Flotsam and Jetsam

ONE

Inspector Torquil McKinnon, ‘Piper’ to most people on West Uist, had been practising his pipes in St Ninian’s Cave. It was something he tried to do at least once a week. On those days, although not normally an early-riser, he would get up with the first light, have a frugal breakfast then ride down to the cave before he went in to the police station in Kyleshiffin. He found it an excellent way of problem-solving.

For ten minutes he ran through his repertoire of warm-up exercises, to get his finger movements right. He played a string of ever more complex movements – leumluaths, taorluaths, gracenotes and birls. Then he played a strathspey and reel, then a hornpipe before concentrating on the piobaireachd, the pibroch.

The great basalt columned St Ninian’s Cave had been used by generations of island pipers, including Torquil’s uncle, the Reverend Lachlan McKinnon. They had lived together in the old manse ever since Torquil’s parents had died in a boating accident when he was a youngster and Lachlan had been appointed as his guardian. He remembered the day when Lachlan had taken him and his pipes and introduced him to the cave’s special magic. The young Torquil had hoped that he would one day follow in his uncle’s footsteps and become a champion piper and winner of the Silver Quaich. Much to their mutual pleasure he duly did, just a year before, so that there now resided a Silver Quaich on each end of the mantelpiece in the manse’s sitting-room.

Nature had carved this sea cave beautifully, so that it seemed to hold a sound perfectly for a moment so that the piper was able to hear the correct pitch of his playing. It was a natural tape recorder for a musician.

Suddenly a sour note from a faulty fingering grated around the cave.

‘Och! It is all rubbish that you are playing, Torquil McKinnon. You are playing like a constipated crow today,’ he chided himself as he let the blow pipe drop from his lips then gave the bag a sharp chop so that it was instantly silenced as the reeds closed, rather that producing the amateurish moaning as the bag slowly deflated that bagpipe loathers likened to the death throws of a dying sheep. He shook his head and bit his lower lip.

‘Too much on my mind, that is the trouble.’

He was a tall twenty-nine year old man with coal-black hair, high cheekbones and a slightly hawk-like nose. He had been the youngest inspector in the whole of the Western Isles and to many a West Uist lass he had been considered a desirable and eligible male. That had changed relatively recently when he lost his heart to Sergeant Lorna Golspie. Things had been so good between them over the last few weeks until his superior officer had thrown a spanner in the works.

Torquil felt his temper begin to rise, but he suppressed it quickly. He stood for a moment and reverently bent his head, much as he would in his uncle’s church.

‘Tapadh leat! Thank you!’ he said to the great columned chamber, itself like a church. The Padre himself had taught him to show respect to St Ninian and his cave for in a way it was the best teacher a piper could ever have.

With his pipes under his arm he left the cave and crunched up the kelp-covered shingle beach towards the lay-by above where he had parked his classic Royal Enfield Bullet 500.

‘Damn Superintendent Lumsden!’ he said to himself. ‘Why could you not just let us have some time together instead of seconding her to the Lewis station. As if they didn’t have enough—’

He stopped short when he heard the moan. It sounded like a dog whimpering.

He spun round and looked in the direction of the sea. The tide had turned some time ago and was going out, exposing heaps of seaweed-covered rocks and leaving countless pools.

Floating in one such pool was a piece of timber. To his horror he saw that a young three-coloured collie, little more than a puppy was lying sprawled on the timber, lashed to it with several loops of thick cord. Its fur was soaked and spiky and it looked exhausted. Its weary eyes were fixed on him and it raised its head and whimpered pitifully.

‘Creideamh! Faith!’ Torquil exclaimed, laying his bagpipes down on the shingle and sprinting over towards the pool where the timber-bound dog was bobbing up and down. ‘Who would do such a thing. They meant to drown you?’

Without hesitation he jumped into the pool despite his heavy-buckled Ashman boots and waded over to retrieve the timber and the animal. He hoisted the timber and the dog out of the water and waded back. Once he had climbed out, he examined the cord, observing as he did that it had been looped around the dog’s body several times and tied with knots that he was unfamiliar with. They certainly did not seem to be common seamen’s knots, yet they had been competently formed and were intended not to slip.

‘It looks like someone knew what they were doing, my wee friend,’ he said. He pulled out a penknife and sliced the ropes distant from the knots. He had half expected the dog to make a bolt for freedom, but it just lay on the timber and continued to moan. Then it started to shiver.

‘You are too exhausted to move, I think. And you must have been in the water a long time judging by the state of you. I am surprised that you have survived the cold.’ And after reassuringly stroking its coat and trying to get some of the excess water from its fur, he pulled off the navy-blue Arran jumper that was the only concession to a uniform that he made and wrapped the dog in it. Stuffing the ropes into his pocket he carried it and the timber back up the beach. Then he tossed the timber above the high water-line and picked up his pipes.

‘A good thing I have two panniers on the Bullet,’ he told the shivering creature a few moments later as he stowed first the dog into one, then his pipes into the other carrier. He pulled on his gauntlets, wrapped his McKinnon tartan scarf about his neck and pulled on his Cromwell helmet. He grinned at the steadily rising sun.

‘And a good thing that you are there to warm us up, master sun, otherwise I would not relish riding to Kylshiffin in my T-shirt.’ Then, nodding at the dog, ‘We’ll have a better look at you back at the station, my wee friend. I would like to know who your owner is and why he or she tried to murder you.’

He kicked the Bullet into action and moments later he opened up the throttle and was accelerating along the snaking headland road past Loch Hynish on his way to Kyleshiffin.

He had been cross about Superintendent Lumsden, but attempted murder in any form, even of a dog, made his blood boil.

Ordinarily the Padre, as Torquil’s uncle, the Reverend Lachlan McKinnon, was known by most folk, was careful about the times he played golf in the summer. While the early hours after dawn were a good time to play in the autumn and the spring, he tended to tee-off later in the day during the summer months. But when one had a guest priest in the parish it was another matter. One had to be hospitable and play nine holes when they wanted to. When the guest played off a suspiciously high handicap and was well known for liking a bet on a game there was even more reason to be accommodating. Lachlan was a canny player himself and he hoped that his local knowledge of the course would come in useful.

So far the match was all square. They had teed off at 6 and played seven holes before 7.15.

‘Sure, it is a real golfing paradise that you have here on West Uist, Lachlan,’ said the Reverend Kenneth Canfield, the chaplain to the University of the Highlands as he lined up a six foot putt then gently stroked the ball into the hole. ‘Par four,’ he said with glee, nimbly bending and collecting his ball.

He was a slim, wiry man in his late forties, a former Scottish Universities squash champion. He had a good eye for a ball, but had only been playing golf for about five years. Lachlan thought that his middle handicap belied his ability and suspected that he ‘protected it’ at his home club. The collection of trophies that he had seen in his study when he had last visited him in Inverness seemed to support that.

‘Aye, it may not be St Andrews, but it is a fair test of golf, Kenneth.’ He lined up his own putt and similarly tapped the ball in. ‘And a par for me too. Still all square. Now for the long eighth. I warn you, it is a wee tester.’

Lachlan was proud of the ten-acre plot of undulating dunes and machair that he and several other local worthies had years before transformed into the St Ninian’s Golf Course. Using the natural lie of the land they had constructed six holes, each with at least two potential hazards. The fairways were tractor-mown once a week, the greens were sheep-grazed to near billiard table smoothness and the bunkers (in the beginning at least) had been excavated by generations of rabbits. Each hole had three separate tee positions, each one giving its route to the hole a special name in both English and Gaelic, thereby allowing players the choice of playing a conventional eighteen holes or any combination they chose.

The Padre had tended his flock for more years than he cared to think about. He was now sixty-four years of age and especially proud of the fact that he played off a golf handicap exactly one eighth of his age, having been a single figure handicapper all of his adult life.

He was a tall man, with a mop of shaggy white hair that seemed to defy the application of brush or comb, who sported a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He was dressed in his usual attire which he wore both on and off the golf course; a green West Uist tweed jacket, corduroy trousers, black shirt and a dog-collar.

They crossed from the green to the eighth tee. A stone marker had a plaque, proclaiming that the hole was called Carragh, the Pillar, because of an ancient standing stone that rose out of the rough on the left of the fairway.

‘You will see that the hole plays entirely differently from this tee, Kenneth,’ Lachlan volunteered as he shoved a tee peg in the ground and pulled out his trusty two wood. ‘You will need to keep to the fairway if you want to make sure that you avoid the Pillar.’

He addressed the ball then swung freely and effortlessly. There was a satisfying click of wood on ball then he held his follow-through and watched the ball start out right then slowly draw back towards the middle of the fairway. It bounced then ran on for another forty yards, rolling just beyond the Pillar.

‘I don’t know how you manage to hit the ball so far and so accurately with those old wooden-headed clubs of yours,’ Kenneth said, with an admiring shake of the head. ‘Good drive!’

‘Thank you, Kenneth,’ Lachlan replied. ‘The truth is that I have never fancied those newfangled metal woods. It sounds like you are hitting the ball with a tin can.’

The Reverend Canfield teed up his ball. ‘But at least they are quite forgiving. They have a bigger sweet spot and I think they make a difference in length.’ He pulled out his huge-headed driver. ‘In fact, I am going to ignore your advice and try the tiger line. If I can cut off a bit of the dog-leg I could maybe get my trusty eight iron to the green with my second shot. Then with the stroke you are giving me on the hole….’

He winked meaningfully then addressed his ball. He swung fast and hard, fairly relishing the noise that Lachlan so scorned. The ball shot off in the direction of the Pillar, easily clearing it to land in the short rough near a thicket of yellow blossomed gorse bushes on the left of the fairway, a good thirty yards further on than Lachlan’s ball.

‘Excellent shot,’ Lachlan enthused. ‘Fortune favours the brave. You should have an easy shot to the green with your second. Just watch your footing because it tends to be pretty damp over there.’

He pulled out a battered old briar pipe from his breast pocket and started stuffing its bowl with tobacco from a dilapidated yellow oilskin pouch. He struck a light and grinned with amusement as he watched the Reverend Canfield striding after his ball.

You are going to need a bit of good fortune, he mischievously thought to himself. We’ll see if you are as fast as you used to be on the squash court.

He ambled on in the direction of his own ball, keeping an eye on his playing partner. He saw him tramp into the rough to find his ball. Then he selected a club from his bag and stood behind the ball with his club held dangling at arm’s length, like a plum-bob to get the line to the green.

And, just as the Padre had suspected, it happened. A dark hazy cloud rose from the rough, moving outwards from the gorse bushes towards the Reverend Canfield. Within seconds it engulfed him.

‘Gah! Midges!’ he cried, frantically scratching his exposed skin. Then he let forth a stream of invective quite unbecoming to one of his cloth.

Despite himself, Lachlan chuckled. Fearful that Kenneth Canfield should hear him he puffed harder on his pipe and soon had billows of smoke around him. ‘Are you being attacked, Kenneth?’ he called rhetorically.

Kenneth was swiping at the swarm of midges to no avail. In despair he lashed out at the ball with his club and foozled it a few yards ahead. With a scowl he shouldered his bag, ran on to the ball and swiped again, with similar result. Eventually, after three more such attempts, he made it to the fairway, finally leaving the midge swarm behind him.

Lachlan knocked an easy five iron into the heart of the green.

‘I wish I had known that you had a midge problem over on that side of the course,’ Kenneth said plaintively.

Lachlan noticed the suspicious glint in his eye, but feigned surprise. ‘Oh well, Kenneth, you are in the Outer Hebrides. The whole of the west of Scotland has a midge problem as you know. All you can do is try to avoid them.’

‘Or keep them away with a foul-smelling pipe!’

Lachlan laughed. ‘With all these new anti-smoking laws the golf course is about the only place left where you are allowed to smoke. The fact that the meanbh-chuileag, the “tiny fly” doesn’t like my tobacco is quite fortuitous.’ He watched as Kenneth selected a seven iron and addressed his ball.

‘Maybe you should have checked on Dr Digby Dent’s Midge Index before coming out this morning?’ Lachlan suggested.

To his surprise Kenneth glared at him, and then took a wild swipe at his ball. The result was inevitable. He hit a duck hook that sent the ball arcing viciously in the direction of the rough and more gorse bushes on the left. It disappeared into them.

‘Pah! It is no good. I concede this hole Lachlan. Why did you have to mention that man’s name?’

‘Dr Dent?’ Lachlan returned with mild surprise. ‘Have you a problem with him, Kenneth? Why he seems a decent enough chap to me. He must be the world’s foremost expert on the midge. In fact, I am planning to go to hear him talk tonight. He is doing a short spot on that Scottish TV show that they are shooting on the island over the next two weeks. Flotsam & Jetsam it is called. I was going to suggest that you come along?’

‘Ah yes, that antique and junk show with the tanned chappie with the world’s worst wig and the glamorous partner. I have seen an episode or two when they came to Inverness. So what is my university’s famous entomologist doing on this show?’

Lachlan tapped his pipe out on the blade of his putter and grinned. ‘Explaining about midges, would you believe?’

The Reverend Kenneth Canfield smiled back. ‘In that case I wouldn’t miss him for the world.’

But Lachlan noted the tinge of sarcasm in his voice that belied the smile.

Fergus Ferguson was used to being recognized. Camera-shy he definitely was not. In fact, he felt totally at home in front of a lens, which undoubtedly had something to do with his great success as a TV presenter. Although he thought it a bit of a mouthful, he revelled in being known as the doyen of the antique and bric-à-brac world. Yet this particular camera lens was causing him some agitation.

‘Why doesn’t he bloody well answer?’ he said to Chrissie, his attractive, long-blonde-haired partner and co-host on the popular Flotsam & Jetsam TV show. ‘I’m sure I can see him sitting watching us from behind those lace net curtains.’

‘Shush, Fergie!’ she whispered. ‘You might be right, but it’s hard to say from this distance. But if he’s there then he’ll be able to hear you on this intercom. Now don’t swear.’ She raised her hand to cover her eyes and looked admiringly up at the house. ‘It’s a fantastic place that he has here. And a fabulous view over his own stretch of beach.’

He straightened up from the stone pillar with the intercom and camera beside the radio-controlled iron gates that barred entry to the long drive. It zigzagged up through sand dunes to a large two-storeyed building that seemed to be more windows than brickwork. And all of them were covered with net curtains or blinds. He screwed his eyes up and pointed. ‘Look, in that bay window. I’m sure he’s sitting there watching us.’

‘Maybe he only talks to people he recognizes?’ she suggested.

He stared at her as if she had said something outrageous. ‘In which case he’s bound to recognize us, isn’t he? Fergie and Chrissie from Flotsam & Jetsam. Half of Scotland watches us every night.’

‘Maybe he’s part of the other half of Scotland, my love.’

Despite himself he grinned at her. When Chrissie smiled like that men fell in love with her. When she smiled like that at him, he wanted to make love to her. He raised an eyebrow and flicked his eyes in the direction of the countless sand dunes that ran the length of the coast.

She immediately recognized the expression on his handsome, deeply tanned face and giggled. ‘This is business, Fergie. Behave yourself. Now try again. They told us that he’s just about a recluse and that we’d be lucky to get him to let us in.’

Fergie sighed and bent down to jab a well-manicured finger on the intercom button.

‘Hi there,’ he intoned in his jingle-jangle Scottish TV voice. ‘This is Fergie and Chrissie here from Flotsam & Jetsam. We’d like to have a chat with you, maybe do a bit of business and invite you on to our TV show.’

‘Maybe he’s deaf, Fergie? Or maybe he’s just not interested.’

‘You look into the camera, darling. Maybe a sight of you will get him to open up.’

Chrissie gently barged him aside and smiled at the lens. But before she could say anything the intercom crackled and a distant tinny voice rang out.

‘No hawkers, sales-folk or onion Johnnies, thank you.’

Fergie stared in disbelief. ‘Hawkers! Onion Johnnies! Doesn’t he know—?’

The intercom crackled again. ‘Please move on or I’ll be telephoning the police.’

Fergie scowled and jabbed the button again. ‘Now look here! I am Fergie Ferguson from the Scottish TV program Flotsam & Jetsam and I have—’

The voice from the intercom interrupted. ‘Please move on. I do not like my privacy being invaded. I am phoning the police now.’

‘Come on, Fergie,’ said Chrissie, pointing to their parked Mercedes.

A motor engine sounded and they looked round to see a cream and blue mobile shop van that was also emblazoned with the logo of the Royal Mail appear round the bend of the rough track. It drew to a halt beside their car and a postman got out. He was a wiry fellow with a shaven head that made prominent ears stand out even more. He was wearing shorts and trainers and was almost as tanned as Fergie.

‘Hello, folks,’ he said with a grin. ‘Are you trying to get to see our famous artist-cum-beachcomber? I have to say you’ll be lucky.’ Then his jaw dropped as he recognized the duo.

‘Crikey! You are – er – Thingy and Chrissie, aren’t you?’ He snapped his fingers with embarrassment. ‘I mean Fergie and Chrissie. The wife and I are planning to come and see the show tonight.’

‘That’s excellent,’ Fergie replied with a show-biz smile that completely hid the chagrin he felt at being called Thingy. ‘And we are trying to see Guthrie Lovat.’

‘Without luck,’ added Chrissie.

‘He only really lets me and my wife in these days,’ the newcomer explained. ‘I am Alec Anderson, by the way. I am the local postie and mobile-shop proprietor. You’ll see me tootling all over the island at some stage or another.’

‘Alec, do you think you could do us a favour?’ Fergie asked, with an ingratiating grin. ‘Could you get us in to see the old boy? We wondered if we could entice him on to the show, or maybe let us feature some of his work. It could be good for his business.’

Chrissie put a hand on Alec’s arm. ‘We could make it worth your while.’

Alec pursed his lips. ‘That could be tricky. He’s a cantankerous old so and so. Maybe I could put a word in though. It would be a matter of picking my time.’

‘We are doing the show every night Monday to Friday this week and next,’ Chrissie said. She gave him one of her presenter smiles. ‘Is there anything that we could do to help you?’

A sparkle came into Alec Anderson’s eye. Ever ready for a business opportunity he replied eagerly, ‘The wife and I are dab hands at supplying refreshments at public meetings. If you like, we could have tea, coffee, rolls and sweets for your audience. Just like at the cinema.’

‘No problem, Alec,’ said Fergie with a wink. ‘You scratch our backs and we’ll scratch yours. Just give Geordie Innes, our producer a ring.’ He pulled out a card from his breast pocket and wrote a number on top.

‘That’s fine; I’ll do that for you, Mr Ferguson. But maybe you could give me a day to sort it. He’ll have been watching us and he’ll be fair chuntering. He’s a suspicious so and so and I’ll need to let him get used to the idea.’

‘It would be great to get him on the show,’ Fergie went on. ‘Celebrated local artist and all that. Good for West Uist too.’ He produced a pair of sunglasses and put them on. ‘So you have my card. Phone Geordie to arrange your refreshments, then Guthrie or you can phone me any time’

‘You’ve been a great help, Alec,’ said Chrissie, wrinkling her nose as she turned to go.

Her gesture seemed to have the desired effect, for Alec blushed.

He stood tapping the card against his teeth as he watched them get into the Mercedes and set off. He waved.

‘But I think you’ll be lucky to get Guthrie on TV,’ he mused to himself as they disappeared round the bend of the track.

He pressed the intercom. ‘It’s Alec, Mr Lovat. I’ve brought your supplies and your post.’

He went back to his van and started up the engine. Then he pressed the zapper that opened the gates and once they had swung free he set off up the zig-zag drive.

‘But who knows. Maybe the old goat would like to be a TV star. I think he would like that Chrissie.’

Bruce McNab never really liked taking more than two clients out on the river at a time. For one thing it was hard enough trying to teach two people the intricacies of fly-fishing. And for another it was potentially unsafe, according to the faceless wonders in Health and Safety who were forever trying to put a stranglehold on folk such as himself. It was a continual worry whether the insurance company would pay up if anything did go wrong. Yet his main reason for keeping his numbers so small was because he was not one known to hold his tongue. If he thought someone was acting like a fool he would tell them, no matter how rich, powerful or titled that person might be. In his mind he was the expert on all types of hunting and game fishing and that was just the way it had to be. Give him three folk and he knew that there would be one clown among them.

In this trio of clients he just knew that there was an idiot of the first order. He just wasn’t sure which of them it was.

‘The skill is in the way that you make your fly react,’ he said as he stood thigh deep in the waters of the Corlinspey River about fifty yards down from the Cauldron Pool. It was called that because the waters tumbled over a ledge at the edge of the Corlins into a foaming vortex before they cascaded down a series of mini rapids and the river meandered peacefully on. The three clients stood on the bank looking down at him each dressed in brand new sporting clothes and waders, with their rods at the ready.

‘The trout is an intelligent fish. He has a good idea where he is going to get a tasty insect meal. He seems to know a real insect from a poorly disguised metal hook that is going to hoik him out of the water.’ He turned and thrust out his bearded jaw challengingly. ‘He will not be fooled by a galoot who fancies himself as a fisherman.’

He flicked his rod and cast his line at a deft forty-five degree angle to land in the Corlinspey.

‘So you have to make it behave like a proper insect. You see? Easy!’ He played the rod and line and this time didn’t bother looking round. ‘So what are you, gentlemen? Galoots or fishermen?’ This time he turned and smiled, challenging them to either get cross or buckle down. He was in his early forties, but was proud of his physique, having kept himself in trim since his shinty-playing days. He had broad shoulders, a good-looking, well-weathered face with a full red beard and mane of hair. He looked every inch the gillie, and he was confident that he could handle himself with anybody if they decided to cut up rough. It had not yet happened in his career.

He grinned as he saw that all three were too busy wafting the air to fend off the odd midge.

‘Och! I think you will find that I know how to fish well enough, Jimmie,’ said the shortest of the three, a paunchy, middle-aged fellow with a Dundee accent. ‘I have fished the length of the Tummel and the Tay.’

Bruce nodded, although he was not convinced. He tended to assess his clients on the basis of social status and sporting prowess. He had already tagged Dan Farquarson, a well-to-do businessman, as a B or a C grade.

‘And what about you, Mr Thompson?’ Bruce asked Dan Farquarson’s associate. It was a rhetorical question as far as he was concerned, since he had already scored him as a low D or high E.

‘I’m no so sure about my fishing ability, boss,’ the man who had been introduced to him as Wee Hughie replied in a guttural Glaswegian brogue. It amused Bruce that Wee Hughie replied not to him, but to Farquarson. Clearly he was in thrall to the little man. Yet the epithet was not entirely right, for there was nothing obviously small about Wee Hughie Thompson. He was well over six feet in height and with the build of a weight-lifter. The image of the proverbial brick toilet sprang to Bruce McNab’s mind.

‘See, the only fishing I ever did was at the Glasgow Fair down on the Green. I wis about ten, I think. They gi’ed me a cane wi a loop and I had tae fish out a plastic duck from a rotating pond thing.’

Dan Farquarson made a throaty chuckle then immediately cursed as his hand went to scratch his thinning grey hair. ‘You are a card, right enough, Hughie. Well I am betting that you’ll catch a few bites today. Mind you they might just be midge bites, like these.’

‘How about you just let us get in the river and we’ll see how we do?’ said the third member of the group with a flurry of impatience.

Bruce eyed him dispassionately. It was the impatient tone of someone used to getting his own way. He had already recognized the long-blond-haired young man as none other than Sandy King, the Scottish footballer of whom all the newspapers were expecting great things from in the future. On that basis Bruce had already graded him as at least an A minus on his system.

‘Be my guests,’ he said, indicating for them to step down into the water. ‘Take care of your first few steps. The water bed can be gie slippy and you do not want to fill your waders with water. I cannot stress that enough. It can be very dangerous.’

He stood back and watched them all get in. Then he pointed downriver. ‘I suggest that you each select a spot twenty yards apart. That way you will be out of range of each other’s cast and you will all get a decent shot at the fish.’

And indeed, with him wandering back and forth between them, giving little pointers according to their level of ability, they soon had two decent fish in their net. Dan Farquarson and the footballer had both surprised Bruce McNab.

Wee Hughie had been reprimanded three times, once by Dan Farquarson and once by Bruce for keeping up a flow of inane chatter. When he started to give them another commentary on how he was going to go for the big catch, Bruce determined to silence him.

‘Mr Thompson,’ he said, trying to relax so that his ire did not show too much. ‘If you want to catch anything at all, you will need to keep quiet. Fish can see you and they can hear every—’

He did not finish because from the bank behind and above them someone started to laugh.

‘Don’t believe him, my friend. Fish don’t have ears to hear with. Don’t believe this gillie.’

They all looked round and were surprised to see a man in his mid-thirties dressed like them in waders, but with an anorak and a mesh helmet, such as bee-keepers wear. Hanging from a shoulder strap he was carrying a large box with numerous flasks and containers and in his free hand he had a huge gossamer net on a pole.

‘Who do you think you are?’ quipped Wee Hughie. ‘A mad butterfly collector?’

‘A mad scientist some say,’ the man replied. ‘Doctor Digby Dent, at your service.’ He grinned behind the mesh of his helmet. ‘And I am just about to join you gentlemen.’

‘Not here, you aren’t,’ snapped Bruce. ‘You have no licence to fish here.’

Digby Dent chuckled and tossed his net down on the bank. Then he proceeded to clamber down into the water. ‘And a good morning to you too – Mr McNab, isn’t it?’ Then before Bruce could reply, ‘I have no need of a licence to retrieve my specimens. I have thirty traps embedded all the way along the bank here. It is time to collect them. They should give me a good idea of the midge larval population along this stretch of the river.’

Without more ado he started moving slowly along the river behind them, delving with his gloved hands into the muddy bank to locate and pull out a series of cone shaped plastic containers.

Sandy King noticed that there were small green tags embedded above each one.

‘I think you should clear off, pal,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘We have paid good money to fish this water and—’

‘Then fish away,’ replied Dr Dent. ‘You won’t disturb me.’

Bruce took a step towards him. ‘Did you hear my client, Dent?’

‘Oh yes, but I won’t be long. I am conducting a serious scientific survey here, not kow-towing to the rich folk like you.’

‘You should watch your mouth, pal,’ said Dan Farquarson.

‘Should I give him a ducking, boss?’ suggested Wee Hughie.

Dr Dent laughed again. ‘Look, enough of your prattle. Just let me get on with my work then you can go back to your tiddler-catching, or whatever it is you are doing.’

‘Are you the midge man that we heard about?’ Sandy King asked.

Whether or not Dr Dent recognized the footballer, he gave no indication. He went on collecting his specimen containers, wiping the dirt off each one before adding it to the box.

‘I am an entomologist, but to the folk round here that means I am the midge man. I am the chap who is going to free Scotland of the tyranny of the midge forever.’

‘You are a fool, Dent,’ sneered Bruce. ‘The midges have been here long before man and they will be here long after we have gone.’

In the shade of the bank none of them had really seen the fine haze of the swarm that descended upon them. All the fishermen, including Bruce McNab started to itch and scratch and waft the air about them in a useless attempt to fend off their tiny attackers, which had honed in on them to bite and feed off blood.

‘Bugger this for a lark!’ exclaimed Dan Farquarson, the first to haul himself from the river. ‘Let’s get out of here before we’re eaten alive. Why did you take us to this infested place?’ he demanded of Bruce.

‘It wasn’t infested until he started guddling about in the bank,’ Bruce replied, pointing venomously at Dr Dent.

‘You should have checked up on the Midge Index. It is well displayed on the harbour noticeboard. It is high all week, which means that you should be prepared.’

‘Midge Index! Rubbish!’ Bruce exclaimed in disgust.

‘Aye rubbish you say,’ groaned Wee Hughie, pointing at Dr Dent’s protective clothing. ‘But he’s prepared for it. Why are we not?’

Digby Dent grinned. ‘A lot of the local folk think they know about the midges, just because they live alongside them. But the truth is that they don’t, as your gillie has just proved.’ He clicked his tongue then went on without looking up at them. ‘Look, why don’t you all come along to the Flotsam & Jetsam show tonight,’ he said, as he casually went on with his specimen collecting. ‘I am doing a few minutes on the life cycle of the midge. They want a bit of colour adding to their remarkable show,’ he said, with a slight emphasis on the word ‘remarkable.’ Its subtlety was not lost on Sandy King. Then he grinned up at them. ‘You really ought to dress properly when you go out on the river, you know. I could let you have the phone number of a good supplier of midge veils.’

‘Come on,’ Dan Farquarson said irritably. ‘Why don’t you find us another bit of the river where he won’t be disturbed by these little buggers?’ He looked sternly at Dr Dent. ‘Or by any other nuisance.’

‘Enjoy your sport,’ Dr Dent called. ‘I’ve enjoyed mine. If I had been along a bit earlier I could have netted that swarm. A pity that you broke it up like that.’

Bruce McNab’s face had gone puce and he was about to reply, but thought better of it.

‘You take care of yourself, pal,’ said Wee Hughie, who had no such concerns. There was a snap as he stood on the long handle of the insect net. ‘Whoops! Someone left a pole in my way.’ He winked maliciously at Digby Dent who stood silently although it was clear that he had been rattled by the way his hands had begun to shake.

Sandy King gave a half smile. ‘That sounds like good advice, Doctor Dent. And you know what they say – you should never bite off more than you can chew.’

Calum Steele the editor the West Uist Chronicle had been working through the night to get the latest edition of his newspaper out on time. Since the paper was virtually a oneman show – Calum being not only the editor, but the sole reporter, manager and printer – it often meant that he had the devil’s own job to write everything, prepare photographs and physically produce the newspaper in time for the fleet of lads he paid to distribute it to the newsagents and other outlets across the island.

Although he always talked about the West Uist Chronicle offices, it was a somewhat grandiloquent title, for although there was a large printed sign attached to the wall beside the door, the newspaper offices consisted of two floors, both of which were exclusively used by Calum. The actual news office itself, where Calum interviewed people and took orders for photographs which had appeared in the paper, occupied the first room on the ground floor, with an all-purpose junk room at the back. Before the days of digital photography it had been the dark room where he did his developing. Upstairs was where the actual work took place. At the front was the room with a cluttered old oak desk where he wrote his articles and columns on a vintage Mackintosh computer or on his spanking new laptop. Sitting between the two computers was a dusty old Remington typewriter, which served no real purpose other than to help him feel the part of a writer. The rest of the room was occupied with his digital printing press, paper and stationery supplies, and in the corner was the space where he stacked the next issue of the newspaper ready for distribution.

Across the landing was a larger room which had been divided up to form a kitchenette and a shower. The toilet was next door to that, and along from it was the archive room where all the past issues of the Chronicle were kept. On the landing there was room for a battered old settee and a camp-bed, which Calum used when he was either working late, or when he felt too inebriated to return home.

By the time the lads had arrived to take their piles of papers away that morning, Calum had consumed three bottles of Heather Ale and the better part of a half-bottle of Glen Corlin malt whisky. As a result he had paid the lads twice the usual amount and wished them a fond farewell before tumbling into the camp-bed intent upon sleeping until at least tea time.

He was only dimly aware of the downstairs bell ringing, a female voice calling out, then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

‘Mr Steele, I’m here! Where would you like me to start?’

Calum shoved the cushion away from his face and propped himself up on an elbow and felt about on the floor for his wire-framed spectacles, without which he could barely see the end of his nose.

‘What the…? Who the blazes are you?’

He blinked several times and forced his bleary eyes to focus. As he did so he found himself looking at a pretty young woman in her early twenties with short crinkly hair and with large hoop ear-rings. She was dressed in jeans with fashionable holes in the knees, pink trainers and a T-shirt with the logo ‘The West Uist Chronicle WRITES!’

‘It’s me, Cora Melville.’

‘Cora? Melville?’ A dim and worrying recollection was itching at the back of his mind.

Cora giggled. ‘Of course, silly. You remember! My great-aunty introduced us at the celeidh at New Year. I was just getting ready to do my last term in journalism at Abertay University and you and Great-aunt Bella arranged—’

‘Bella Melville is your great-aunt?’ Calum interrupted. He swallowed hard, for Miss Bella Melville had taught him and most of his friends on the island. All of them were still in awe of her.

Cora nodded enthusiastically. ‘And so here I am, your new reporter ready to start my new job.’ She giggled again. An effervescent laugh that made him think of fizzy lemonade. ‘So, where shall I start? I am so excited that you are going to teach me all about journalism.’

Calum’s head began to throb. Now he remembered only too well. In a near drunken fit of magnanimity he had promised Miss Melville that he would employ Cora at the West Uist Chronicle.

‘Ah, yes. I’m a wee bit tired just now, Cora. I need a bit of sleep. Why don’t you – er – have a look round – quietly get to know the place.’

For a moment she looked a bit crestfallen. But it was only for a moment. She snapped her fingers. ‘I know. A good reporter needs to know the style of the paper back to front. Is it all right if I look through your archives?’

Calum smiled. ‘Aye, excellent idea. The archives are in the room back there. Help yourself. Read and digest. But quietly.’ He yawned and screwed up his eyes to look at his watch. ‘Give me a couple of hours then maybe you could make a cup of coffee. Strong black coffee.’

Cora smiled and clicked her heels, then saluted. ‘Will do, sir. That will get you perky again. And it will give me time to familiarize myself with the past Chronicle stories.’

‘That’s the way, lassie. Just do it quietly, eh? I like your attitude. Good approach. A good journalist needs to be ever on the alert. Vigilance at all times.’

Cora giggled and skipped across the landing. ‘Vigilance at all times, I like it. I’ll make it my motto.’

‘Aye, you do that,’ Calum groaned as he slumped back on the camp-bed. He pulled the cushion over his face again. ‘Vigilance at all….’

Within moments he was snoring gently away.