THREE

I

Calum had dashed up the stairs of the Chronicle offices upon finding that the front door had been forced open in their absence.

‘The beggars!’ he cried, as Cora darted up and joined him on the landing.

In every direction it was chaos. Piles of old newspapers had been cast everywhere. The camp-bed had been tipped over and the desk had been swept of everything except the heavy old Remington typewriter.

‘Who would do something like this?’ Cora asked.

‘The same folk who sent us on that wild goose chase to Largo Head,’ Calum replied sourly. ‘They dragged us away so that they could give the place the once over.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and gingerly pulled open the top drawer of a large grey filing cabinet. He grunted as he saw that his Glen Corlan whisky was still there, as was his old sporran in which he kept the petty cash. He stood looking round then shook his head. ‘No, nothing has been taken. It was just a bit of wanton damage.’

Cora patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Calum,’ she said in as cheery a voice as she could muster up. ‘I’ll have it ship-shape in no time.’ With which she bent down to start gathering the discarded newspapers.

But Calum grabbed her shoulder and stopped her. ‘Touch nothing, Cora!’ he ordered. ‘Whoever did this meant it as a serious message, believe me.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘When you’ve been a newsman as long as me you get an instinct for these things. We’ll need to get the police round. I’ll give my old mate Torquil McKinnon a bell in a minute.’

He reached into a voluminous pocket of his anorak and produced a small digital camera. ‘But before I do, I’ll just take a few pictures of the crime scene.’

‘For the police?’ Cora asked.

Calum shook his head. ‘No lass. For the Chronicle. I’ll write a piece straight away and it’ll go in the next edition. Always remember that the pen is mightier than the sword.’

Cora nodded appreciatively. ‘You are so right, Calum. You can humiliate them in print.’

The little newspaper editor shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe, but I bet they’ll just have a good laugh.’ He shook his head and his jaw muscles tightened. ‘Perhaps I didn’t mean that exactly, about the pen being mightier than the sword. It would be more satisfying to shove a pen up their noses when I get hold of them.’

II

Alec Anderson drove his mobile shop-cum-Royal Mail van into the parking bay at the front of his shop at the end of Harbour Street. Like the van, the shop-front was painted cream and blue with a Royal Mail red canopy shading and sheltering the crates of fruit and vegetables, and the assortment of fishing rods, nets, beach balls, whirly-windmills and umbrellas that proclaimed that Anderson’s Emporium sold most of the things you would need on a West Uist holiday. To emphasize that, on one side of the door was a man-size figure of a kilted highlander licking an ice cream. This last accoutrement had been in the Anderson family’s possession, as had the shop, for three generations, although in recent years Alec had replaced the pipe the highlander had smoked for fifty years with a facsimile of the large ice creams that his emporium was famous for.

At his signature tune peep on the horn – a snatch of a hornpipe – a pretty auburn-haired woman popped out.

‘Hello, my wee darling Agnes,’ he called, jumping out of the van and hauling his mail bag after him.

‘Welcome home, love-bug,’ she replied, skipping to meet him and planting a big kiss on his cheek.

An elderly lady dressed in a cheesecloth dress with an ill-fitting panama hat, with a prodigiously large shoulder bag was just tying the leads of five dogs to a large ring in the wall. ‘Oh heavens! Don’t look, Zimba, Sheila and you young ones,’ she said, good-humouredly addressing a disdainful German shepherd, a zestful West Highland terrier and three boisterous collies. ‘The Andersons’ behaviour is enough to put me off my food, let alone you lot! Now, just you all keep your wheesht while I do my purchasing.’

She straightened and swung her shoulder bag into a more comfortable position, then she shook her head at the grinning couple who stood arm in arm regarding her with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment.

‘Och, we are sorry to offend you, Mrs McConville. ‘I haven’t seen Alec for a few hours and I just miss him when he isn’t here.’

‘As I do you, Agnes, my love.’

Annie McConville glanced heavenwards. ‘It is twenty years since I was widowed, but I cannot remember the lovey-dovey stuff lasting more than a few months, not how ever many years you two have been together. It isn’t natural, I am thinking.’

‘Seven years,’ Alec sighed. ‘And it is perfectly natural, Annie, I assure you. Natural for us at any rate. And we don’t mind showing our feelings.’

Annie gave a shudder then led the way into the shop. ‘Well, let me bring you down from your cloud and do business.’ She pointed to the shelf of pet food. ‘I will be needing three times my usual order of Shepherd’s Best for my hungry crowd. I have a dozen more at the moment and the number seems to be going up. It is criminal the way folk just abandon these poor creatures.’

Agnes went behind the counter and reached up for two double packs of dog food. She stacked them on the counter, then added another on top. ‘That is just what PC Ewan McPhee was saying a few minutes ago. He said that Torquil McKinnon brought a stray in this morning.’

Annie gave a plaintive sigh. ‘Oh deary me, that may be another wee doggie for my sanctuary I suppose.’

Agnes took Annie’s capacious shoulder bag and started loading it with the packs of Shepherd’s Best. ‘That’s going to be pretty heavy, I am afraid,’ she said. Then she smiled as Annie gave her the stern look of an independent woman. ‘But actually, Ewan gave me the impression that they plan to keep the dog. It sounds as if they have all taken to it at the police station.’

She shifted her glance from Annie’s bag to Alec’s mail bag. He had been standing listening to their exchange. ‘Whatever have you been doing this morning? That bag seems fuller than when you went on your round. You are supposed to deliver the mail you know.’

Her husband laughed. ‘As the Kyleshiffin sub-postmaster my job is to collect the mail as well as deliver it, as you well know, my heather bunch. And this collection is almost entirely from Guthrie Lovat – which you will already have guessed. It is his weekly postbag of things to all parts of the world.’

‘Guthrie Lovat the beachcomber?’ Annie asked. ‘Sure, he must be about your best customer – or client, as I expect you call him these days.’

Alec grinned. ‘He is a good customer, right enough. We seem to send his work to just about every corner of the world.’

‘Aye he seems to be quite the famous artist these days,’ replied Annie. ‘Or what some folk call art, at any rate. But I remember him when he was just plain Guthrie Lovat, the beachcomber, scraping a living by selling all the flotsam and jetsam that got washed up on the West Uist beaches. Then he found that some of the tourists liked some of the bits and pieces he carved, or stuck together, and he started getting commissions. He’d never even been to art school, but somehow he built up a reputation and made a parcel of money. Enough to buy the strip of beach at Half Moon Cove.’

Alec laughed. ‘Aye, he’s a proper millionaire now. A regular Howard Hughes. I am guessing that me and Agnes are about the only folk he lets into the Crow’s Nest.’

He gave them both a knowing wink. ‘Except tomorrow he’s letting VIPs in to see him and his work.’

Agnes was leaning forward on the counter. ‘Go on then, tell us. What VIPs?’

‘He has agreed to let Fergie Ferguson and Chrissie from the TV show Flotsam & Jetsam in to interview him. And then he’s going on their show.’

‘You are kidding!’ Agnes exclaimed.

‘Gospel, so help me,’ Alec replied. He told them of his meeting at the gates of the Crow’s Nest.

‘So I gave him their card when I went in to pick up all this stuff and he even got me to phone them up. It must be a first. I don’t think he’s ever done an interview since Calum Steele did one in the West Uist Chronicle a few years ago.’

Annie clicked her tongue. ‘Aye and that was a hatchet job. Our Calum knows how to make enemies.’

‘Anyway, he seemed to like the idea. I guess he feels it could do his business a bit of good.’ He stopped and grinned. ‘From what he said he doesn’t think that they are real people.’

At which all three of them laughed.

‘Some people seem happy today. Is it a private joke?’ came Dr Dent’s voice. He had entered the shop unnoticed, despite the fact that he was still wearing his waders. He stood with his broken insect net in one hand and with his specimen collecting box hanging from one shoulder.

‘Good morning, Doctor Dent,’ said Alec. ‘I don’t suppose there is any harm in telling, since it will be on TV soon enough. Guthrie Lovat has agreed to let the Flotsam & Jetsam folk see him. He got me to phone Fergie Ferguson while I was delivering his mail. And I have to say that Fergie seemed right pleased.’

‘Interesting,’ returned Dr Dent. ‘I could do with seeing him myself. I’ve tried telephoning, but the last time I spoke to him he just said there was no way he would have me on his land.’ He shrugged. ‘The Lord only knows why.’

Annie McConville frowned. ‘Oh he is such a rude scunner. Always was.’

‘I have got a pretty good idea about the insect population of West Uist,’ went on Dr Dent, ‘but I have an idea that the Half Moon Cove area could be very different to the rest of the island. You see, it’s like a funnel to the Atlantic Ocean, I believe that knowing more about the midge larval population around the beach and the sand dunes could be very interesting scientifically. That is why—’

‘Why don’t you make a plea on the Flotsam & Jetsam show tonight?’ Annie suggested. ‘I see that you are going to be on the programme already.’

Dent nodded, and then looked at Alec. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But then I hadn’t heard this news about Guthrie Lovat. I will do just that. But perhaps if Alec here also had a quiet word in Mr Lovat’s ear, it would help to get me in through that barbed wire fence of his.’

Alec considered for a moment then nodded in agreement. ‘Anything I can do to help the progress of science.’ He pointed to Dr Dent’s insect net. ‘Have you had an accident with your midge net there?’

The entomologist told them of his encounter at the river and about reporting the incident to the police.

‘Why not let Calum Steele at the West Uist Chronicle know about it as well?’ Agnes suggested. ‘He is always on the lookout for news. That would be right up his street.’

‘Hmm, maybe,’ Dr Dent grunted. ‘Though he has a tendency to distort things, as I know through experience.’ He shrugged as if dismissing the matter. ‘Meanwhile I’ll need some of your finest fishing line to see if I can mend the net.’

Agnes nodded. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I have finished with Mrs McConville.’

‘Ah, you’ll be wanting money then,’ Annie said to her. Then she took a sharp intake of breath when Agnes told her the price. ‘Goodness, I’ll be needing a bank loan soon.’

‘Ha! Everything is so expensive these days, isn’t it?’ Dr Dent said. He turned to Alec and pointed to the post office counter at the end of the shop. ‘So I think I had better draw some money out of my account while I am here. Anew insect net like that will be expensive to replace and I can’t be without something. I will need to send to the mainland for another.’

Alec nodded with his usual cheerfulness. ‘Let me just deal with my bag and then I’ll see to your money.’

‘Oh yes, and I’ll take a bottle of your best malt whisky, too,’ Dr Dent added. ‘I might need a bit of Dutch courage before this TV show.’

III

Morag pushed open the door of the Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern on Harbour Street and weaved her way through the lunchtime crowd.

Mollie McFadden the doughty landlady of almost sixty years was pulling a pint with well-practised ease as she marshalled her staff as they bustled about with trays of tantalizing smelling seafood and pints of Heather Ale. She peered at Morag through her pebble-thick spectacles and gave her a broad smile as she recognized her.

‘Why Sergeant Driscoll, it is not often that we have the pleasure of your company at lunchtime.’ She placed the pint before a thirsty customer and collected his money with a smile.

‘And what can I be getting you, Morag? Are you here for the celebration? A birthday maybe? Or to meet a gentleman?’ Her eyes twinkled mischievioulsy and she raised a hand to push her spectacles back on her nose, revealing as she did so a well-developed forearm, a consequence of having pumped a veritable sea of the Bonnie Prince Charlie’s own Heather Ale over the years.

‘No such luck,’ Morag returned with a down-turned mouth. ‘Just police business.’

‘No trouble, I hope?’ Mollie asked, a trace of anxiety flashing behind her spectacles.

Morag shook her head with a grin. ‘Nothing like that. I am trying to track down a fishing party who were out with Bruce McNab this morning.’

Mollie’s face brightened. ‘Oh they are in the Prince’s Suite at this very minute. They wanted a bit of privacy you see. One of them is a chap who doesn’t believe in wallets. He’s a tubby wee Dundonian chap I think. Some sort of big business chappie. He just pulled out a roll of twenties and peeled the notes off like he was tossing a lettuce salad. They all came in dribs and drabs.’ She eyed Morag suspiciously. ‘There is nothing dodgy about them, is there? I wouldn’t like to see them sucking Bruce McNab into anything illegal.’

‘Don’t worry, Mollie, I am sure it will all be fine. I just need to have a chat with them.’ She pursed her lips and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Did you notice if Sandy was one of them?’

‘Sandy who?’

‘Sandy King, the footballer!’

Mollie shrugged unconcernedly. ‘No idea. I don’t follow the football. I prefer my men to play a hardier game than that. Something like shinty.’ Her eyes seemed to grow misty behind the thick lenses. ‘Like Bruce McNab. Now he really was a shinty player to watch.’

Morag made her way past the portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the Prince’s Suite and noticed that the ‘Reserved, Do not Disturb’ sign was stuck to the glass panel of the door. She ignored the message, rapped twice on the wood and immediately entered.

‘Excuse the interruption, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I am Sergeant Morag Driscoll of the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary. I need a few minutes of your time.’

‘That’s a pity, darling, you see we’re a bit busy right now,’ said Dan Farquarson in an unmistakable Dundee accent.

This, Morag deduced from the quality of his clothes and Mollie’s description had to be the business chappie with the big bankroll.

‘Aye, maybe you could come back later, sweetheart,’ added a big man sitting beside him with a pint of beer halfway to his mouth. He had the audacity to wink at her.

‘I said my name is Sergeant Driscoll,’ Morag reiterated assertively in her best no-nonsense voice. ‘And this is official police business, so I am afraid that whether or not you are busy is of no consequence: I need to speak to you now.’

Bruce McNab had been sitting in shadows. He stood up swiftly and came forward, smiling placatingly. ‘Morag Driscoll … I mean, Sergeant Driscoll, sorry. Of course you must ask whatever you want. Please, come in and sit down and let me introduce you to my clients.’

Morag let him make introductions while she swiftly appraised the group. The little middle-aged Dundee businessman was Dan Farquarson. His associate, whose size and bulging muscles made it obvious that he was in fact a minder, was Hugh Thompson – ‘known to all as Wee Hughie’, Dan Farquarson corrected with a laugh. Morag smiled at them mirthlessly, for chauvinism was a moral crime as far as she was concerned, and she was still rankling at the manner in which they had greeted her.

Then he introduced her to the last of the group, Sandy King, and her gaze lingered for what she realized may seem a moment overlong. The truth was that he ticked all of the right boxes as far as she was concerned. He was less than ten years younger than her, which wasn’t an age apart, and with his long blond hair, square chin and china-blue eyes, she thought that he was quite the best-looking man she had seen in years. That and the fact that he was a football star whom she admired, brought a warmth to her cheeks.

‘Can I order you a drink, Sergeant Driscoll?’ he asked. Then, with a smile, ‘Morag, you said your name was, didn’t you?’

Morag shook her head and ignored his second question. ‘This is official, I am afraid. I am here to ask you questions about a complaint that has been made against all of you.’

‘A complaint!’ exclaimed Wee Hughie, the minder. ‘Who’s looking for a kicking then?’

Morag turned steady eyes on him. ‘We don’t tolerate violence on West Uist, Mr Thompson.’

‘Shush, Wee Hughie,’ said Dan Farquarson, scowling at his associate. Then to Morag, ‘What my friend meant to ask was what sort of complaint, Sergeant? And who made it?’

‘Doctor Digby Dent, an entomologist working on the island, claims that one or more of you deliberately damaged a piece of his scientific equipment.’ She produced a notebook and her silver pen. ‘Now, if I can take a statement from each of you.’

‘Ach, Morag Driscoll, is this really necessary?’ voiced Bruce McNab. ‘That Dent fellow is a nuisance. He puts everyone’s back up.’

‘A complaint has been made and I am duty bound to investigate it,’ Morag replied, quite unperturbed. ‘Now, you first, Mr McNab.’

Morag made neat entries as they each gave their account. She was not surprised to find that their versions were substantially the same as each other and that they were very different from Dr Dent’s. Wee Hughie admitted that he had trodden on the pole, but had not realized that the net had been torn.

‘It was an accident, Morag,’ said Sandy King.

And on that point the others were quick to agree.

‘You believe us, don’t you, Morag?’ Sandy King asked eagerly.

Morag felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, but she ignored them, just as she refused to be drawn into answering the question.

‘I have noted all of your answers and I thank you. You have all been most helpful.’

‘We would like to just draw a line under it,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘It was an accident and no hard feelings to Dr Dent.’

Sandy King smiled at Morag. ‘You can even say that I will be quite happy to reimburse the cost of his net, as a gesture of good will.’ He held her regard for a moment then added, ‘And maybe we’ll see you again in a less official capacity?’

Morag lowered her eyes and felt her cheeks colour. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘You all sound very reasonable.’

She snapped her notebook shut and was on the verge of asking Sandy King a casual question about the rumours over a transfer to the Picts, when she reconsidered and snapped back into professional mode.

‘Just one final thing: Mollie said that you all came in dribs and drabs. Had you been apart since you left the river?’

Dan Farquarson was quick to answer. ‘No, just visits to the toilet and that, you know. We’ve been together otherwise.’ He looked over at Bruce McNab. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, McNab?’

Bruce nodded with alacrity. ‘Absolutely Mr Farquarson. Together all morning.’

IV

Torquil had taken Calum’s call and agreed to pop round to the Chronicle offices. But first he took Crusoe for a walk along by the Mosset Burn that ran down from the moor behind the station to eventually run over a stretch of rapids before dropping into the sea.

Crusoe didn’t seem to mind being put on a lead and walked alongside Torquil rather than straining at the lead.

‘You’ve had a lead on before, haven’t you, Crusoe? And that means that you have had a proper owner.’

As if responding to the question Crusoe turned his head and barked once.

‘Maybe I should just let you off the lead and see if you head off home.’

Crusoe turned his head again and barked twice.

Torquil laughed. ‘Does that mean a “no”? Well, my wee friend, I am planning to let you off the lead sometime. Maybe when I take you home to the manse. If no one claims you then you will have to get used to living with Uncle Lachlan and me for a while. And hopefully, with my girlfriend Lorna before too long.’

Suddenly Crusoe looked ahead and then stood stock still. Then he started to tremble. He barked and kept on barking, as if he was scared of something.

‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Torquil asked. Then he looked ahead and realized. They were approaching the old humped-back bridge that spanned the Mosset Burn. Two young boys of about ten years of age, good lads whom Torquil recognized, were playing pooh sticks from the top of the bridge.

‘Ah, I see. It brings back bad memories, does it, Crusoe? Of being tied to that timber and tossed in the water?’

Crusoe was showing whites of his eyes and his ears had gone back. He yelped and huddled in closer to Torquil.

‘I want to get my hands on whoever did that to you,’ Torquil said, crouching to give the dog a reassuring pat. ‘If we only knew where they threw you in that might help.’ He straightened and tugged gently on the lead. ‘Come on, boy. It’s time that I showed up at the Chronicle anyway. We’ll nip through the back alley and do some investigating. If you are going to be a station dog, then I’ll have to get you used to crime investigation.’

Three minutes later they were mounting the stairs of the Chronicle offices.

‘Good grief! What’s this, the new West Uist Police bloodhound?’ Calum cried mischievously, as they appeared on the landing, where he and Cora were standing sipping mugs oftea.

Calum introduced Cora.

‘And this is Crusoe,’ said Torquil, bending to give the dog a pat. Immediately, Crusoe sat down, licked his hand and vigorously wagged his tail.

Torquil recounted the dog’s history.

Calum frowned and Cora gave a gasp of horror. ‘How could anyone be so cruel?’ she said, squatting beside Crusoe and stroking his head. The collie responded with a whimper, then lay down and rolled over to accept further spoiling.

‘Would you like me to put a piece in the Chronicle?’ Calum asked. ‘We could put up a reward for information.’ He winked at Torquil. ‘Or rather, the police could put up a reward of maybe twenty pounds?’

‘Good idea, Calum my man. We can stretch to that if it helps us find who did this.’

Calum laid down his mug and rubbed his hands. ‘Fine, consider it done. And, in fact, it will be Cora’s first assignment as my cub reporter.’

Cora jumped to her feet and kissed Calum on the cheek, causing him to squirm with momentary embarrassment. Torquil saved him by pointing to the mess. ‘So what happened here?’

He listened and jotted down the details. ‘And you think that someone deliberately lured you out to Largo Head so that they could vandalize the office?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘Any idea who?’

‘No. As you know, a newspaperman makes the odd enemy along the way. It’s an occupational hazard, as I was telling Miss Melville’s great niece here.’

Torquil gaped. ‘You are Miss Melville’s great niece? Gosh, we had better mind our Ps and Qs or we’ll have the old girl on our backs just like in the old days.’

Cora gave one of her effervescent laughs. ‘Oh stop it! I don’t believe my lovely old great aunt Bella would ever frighten anyone.’

Torquil and Calum stared at each other then laughed in unison.

‘Not unless they were really naughty boys,’ Cora added.

The West Uist Chronicle editor and the West Uist inspector of police both went silent and stared awkwardly at each other. Cora instantly picked up on the guilty look that passed between them.

‘All right, Calum,’ Torquil said. ‘I’ll get Ewan McPhee to come over in half an hour to photograph and dust the place.’

‘Oh, I can do that afterwards,’ Cora volunteered.

‘I think he means he’s going to dust the place for fingerprints, Cora,’ Calum said with a grin.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Cora. And it was her turn to blush.

V

It seemed as if half of the population of Kyleshiffin and a goodly number of tourists and other folk from the outer parts of the island had squeezed into the Duncan Institute to watch the filming of the Flotsam & Jetsam show that evening.

The TV crew consisted of two cameramen, a soundman and the producer. Many of the audience, set-in-their-way islanders, had written them all off as a bunch of hippy-type, la-di-da luvvies with media studies degrees from a host of English universities. In this they were almost one hundred per cent wrong, since all of them were either Edinburgh or Dundee graduates in the arts or hard science. While Geordie Innes, the producer, looked like a fresh graduate, he was twenty-seven and had already won a coveted Dairsie Award for documentary making.

Lachlan and Kenneth were sitting in the front row, both wearing their dog collars. Lachlan had fleetingly seen Torquil before going in and been told about Crusoe, the prospective new resident of the St Ninian’s manse. He was quite relaxed about it, although he had told Torquil that any house-training would be entirely his responsibility.

Morag was standing in the side aisle with her hands behind her back, while the Drummond twins were stationed at the back and other side of the hall, in the unlikely event of any trouble. She had seen Bruce McNab and his party of fishermen file into seats at the back of the hall. Chancing a glance over at them she saw Sandy King wink at her and she felt her heart skip a beat.

Don’t be an idiot! she mentally chided herself. You’re a police sergeant and you have three wee ones at home. Stop acting like a schoolgirl!

The stars of the show of course were Fergie Ferguson and his beautiful partner and co-presenter, Chrissie. Earlier in the afternoon they had met half of the audience at the pre-show antique viewing that they always did before an actual broadcast. Since they were planning ten twenty-minute programmes each evening Monday to Friday over the fortnight before the Scottish TV News bulletin they had been granted the use of the back room at the Duncan Institute every afternoon. People came with their antiques and knick-knacks and filed past Fergie and Chrissie as they sat at a central table. There they would give free valuations, occasionally make offers there and then, and essentially spot the antiques that they wanted people to return with to the show proper. They also primed them well, so that it would seem as if they were viewing the pieces for the first time on the show. It was a formula that had worked well for seven seasons and made the show something of a Scottish institution.

Fergie stood on the stage and gave the audience a final last-minute run through of the programme’s format.

‘So we would be grateful if everyone could just be careful of their language,’ he said. ‘No heckling, no lewdness, and, please, just remember that this is a family show.’

‘There will be no swearing here, don’t you worry, Mr Ferguson,’ piped up Rab McNeish, the undertaker-carpenter, soberly dressed in his black funeral suit. ‘There is no one who swears on West Uist.’

This was followed by general hilarity.

‘Not from you in your burying suit, at any rate, Rab McNeish!’ someone called out from the back of the hall, much to Rab’s discomfiture. He moved restlessly in his seat and adjusted the old brown suitcase containing the treasures that he had already shown to Fergie at the pre-show viewing.

Fergie laughed good-naturedly and winked encouragingly at Rab. Then ‘We’ll be on the air in about five minutes. See you all then.’

He waved and went over to chat with Geordie Innes, the producer.

‘Last call for snacks, folks,’ called out Alec Anderson, as he stood at the left-hand steps leading up to the stage with his trolley of ice-cream, chocolates and crisps. ‘Or if you would rather a cup of tea or coffee, my dear wife Agnes is at the back of the hall and will accommodate you.’

There was a last minute flurry of customers, then Travis, the soundman, gave them a two-minute bell. Finally, he addressed Fergie and Chrissie on the stage and counted them in before snapping the clapboard to start filming.

Fergie Ferguson gave a short show-biz laugh then immediately pitched in. ‘Hello all you bargain hunters out there,’ he said, flashing his Hollywood-white neatly capped teeth at the camera. ‘Here we are again in Kyleshiffin, the main – no, the only town on West Uist for this edition of Flotsam & Jetsam!’ He emphasized the name of the show and bent his knees to almost spring up with outstretched hands, like a latter-day circus master. And he held the smile and pose for a moment to allow Geordie Innes to merge the background picture of treasures washed up on a beach with the title of the show.

‘And Kyleshiffin is going to be our home for the next fortnight. But before we look at some of the flotsam and jetsam that we have found on this island today, or which the good people of Kyleshiffin have brought along for us to value or bid for’ – he waited for some canned laughter to come and go – ‘we have been fortunate enough to have Dr Digby Dent, Scotland’s most respected entomologist.’ He put his hand to his mouth and gave a theatrical aside to the second camera. ‘That means he studies insects, to you lot.’

He waited for a further burst of more canned laughter, which this time was accompanied by some genuine laughter from the audience. ‘Dr Dent is kindly going to explain about the famous Scottish midges and why they have been such a scourge of the Scottish tourist industry over the years.’ He turned his back to the audience and looked over his shoulder. ‘Would you like me to show you what they did to me when I went for a swim?’

He squatted and thrust his bottom out and made as if to undo his trousers.

‘Don’t you dare, Fergie Ferguson,’ quipped Chrissie with a mock scowl. ‘It’s bad enough that I had to put cream on those bites. Let’s not inflict that on the good people here.’

Then Chrissie smiled and, with the cameras now on her, ‘And so Dr Dent is also going to give us an insight into how the latest science is going to conquer the dreaded midge.’

There was an expectant hush, but Dr Dent did not appear from the side door where Chrissie was pointing.

‘We seem to have a technical hitch,’ said Fergie, touching his ear, as if listening to a message relayed via an imaginary earphone. ‘Bear with us, we shall—’

Dr Dent stumbled on to the stage from the other side, his inebriated demeanour apparent to all. Half of the audience gasped and half the audience giggled or chuckled with amusement.

‘So you think we can get rid of the midges, do you?’ he asked making his way directly for Chrissie, passing and ignoring Fergie who stood with an outstretched hand. ‘There is little chance of that, I am afraid. Culcoides impunctatus, the highland midge has been around since the days of the dinosaur and they like this environment. It is the females that bite; they are always the more deadly of the species.’ He leered at Chrissie and licked his lips. ‘You know what I mean – Chrissie, isn’t it?’

There was a ripple of scandalized outrage from the audience. Fergie Ferguson was generally used to dealing with awkward guests, but even he was taken slightly aback for a moment.

‘Well thank you, Doctor Dent, I am sure that you want to get—’

Digby Dent turned and stared at him with bleary eyes. ‘I don’t want to get anything, my good man. I am here at your invitation to talk about the problem of the midge. You see, it is the female that bites, because she is a haematophagus insect. A blood-sucker, you see. And she needs to suck blood to develop her eggs.’ He looked at Chrissie and smiled. ‘She has sex first, then has to feed immediately after. What a life, eh?’

Chrissie tried to ignore him and stared into the camera. ‘On the Flotsam & Jetsam show we do try to introduce some interesting guests. Tomorrow we hope to show an interview we are going to have with Guthrie Lovat, the famous West Uist beachcomber artist.’

This made Digby Dent prick up his ears. ‘Lovat! I want to have a word with Lovat. Can I come along with you?’ And he sidled uncomfortably close to Chrissie.

Fergie Ferguson started gesticulating to Geordie Innes the producer to cut the filming. Then he looked over at Morag and beckoned her on urgently.

Morag raised a hand to summon Douglas and Wallace Drummond and within seconds they had mounted the stairs and with an arm each, swiftly and silently frog-marched the protesting Dr Dent from the stage.

Fergie joined Chrissie whose cheeks had gone virtually crimson. ‘Well, what do you know, eh, Chrissie? We’ve had all sorts of things brought to us before, but never anything quite so flotsam and jetsam as that piece of jetsam!’

‘I think we should just jettison this part of the show, Fergie,’ Chrissie said, recovering herself a little and turning towards him so that her considerable curves were in profile to the camera, a well-tried and tested ploy to divert a flagging audience. Geordie Innes meanwhile was frantically talking in his mobile phone to the mainland Scottish TV studio. He turned to Fergie and drew a hand across his throat to indicate immediate termination, then mouthed ‘Twenty seconds.’

Fergie caught his gesture and nodded. ‘Good idea, Chrissie,’ he returned. And then, with an apologetic bow to the audience ‘So sorry for this shemozzle folks. We’re going to take a break from shooting for a few minutes and then hopefully we will be back on the air.’

Travis, the soundman, snapped the clapperboard and the TV crew immediately huddled together to consult, leaving the audience to erupt in shocked indignation.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ Fergie said, between gritted teeth to Morag who had entered the huddle. ‘I want that bastard charged. He’s bloody well ruined our show on live TV. We’ll be a laughing stock.’

Calum Steele was one of the few in the audience who had a smile on his face. Not only had he managed to take a couple of good pictures, but he had jotted down what had to be one of the best stories of the year.

VI

Dr Dent was held in the station cell for six hours after he was charged with being drunk and incapable, before Morag, as the duty officer, felt that he had sobered up enough to be released.

‘Made an idiot of myself, eh?’ was his parting question as Wallace and Douglas escorted him to the door. The twins grinned at Morag after seeing him off the premises.

‘That’s an understatement, isn’t it, boys?’ Morag said. ‘Now come on, it is home time for us, too. I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.’

As they set about closing down the station, Digby Dent set off with a slight stagger on the half-mile walk to his rented cottage. It was not long before he thought he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and squinted in the dark, but saw no one. He hurried on, crossed the beck and made his way up the dirt track at the end of which was the old stone cottage. He pushed open the wooden gate that opened on to the long gravel drive, at the end of which his old Land Rover was parked.

He had taken a couple of steps when he heard again the scrape of leather on gravel. He spun round and saw a figure several steps away. Then he recognized his pursuer.

‘You!’ His mouth curved into a sneer, then, ‘What the hell do you want?’

He did not hear the second set of footsteps behind him. He felt an explosive pain over his right temple, then nothing.

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