Flotsam and Jetsam

TWO

Sergeant Morag Driscoll was striding passed the multi-coloured shop fronts of Harbour Street like a woman on a mission. She smiled at several of the merchants and traders as they set up their market-stalls along the sea wall in readiness for the inevitable market-day crowds. The harbour itself was crammed with a flotilla of yachts, fishing boats and motorboats, all bobbing up and down in the early morning sun. She had been off duty for a week and had recharged her batteries sufficiently to feel keen to get to the station to see how PC Ewan McPhee had managed in her absence. Under her arm she had a bag full of freshly baked butter rolls from Allardyce, the bakers and was looking forward to having one with a cup of Ewan’s famous strong tea. It would be good to have five minutes to catch up before the locals started dropping in to lodge complaints, enquire about lost dogs, cats, budgies, or just to pass the time of day with whichever of the three regular members or the two special constables of the West Uist division of the Hebridean Constabulary was behind the desk.

A pretty, thirty-something, single mother of three, Morag fought a constant battle with herself. She was attractive by any standards, although she herself believed that she had a weight problem. It worried her and she worked hard to keep as trim as possible, since her husband had died unexpectedly from a heart attack when she was just twenty-six and she vowed that she would always be there for her children. On duty days her morning butter roll at the station was usually her first bite of the day, since she rarely had time to eat breakfast as she bustled about getting her kids up, fed and off to school. Although she felt guilty about the butter and what it might do to her cholesterol, one couldn’t live without a little luxury now and then.

She stopped to look in the window of Staig’s, the newsagents, as she walked, and thought that her reflection did not look too bad today. She was dressed in the blue Arran jumper with three small stripes on her arm to denote her rank, jeans and trainers. She turned slightly to the side and smiled as the side view confirmed her impression that she looked pretty trim. Slim enough to risk two butter rolls, maybe.

She scanned the posters in the window and the advertising cards sellotaped to the inside and noted the headlines on the framed West Uist Chronicle billboard in the entrance. She nodded to herself, pleased to see that nothing dire seemed to have happened while she was off.

‘I’ll have a Chronicle please, Willie,’ she said as she entered the shop and handed over her loose change.

‘Are you going to the Flotsam & Jetsam show this evening, Sergeant Driscoll?’ asked Willie Staig, the bucolic-nosed newsagent. ‘Should be good. The midge man is going to be on it.’

‘Doctor Dent, the entomologist? What would he be doing on an antique show?’

‘Bit of local colour, I am thinking. Since the news went out that they would be shooting the show here for the next fortnight the holidaymakers have come flooding in.’ He grinned. ‘And as they have come so it seems that the midges have brought their friends with them.’ He leaned forward lest other customers should hear him. ‘I have done a roaring trade in anti-midge creams and repellents. And as you and I know, none of them do very much at all.’

‘Careful, Willie,’ Morag said with mock sternness. ‘That is bordering on an admission of a breach of the Trade Descriptions Act!’

She glanced up at the cardboard sign beside the old shop clock with its ancient advertisement for a famous type of snuff. ‘I see it is a high Midge Index today. Good thing I am in the station all day.’

‘Oh, that is you, is it, Morag Driscoll?’ a familiar voice asked rhetorically from behind her. ‘You have saved me the trouble of going up to the police station.

Morag grimaced at Willie Staig who fully understood her expression and kept a poker face. Morag turned round and found herself looking into the scrutiny of her old teacher’s regard. She was a tall, silver-haired lady of about seventy, dressed in a tweed suit, swathed in a russet-coloured silk shawl. She had a handbag hanging from one arm and was pulling off one of her smart leather gloves as she regarded Morag.

‘Why, Miss Melville, and what can I do for you on this fine day?’

‘You can start by smiling, Morag Driscoll,’ Bella Melville returned. ‘I am sure you remember me telling you that many times when I was teaching you.’

Morag remembered only too well. Miss Melville had been the Kyleshiffin schoolteacher until her retirement and she had taught virtually half of West Uist’s population. Few ever had the temerity to argue with her and her opinions were well known and respected, if not always agreed with.

Morag forced a smile that she hoped was not too insipid for her old teacher’s liking.

‘That’s better, Morag. You always were a serious girl and I always tried to make you relax, but …’ Miss Melville shrugged her shoulders as if to indicate that she had been a hopeless case. The she smiled indulgently. ‘But I suppose that is why you have become such an excellent police sergeant. Now,’ she went on in her old no-nonsense manner, ‘I really have an important request.’ She frowned slightly. ‘No, not a request, but a demand. The police will have to do something.’

‘About what, Miss Melville?’

‘Not about anything, Morag. Something will have to be done for Annie McConville.’

Morag said nothing, but nodded encouragingly.

‘She is very upset about all these puppies and waifs.’

Morag frowned and was immediately rebuked.

‘Don’t beetle your brow like that, Morag. Don’t you remember me telling you? The wind might change and you’ll be left like it.’ She sighed. ‘I can see you are not following me. Well, that dog sanctuary of hers is just getting too much for her. She has had several abandoned puppies and a few strays to take in lately. And some cats. And they all seem to have been mistreated in some way or other. It simply is not good enough.’ She unclasped her bag and drew out a purse.

‘I – er – don’t quite see how this concerns the West Uist Police, Miss Melville,’ Morag said, with as expressionless a face as she could muster. ‘Shouldn’t you—’

‘I should do exactly what I am doing, Sergeant Driscoll. I am reporting the whole thing to the police. Now it is up to you to investigate and sort this out.’

‘But, but—’

Miss Melville looked at the bag under Morag’s arm and smiled. ‘Ah yes, your butter rolls. I expect Ewan McPhee and the Drummond boys will be waiting for their butteries.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘But you just watch them, my lass. As they say, Easy on the lips, heavy on the hips! She reached over and picked up a copy of the Chronicle and laid down the exact change. ‘There you go, Willie, and you just remember when you are writing your posters that i comes before e, except after c.’ With which she tapped the news poster at the door and walked elegantly away, conscious of her own prim and sylph-like figure.

Morag and Willie gave each other a supportive smile. Miss Melville had the ability to make all of her former pupils feel like ten year olds again.

And Morag had lost her appetite for a hot butter roll.

The Kyleshiffin police station was a converted bungalow off Kirk Wynd, which ran parallel to Harbour Street. The walls were pebble-dashed and the garden had been tarmacked over to create a parking area complete with a bike rack and poles for tying dog leashes. Above the door was a round blue police sign and by the door was a glass-fronted case containing all sorts of information about things lost and found, and about various initiatives that had been made by the Hebridean Constabulary.

Inside the station, PC Ewan McPhee, the six foot four, freckled, red-haired wrestling and hammer-throwing champion of the Western Isles, and the junior officer of the West Uist division of the Hebridean Constabulary was having a difficult morning. It had started badly at six when he had gone for his usual early morning run up to the moor above Kyleshiffin where he could practise his hammer-throwing technique. He had won the Western Isles heavy hammer championship for five years in a row, breaking his own record on each occasion. He had even contemplated converting to throw the Olympic hammer, which demanded learning a whole new method; since the heavy hammer was done from a standing throw, as opposed to the whirling of the Olympic. He had been trying that out for about half an hour when the inevitable had happened.

A heather moor is not ideally suited to the rapid turns of the feet needed to build up pace to hurl the Olympic hammer and his feet got snagged in the purple heather just as he prepared to launch it. He felt himself falling and failed to release the great weight. As he landed heavily it swung over his head and landed with a great sucking noise in one of the pot bogs just feet away.

‘Och, Ewan, you clumsy idiot!’ he chastised himself. ‘Never an Olympic thrower will you make.’

He sat up and was immediately aware that his hammer had disturbed a swarm of midges from the bog. Instantly, they were at him, biting him on all his exposed skin, which was mostly all over since he had stripped down to vest and shorts. Stopping only to pick up his track suit he beat a hasty retreat for the safety of Kyleshiffin police station. It was only when he was inside and enjoying the dubious comfort of a cold shower that he realized that he had left his precious hammer on the moor. He debated whether he would have time to go back for it before he forgot where the pot bog was that he had left it, but his mind was made up for him as he was in the process of dabbing himself dry and applying toothpaste to his numerous bites.

‘Come on, come on!’ a voice cried out from the hallway. Then a fist thudded a couple of times on the desk and Ewan pulled on his clothes and scuttled through to find one of his heart-sink regulars pacing back and forth on the other side of the desk.

It was Rab McNeish, the local carpenter and spare-time undertaker, a man who epitomized the word paradox. He was a tall, gaunt man with a stringy neck, yet he ate like a horse. At a funeral he was as silent as the grave itself, the perfect funeral director, yet with his carpenter’s hat on he could be a foul-mouthed, bad-tempered and self-opinionated boor. He was almost bald, but had an up-and-over and had grown a drooping moustache in an attempt to compensate, but instead it all just gave him an even sourer look. That was not helped by the fact that he was also one of life’s great complainers.

One of Rab McNeish’s greatest fears, which he often communicated to Ewan McPhee when he came complaining, was germs. This was understandable, since his younger brother had died ten years previously from toxoplasmosis.

‘Those bloody dogs!’ he said to Ewan, when he appeared behind the station counter. ‘They are everywhere. And wherever they are, they poo and put everyone at risk of the pestilence that is toxoplasmosis.’

‘What dogs are you meaning—?’ Ewan began.

‘All of them, but especially all of them that Annie McConville keeps in that so-called sanctuary of hers. It is getting more and more crowded. They yap and yowl and create all manner of noise. I bet loads of the locals have been in complaining.’

‘Er – no, I believe you are the first, Mr McNeish.’ Ewan picked up a pen and opened the ledger to take notes. ‘So, is it an official complaint that you are wanting to make.’

‘A complaint? Me? About Miss McConville?’ Rab McNeish looked scandalized. ‘Not at all. I am just reporting how things are. It is my duty as a good citizen to report when I see loose poo around the place. And there is lots of it, let me tell you. There are dog waste bins all over, but are people using them?’

‘Are you suggesting that Miss McConville is not using these bins?’

Rab shook his head in consternation and creased his brow. ‘No! Leave Miss McConville out of this, will you? It’s those incoming folk, I am betting. They come in their boats and their camper-vans and they let their dogs run wild. You’ll have to do something about it.’

Ewan was starting to get flustered. He looked up from the ledger as the door opened and saw with relief Sergeant Morag Driscoll enter. His stomach responded to the smell of the hot rolls by gurgling.

‘Ah, Sergeant Driscoll,’ he said. ‘Good to see you back. I was just listening to Mr McNeish here and he was telling me—’

‘I was just reporting about all the dogs. They are everywhere, Sergeant. Everywhere!’

Morag pursed her lips. ‘That is curious. Miss Melville was just talking to me about dogs. She was wanting us to do some investigating.’

Rab McNeish jabbed a finger in Ewan’s direction. ‘You see! You see?’

‘But I don’t see that it is a police problem,’ Morag added.

Suddenly the door opened again and Inspector Torquil McKinnon rushed in, his Cromwell helmet under one arm and the Bullet’s panniers over the other. His bagpipes protruded from one and the bedraggled floppy head of a mongrel dog from the other.

‘Can’t stop, folks,’ he said, as he ducked under the counter flap, heading for his office. ‘I’ve got a sick dog here.’

Rab McNeish took a step backwards. ‘Sick, did he say?’ Then, jabbing the air at both Ewan and Morag he quickly retreated to the door. ‘Ugh! Mark my words, I told you so. We’ve got a problem on the island.’

Ewan stood scratching his head as the door swung to behind the undertaker.

‘You look as if you’ve been half bitten to death, Ewan,’ Morag observed. ‘What is it? Midges?’

‘Aye. But speaking of biting, are those butteries up for grabs?’

Morag was still reeling from her encounter with Miss Melville and her parting remark. With a sigh she handed them over. ‘They are all for you, my wee darling. Now what say you make us all a cup of your best tea and let’s see what the boss has just brought in.’

Torquil placed the panniers on the easy chair beside his desk then gingerly lifted the dog out. It was shivering and its teeth were chattering. He lay it down on the floor and it whimpered, before weakly licking his hand once.

‘You poor wee fellow. You look exhausted.’

He fetched a towel and, as gently as he could, he tried to give it a rub down.

Morag tapped on the door then let herself in. ‘Tea and a buttery is on its way, Torquil.’ Her eye fell on the puppy and she smiled. ‘What a bonny wee dog. Where did you find him? He looks as if he’s been swimming.’

Torquil told her of finding the animal tied to a piece of timber.

‘It was lucky for him that I came along. I reckon he would either have died between now and the next tide, or it would have taken him out again and then he would have been done for.’

‘So someone was trying to get rid of him?’ Morag asked in disbelief as she squatted down to stroke the dog. ‘How cruel can anyone get? Why he’s little more than a puppy.’

‘That’s what it looks like. And I just hate cruelty to animals.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘We’ll put a poster up and maybe ask Calum Steele to put something in the West Uist Chronicle. If someone claims him, and they can convince me that they didn’t try to drown him, then they can have him back.’

He opened the door in answer to Ewan McPhee’s gentle kick on the door frame. ‘Ah, a buttery. Thanks, Ewan.’ He took a roll and a mug of tea and sipped his tea. ‘But I suspect that no one will show up.’

Ewan bent and patted the dog. ‘I heard what you were saying, boss. So what are you going to do with him now? Should I phone Annie McConville and see if she’ll take him in?’

Morag sucked air between her lips. ‘Actually, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Miss Melville collared me in Staigs and told me that she’s inundated with strays. She wants us to do something about it.’

Torquil groaned. ‘Us? What does she expect us to do?’ He looked at his colleagues who both shrugged. ‘Then I guess we’ll have to just hold on to him for now. We’ll see if we can’t get him back on his paws.’ He nibbled his roll. ‘We’d better get some dog food in, Ewan.’

‘I’ll go and get some right away, boss. But would it be OK if I popped up to the moor? I sort of left my hammer up there.’

Torquil grinned as the big constable explained. ‘Aye, go on, Ewan. And while you’re getting the dog food, see about a collar and a lead. You never know, before long you might be taking him up to the moor for a regular walk.’

The outside bell rang, indicating that the front door had opened. There was the sound of heavy boots outside. Ewan took a step towards the door, but stopped with his hand on the handle.

‘Does that mean we’ll be keeping him here, boss? A station dog?’

The office door opened and a peal of synchronous laughter rang out. Two tall men, both even taller than Ewan, dressed in fishermen’s oilskins and wearing bobble hats came in. It was the Drummond twins, Douglas and Wallace. They were as identical as identical twins can be.

‘A station dog!’ Douglas exclaimed.

‘Ah, our two special constables,’ said Ewan with a half smile, theatrically looking at his watch. ‘Good of you to drop in. How was your fishing?’

‘Good enough, thank you, PC McPhee,’ said Wallace.

‘But stop evading the question, Ewan McPhee,’ said Douglas. ‘Did you just say that this was the new station dog?’ He pursed his lips as he looked down at the forlorn looking animal. ‘Is it the runt of the litter?’

Torquil explained how he had found the dog. He scratched its head, eliciting another whimper, then a turn of the head and another feeble lick on the hand. ‘Since we do not know his name, until further notice to the contrary, I propose to call him Crusoe.’

‘After Robinson?’ Morag queried, with a smile. ‘You do that Inspector McKinnon, but could the station sergeant ask a simple question – where is he going to stay at night? Here on his own at the station? I only ask because if you are thinking that we can share his care out between us, as we do the night duty, I can’t offer to take him home because of my Jim’s asthma. He reacts to dog fur.’

Ewan shuffled his size fourteen feet. ‘And I am afraid that my mother won’t have another dog in the house since our old Labrador died.’

‘Don’t look at us; we have enough trouble looking after ourselves,’ said Wallace.

‘To say nothing of our unwholesome habits,’ added Douglas.

Torquil grinned. ‘Then it looks as if he’ll be coming home to the manse to stay with the Padre and me.’

Morag raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Are you sure that Lachlan won’t mind? And what about Lorna? Will she be happy about you having a dog?’

Torquil was not sure how to answer either question. He and his uncle had always enjoyed a close and easy relationship together. They had so many shared interests; the bagpipes, fishing, golf and building and riding their classic motorcycles. He was pretty sure that he would be quite relaxed about Crusoe’s temporary residence at the St Ninian’s manse.

Lorna Golspie his girlfriend might not be so happy, of course. The problem was that he could not ask her right away since Superintendent Lumsden, his superior officer had quite deliberately seconded her to the office on Lewis as special liaison officer with the Customs. That meant that they were only able to communicate by mobiles and only saw each other one weekend in three. He knew that today she would be unavailable until the evening.

‘I’ll take a chance on them both,’ he said.

Curiously, as if he had understood the conversation that had been going on, Crusoe raised his head and gave a feeble bark. Then he wagged his tail against the floor.

‘Looks like it is a done deal, boss,’ said Wallace Drummond.

Then, almost immediately, Crusoe’s ears pricked up and he raised his head again to give three quick forceful barks. Then he wagged his tail again before lying down and closing his eyes.

‘Poor thing is shattered,’ Torquil mused. ‘Ewan, maybe you better go and get that food for Crusoe. And then go and find your hammer.’

Calum Steele had been in love with Kirstie Macroon, the anchor person of the Scottish TV early evening news and light entertainment programmes, ever since he first saw her. On many occasions he had provided her with news features and occasionally had been interviewed by her on the news slot. He had been devastated to learn that she had been engaged to a TV reporter by the name of Finbar Donleavy,[1] but had hoped that when Donleavy was offered a position with CNN in America that the relationship might falter. When he lifted the telephone and heard her voice he felt his heart start to race. And when she started telling him how much she cared for him he felt as though he was floating on cloud nine.

‘Calum!’ someone shouted. ‘Calum!’

Calum shot bolt upright in his camp-bed, instantly realizing with dismay that the voice that had called his name was not that of Kirstie Macroon. He looked desperately to right and left as if the act of looking would somehow conjure her up.

‘Och, it was just a dream!’ he sighed.

‘Calum! I mean, Mr Steele,’ came the voice again, but this time it was clearly coming from the archives room.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes blearily.

‘You are a genius,’ said Cora Melville, appearing in the doorway with a stack of old Chronicles in her arms. ‘I hadn’t realized what a brilliant newspaper you run here all by yourself. I had only seen it once or twice when I came over to West Uist to visit my Great-aunt Bella and, as a kid, I wasn’t really into papers, but now…?’ She sighed admiringly. ‘It is fantastic. I can’t get over how meticulously you have chronicled everything in the Chronicle.’ Then, finding what she had said to be hilarious, she jack-knifed forward and let out a belly-laugh that ended in an effervescent giggle. ‘Chronicled in the Chronicle, that’s hilarious.’

Calum eyed her suspiciously. ‘Are you on something, lassie?’

Cora pulled herself together. ‘Just enthusiasm, Mr Steele. And I do think you are a genius.’

‘A genius, eh?’ he repeated, permitting himself a little smile of pride. ‘Why is that, lassie?’

‘I just love your rustic style of writing. It is very simple so that anyone would understand what you are saying. But your versatility and your enthusiasm show through all the time.’ She slapped a hand on the pile of old papers. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you are talking about the price of herring roe, covering a murder, or writing about finding a body in the loch, you make it sound the most important thing in the world.’

‘A journalist has to be passionate – er – Cora, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘But I would just like to see some of the stories finished off. I have been reading back over the past year and it has been like reading a soap, a bit like “The Archers” on the radio. I feel I know so many of the West Uist folk now.’

Calum swung his feet over the side, yawned and drew himself up to his full five foot six inches. ‘What time is it? And what do you mean by finishing the stories off?’

‘It’s eleven o’clock, Mr Steele. And I mean that some of the stories seem headline news for an issue or two and then just disappear when I wanted to know what happened.’

‘You can call me Calum, Cora. Everybody does.’ He grunted. ‘Or most people do unless I rub them up the wrong way. Then they either call me Steele, or worse!’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘And that is the way of the news. Stories do just peter out. The art of journalism is to have something else to write about, and to be just as passionate about.’

Cora was staring at him with, large, brown doe-eyes. ‘I just know that I am going to learn so much from you, Calum. So where shall I start? Can I have a big story to cover, like this?’

She held up the top paper with the headline THE BLONDE IN THE LAKE. ‘You see, this is one of the stories I was talking about. It is so interesting. This woman found naked, floating face down in Loch Hynish. You covered it for several issues, then nothing.’

Calum stroked his chin. ‘Ah yes, that was almost exactly a year ago. McQueen was her name. She was a PhD student working with Doctor Dent, the midge man. It looks as if she had just gone for a midnight swim in the loch, or something, and got into trouble and drowned. They found alcohol and drugs in her system, you see. She probably just swam out of her depth and got into trouble. Death by Misadventure the Fatal Accident Inquiry concluded.’

‘But what happened to her? Where was she buried?’

‘Here on West Uist. In the St Ninian’s cemetery. Apparently she was alone in the world and loved the island. Strange though, no one except Doctor Dent showed up for her funeral.’

Cora stared at him in horror. ‘But that’s awful. How could people be so callous?’

‘Rule one of journalism, Cora: only be judgmental if it will sell newspapers.’ He yawned again and scratched his ample belly, as he was wont to do regardless of company. ‘As for what sort of thing we’ll have you doing, well, we’ll just have to see what comes in. In the meanwhile, a good cub reporter has to know how to make good tea. I like mine fawn coloured and with four sugars.’

Cora was busy making the tea when the telephone rang and Calum answered it. She heard him talking into the receiver and scratching away on a scribbling block.

‘Fascinating! Aye, of course I’ll come. In fact, I’ll be bringing my assistant to show her the ropes. Righto then, see you in ten minutes.’

Cora entered with a mug of tea in each hand, in time to see Calum pull on shoes and reach for a grubby yellow anorak that hung behind the door.

‘There is serendipity for you,’ he said, grabbing a motorcycle helmet. ‘No rest for the wicked and certainly no time for tea. There’s a whale beached at Largo Head. We’ll need to scoot. Have you got transport?’

‘I’ve got my mountain bike.’

Calum pointed to his spare helmet. ‘That’s not going to be fast enough. Have you ever ridden on the back of a Lambretta?’ ‘I’ve never even heard of one,’ Cora replied with a grin.

‘If that was a joke then we’ll get on fine,’ Calum replied.

‘Either way, you’re in for a treat. And a scoop! We’ll probably make the nationals with this – maybe even Scottish TV.’ And, as he immediately thought of Kirstie Macroon, he smiled bashfully. ‘Come one, we’ve a story to cover.’

After golf Lachlan and Kenneth had popped into the church to say morning prayers together, then they had gone back to the manse for tea and toast. Kenneth had dutifully paid his debt of five pounds; much to his chagrin, but to Lachlan’s diplomatically concealed satisfaction.

‘Now tell me,’ Lachlan said, as he sat back and filled his briar pipe from his oilskin pouch. ‘Why did the mere mention of Doctor Digby Dent’s name make you lose the match? You pretty well had me against the ropes and you had a good chance of taking my money. I recognized the signs of pent-up fury, Kenneth.’

The Reverend Kenneth Canfield returned Lachlan’s questioning gaze with a look of steely defiance. But in a moment the look disappeared and he let out a sigh of resignation.

‘I cannot help it, Lachlan. I just cannot forgive the man.’

The Padre tamped the tobacco down in his pipe, but desisted from lighting it. It sounded as if Kenneth was on the point of unburdening himself.

‘You cannot forgive him for what, Kenneth?’

‘For the death of a beautiful young woman,’ Kenneth said, quickly picking up his tea and taking a good sip. He sucked air between his teeth and gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t suppose you have a decent whisky in the manse, have you, Lachlan?’

Lachlan beamed and heaved himself out of his chair. ‘Funny you should ask that, Kenneth. It just so happens I have a fine bottle of twenty-five year old Glen Corlan.’

Torquil was sifting through papers while Crusoe lay by his feet, slumbering contentedly after having eaten the better part of a large tin of dog food and lapped up a bowl of water. A commotion had been going on in the outer office and he was listening to it with half an ear.

‘It is a disgrace!’ a man’s voice cried out, despite Morag’s calm remonstrations.

‘I want to see the organ grinder, not his monkey!’

Torquil looked up and sucked air in between his lips. That would be bound to make Morag’s hackles rise. That was never a good thing to do, for she could take good care of herself. He smiled and returned his attention to the reports in front of him.

He was surprised to hear Morag’s tap on the door a few moments later.

‘Sorry to bother you with this, Torquil,’ she said, slipping into his office and closing the door behind her. He could not help but notice the broad grin on her face. ‘This will amuse you,’ she whispered. ‘It is that Doctor Digby Dent and he’s seething.’ She put a hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh that threatened to erupt.

‘The entomologist? What’s the problem?’

‘Someone has broken his midge net.’ This time she could not contain a snigger.

Torquil raised his shoulders. ‘Why is that funny?’

‘He says it was done by a gang. And one of them was Sandy King.’ She took a deep breath and repeated emphatically, ‘the Sandy King!’

‘The footballer?’

Morag nodded enthusiastically. ‘Aye, himself! Now do you see why it’s so funny? You know his nickname, don’t you? He’s called The Net-breaker on account of his left foot.’

Torquil grinned. ‘You and your football, eh, Morag.’

His sergeant’s eyes widened. ‘Come on, Torquil. Sandy King isn’t just any footballer. He’s played in Europe and also for Motherwell and Hamilton Academicals. There’s talk of him maybe moving to play for The Picts. He’s a certainty for the next international.’

Torquil nodded, wary of getting Morag going on about football. ‘So what is he doing breaking our noted entomologist’s insect net here on West Uist?’

Morag shrugged. ‘Search me, but I thought maybe you should have a word with the midge man. Maybe say that we will investigate it. It would sound good coming from you.’ She looked at her nails, then said casually, ‘Then maybe send me to interview Sandy King.’

Crusoe whimpered in his sleep then rolled over and started snoring gently. Torquil grinned at him, then at Morag. He got up and came round his desk.

‘OK, so now I see the ulterior motive. Lead the way.’

Digby Dent was a handsome man with olive skin and dark hair. His only marring feature was a surly turn of his mouth. Standing in his waders and full protective clothing, with his insect visor hanging down his back he presented a slightly comedic figure holding the two halves of his broken insect net.

‘It was a deliberate act of vandalism,’ he said, without waiting for pleasantries. ‘That ruffian McNab and his cronies did this. One of them was some sort of footballer, I think. King, or something like that. Do you have any idea how much these things cost? The net is as thin as gossamer, it’s the finest netting you can get, which is what I need to catch a swarm of insects.’

Torquil listened as he described the whole encounter while Morag took notes.

‘And you want us to investigate this?’ Torquil asked.

‘I do, and I want to press charges.’

Torquil looked doubtful. ‘It may just end up as your word against theirs. And you say that there were three of them?’

Dent looked taken aback. ‘But I don’t care how many of them there were. I am telling you how it was. I am an academic at the University of the Highlands. Damn it, Inspector McKinnon, you know me.’

Torquil forced a genial smile to his lips. ‘Aye, I know you, Doctor Dent,’ he replied affably. ‘And I am going to put Sergeant Driscoll here on to the case straight away. We shall see what her investigation turns up, shall we?’

Dr Dent looked unimpressed. ‘Justice! That’s all I want. Justice.’

Morag smiled at him. ‘We’ll see what we can do, Doctor Dent.’

After delivering the dog food and a new leash at the station, Ewan had retraced his way to the moor above Kyleshiffin. Ever vigilant, a maxim that Torquil, his inspector and friend, was forever drumming into him, he had noticed a near bald tyre on a canary-yellow camper-van that was parked just off the road out of town, just before the bend where the track leading up to the moor started.

Although he had lived on the island all his life he never tired of the smell of the moor, with its heather, moss and the unmistakable fragrance of the peat. As he approached it he took a great gulp of air and broke into a jog.

He had a good idea of where his hammer had landed and he had been bitten by the midges. Fortunately, now that it was mid-morning there would be none around and so it would be safe to have a good poke about. He blinked as he saw a sparkle, like the glint of sun off glass in the heather in the direction that he was running. It disappeared as quickly as it had come and he jogged on.

‘Oh please, Lord, don’t let my hammer sink into the bog,’ he mused to himself. ‘It would be like losing my best friend.’

Then he saw the glint again, but this time he realized that there were actually two glints, like the reflection off a pair of binoculars.

‘Hello!’ he called out. ‘If there is anyone there, have you seen a hammer?’

His question had the desired effect, albeit not immediately. A head popped up from the heather. Then another rose beside it. Then two figures climbed to their feet as he jogged up to them.

‘What the heck do you think you are doing?’ demanded one of the men.

Ewan jogged to a stop in front of them. They were both wearing bobble hats, camouflage gear and green Wellington boots. He did not like the sullen look of the man who had just spoken. He was a swarthy, stocky man of about thirty with a gold ear-ring in one ear.

‘West Uist Police,’ Ewan said. ‘PC McPhee here.’

Both men seemed to stiffen slightly. Then they glanced shiftily at each other.

‘Police? What’s the problem, Officer?’ said the other man, a lean, unshaven fellow in his mid-twenties. ‘We’re just bird-watching.’

His companion was not so affable. ‘And do you realize that you’ve probably trodden on that nest. You’ve probably killed all three of those red-crested moorhammer chicks.’

‘I don’t think I trod on any nest,’ Ewan replied, maintaining his natural friendliness. ‘But as I asked, have either of you seen a hammer near here? A highland throwing hammer.’

The lean man smiled and reached down into the heather. ‘You must mean this. I thought it was an old cannon ball tied to a post.’

‘That’s my hammer, right enough,’ Ewan said taking it gratefully. ‘It’s a beauty and I wouldn’t like to be without it. I’ll let you get on with your bird-watching then.’ He turned to go then turned back. ‘Are you the owners of a yellow camper-van parked down the road?’

‘We are. We are here for the wildlife, and it is full of all our cameras and telescopes. There’s nothing wrong is there? I thought it was OK to park there,’ the lean one said.

Ewan shook his head. ‘It’s OK parked there, but the off side rear tyre is getting a bit bare. You should see to that straight away. It is illegal as it is.’

‘We’ll deal with it straight away,’ the surly, stocky chap assured him.

Ewan nodded then left, taking a slightly circuitous route to avoid the line of the nest. But, as he headed down the track, he started wondering. He was not entirely sure that they had been watching the moor itself. From where they were, they could have been watching something or someone down in Kyleshiffin.

And he was not sure that he had ever heard of a red-crested moorhammer.