.

A trained hunter, he was normally aware of the slightest noise, but the whisky had dulled his senses. He hadn’t heard the step behind him; hadn’t even considered the possibility of someone getting into his house from the other side.

A hand shot over his shoulder and grabbed the shotgun.

‘What the—?’ he began, as he tried to turn.

He yelled as the butt of the shotgun fell with great force on his right shoulder.

‘Don’t get up on my account, Bruce,’ said Sandy King, walking round his chair into view. He was dressed in a black track suit and trainers. ‘You were expecting me, I see. How nice.’ He smiled as he broke the shotgun open and removed the cartridges. ‘Let’s just get rid of these. We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt, would we?’

Then the smile vanished as he pocketed the cartridges. ‘I think it is time that we had a chat, don’t you?’