Flotsam and Jetsam

FIVE

Morag stared at Cora in dumbfounded amazement.

‘And Calum Steele told you to ask me that? Just how long have you been his assistant?’

Cora squirmed. ‘Er – since yesterday, Sergeant Driscoll.’

‘Since yesterday?’

Cora felt flustered and nodded apologetically.

‘Then I suggest that you should tell the editor of the West Uist Chronicle to do his own dirty work. If he wants a statement from the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary, he should go about it through the proper channels, instead of sending his new assistant.’

Cora bit her lip. ‘And – er – what are the proper channels, Sergeant?’

Morag smiled humourlessly. ‘He should make a formal request in person to the officer on duty – me!’

Cora was already backing towards the door. ‘I will tell him that, Sergeant Driscoll.’

She was about to reach for the door when she remembered the other task that he had given her. ‘Oops! Sorry! There was something else I need to ask you.’

‘Ask away then.’

‘Have you – er – any news on your investigation into the break-in at the Chronicle offices?’

Two pinpricks of colour appeared on Morag’s cheeks and started to expand as her eyes grew wider.

Cora instinctively tensed her neck muscles, expecting a torrent of ire. But inexplicably, Morag’s expression suddenly softened and she smiled.

‘Nothing yet, Miss Melville, but I will be happy to update Mr Steele when he comes to see me.’

‘Ah … thanks, I….’ Cora began. But the door suddenly shot open and knocked her in the back, propelling her forward.

‘Oh good grief!’ called Wallace Drummond, entering and shooting a hand out to catch the stumbling Cora before she pitched on to her face. ‘So sorry, miss. I was in such a hurry. I haven’t hurt you, I hope?’

Cora recovered her balance and turned to find herself looking up at the smiling face of Wallace Drummond, with an identical face appearing a second later to grin over his shoulder.

‘You will have to excuse my brother. He is a bit heavy-handed,’ explained Douglas, sweeping off his fisherman’s bobble hat at the same time as he plucked off his twin’s. ‘Whoever would think that two gowks like us could be special police constables!’

Morag slapped the counter to gain attention and the trio looked round at her.

‘If you two would let go of Miss Melville’s great-niece, then she will be able to get back to her new job as Calum Steele’s cub reporter.’

Cora blushed then nodded at them before hastily dodging between them to let herself out.

Wallace stood looking bemused. ‘Sorry, Morag, did we miss something there? It seemed that you and that lassie were having some sort of a tiff. And did you say that she was Miss Melville’s something-or-other?’

Morag raised the counter-flap and beckoned them through. ‘Three rights! Yes, you did miss something. Yes, I am in a mood with her. And yes, she is Miss Melville’s great-niece.’

Douglas gave a short laugh. ‘Well whoever would have thought that the old girl could have such a beautiful looking relative! Cora, did you say her name was?’

Morag scowled at him. ‘It is not funny, Douglas. She is working for the Chronicle and Calum sent her over to ask about why I released Dr Dent last night.’

Then to the twins’ surprise she slumped forward, slapping her elbows on the counter and burying her face in her hands. ‘Oh God!’ she cried.

The twins reacted in unison as they often did. They both put an arm about her shoulders.

‘What is wrong, Morag Driscoll?’

‘Aye, tell us.’

Morag sighed and shoved herself to her feet. She patted both their hands. ‘It looks as if it was a bad mistake. Ewan found him this morning up on the moor, lying in a bog pool with blood everywhere. When he phoned in he thought he must have bashed his brains out with his hammer.’

Both Wallace and Douglas stared back at her, their faces draining of colour.

‘Torquil phoned me a bit later,’ she went on. ‘Ralph Mclelland had examined the body. He was pretty sure that he was dead already, and he had doubts about whether the hammer had actually touched him. It might just have landed in the pool near him.’

Douglas let out a soft whistle. ‘Thank goodness for that.’

‘But what is Calum Steele on about?’ Wallace asked.

‘He is implying police negligence. If I had kept him in custody last night he would still be alive.’

Wallace punched one hand against the other. ‘Let me go round and see the wee scunner, Sergeant. I’ll point out the error of his ways.’

Morag gave him a wan smile. ‘I don’t think that would help very much at the moment, my wee darling.’

‘No, but it might make us feel better,’ said Douglas, through gritted teeth.

The Reverend Kenneth Canfield woke to find himself in a world of pain. His head felt as if it was about to explode, his eyes felt as if they had been sand-blasted, and as he opened them the morning sun seemed to sear them causing him to shut them tightly again. Then a wave of nausea hit him like a battering ram and he struggled to roll over so that he could vomit on the floor and not in his bed.

His stomach jettisoned its contents and he lay retching for several minutes before he felt able to lie back and piece together his fragmented memories of the night before. He began by slowly prising his eyes open to confirm that he was back in his room at the Commercial Hotel.

‘Oh Lord, what have I done?’ he groaned. ‘The whisky will be the death of me one of these days.’

The image of him having a large whisky with Lachlan McKinnon flooded back.

‘Ah, that was the first of them, you fool. You should have stuck to drinking tea. Now Lachlan may suspect my weakness.’

Then he saw himself striding towards Dr Digby Dent’s cottage later on – being admitted – offered whisky – then arguing.

‘Oh man! I should not have drunk whisky with him. What was I thinking of when I went there to confront him?’

Then the memory became more blurred. There was more whisky – good whisky, he remembered – the two of them arguing and then coming to some agreement, before arguing again. And finally, just a blur until he made it back to the Commercial Hotel.

‘My word! The hotel folk will have seen me as drunk as a skunk. Me! A man of the cloth who should know better, who should behave himself.’

There was a knock on the door then a concerned voice.

‘Are you all right in there, Minister? I thought I heard you being sick. Are you needing a doctor?’

‘No doctor, thank you,’ he called out, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘I think I may have a bit of a tummy bug. I will be OK.’

With some relief he heard footsteps receding down the corridor.

But would he be OK? It would help, he thought, if he could just remember what had happened.

The worrying thing was all the guilt that he felt. He had a nagging fear that it was not just because he had got drunk with Dr Dent.

Bruce McNab was in an ill humour as he paced back and forth by the berth of The Mermaid, his thirty-foot fishing cruiser. As far as he recalled, the arrangements for the day had been firmly agreed. He had given his party the choice of sea-fishing in the waters out towards Iona, or snipe shooting up on the Hoolish Moor. The discussion about which they should do had been interesting and amusing, for a short time. Then it had turned into a right old drinking session.

‘Damn the whisky!’ he grumbled to himself as he felt a fresh stab of pain in his head. ‘It clouds the brain, makes folk argue and – forget everything!’

He massaged his now throbbing temples, which reminded him that he had gone well past his usual limit during the session. All of them seemed to have, except, he dimly recollected, Sandy King. The professional footballer had taken just a couple of drams then gone on to shandies.

‘Sensible lad!’ Bruce remarked to himself. Then he frowned with irritation. ‘But if he didn’t drink, why is he not here?’

It had all started after they watched that Dent idiot making a fool of himself on TV. Dan Farquarson had ordered a round of Glen Corlans to celebrate. Then Bruce had reciprocated, followed by Wee Hughie. Soon after that his memory of the night failed.

Doubt then started to creep into his mind. Was he the one who had got it wrong? Were they waiting for him up on the moor?

‘Pah! Why don’t any of them answer their mobiles? Damn it!’

After another ten minutes he concluded that they were definitely not coming, so he stowed the sea-rods back in their cupboard and locked up The Mermaid before heading back home.

‘Why worry, Bruce, you fool,’ he told himself. ‘They have paid already, so it is no skin off my nose if they have missed their sport.’

He climbed into his old jeep and drove towards home.

His two chocolate Labrador gundogs were barking their heads off as he came up the drive.

What is up with them? he mused as he drew up before his log-cabin. It is not like them to be going daft like this.

Then he saw the cabin door standing ajar.

‘Bloody hell! It has been forced!’ He cursed as he picked up a piece of timber and stealthily approached, grateful that the dogs did not stop their barking in case that could alert anyone still inside.

There was no one there, but the inside looked as if a tornado had wrecked the place.

Bruce McNab had the trained eye of a hunter. He recognized false trails when he saw them. The chaos around him was contrived, he had no doubt.

Whoever had broken into his cabin and thrown things hither and thither had done so with a definite purpose in mind.

He felt his heart speed up, since he had a pretty good idea what they were looking for.

Fergie and Chrissie had started the day as they usually did, with passionate love-making. Like so many people in show-biz they often found it hard to come back to bland real life after the buzz of performing. Yet, while so many celebrities turned to drugs or alcohol, they turned to sex. Lots of it. It suited them perfectly, for they were both blessed with a high libido. All of their TV crew knew and accepted this as the norm and treated their impromptu absences for the odd hour as a bit of a joke. ‘Bonk breaks,’ they called them, behind their backs. Yet the thing that everyone found most curious was the fact that they never directed their libidos at anyone else. All of their flirting was just an act; for the truth was they were still just as deeply in love as when they had first met.

‘I love looking at you first thing in the morning,’ Fergie cooed, as he lay stroking Chrissie’s hair.

‘And I do, too,’ Chrissie replied with a mischievous smile as she leaned towards him to plant a kiss on the smooth dome of his forehead, which was only ever seen by her, it usually being covered by the hairpiece that lay on the bedside cabinet.

‘It’s going to be an exciting day, Chrissie. I can feel it in my bones. Getting Guthrie Lovat on the show should make up for the fiasco we had with Digby Dent last night.’

Chrissie giggled. ‘But it was so funny when you think about it, lover. I mean, he made an idiot of himself and folk would have laughed, but all publicity is good. All of Scotland will be talking about it this morning.’

There was a rustle outside the door then the rattle of a tray of crockery being laid on the floor. A tap on the door was followed by a cough then the announcementf, ‘Your breakfast and paper, Mr Ferguson.’

Chrissie popped out of bed and pulled on a flimsy dressing-gown before unlocking the door to bring in the tray.

Fergie took the Chronicle from the tray and smoothed it out on his knees. A large photograph of a drunken Dr Digby Dent lurching towards a startled Chrissie while Fergie looked on in shocked horror, was emblazoned with the headline:

FLOTSAM & DRUNKSUM! THE MIDGE MAN GETS A FLEA IN HIS EAR!

Fergie laughed. ‘You are right as ever, Chrissie. Even bad publicity should help the ratings. Everyone is bound to watch tonight.’ He scanned the article then shook his head. ‘What an idiot that Dent lad is. And I thought he was a respectable scientist.’

‘Even scientists can be drunks, darling. Come on now, let’s have breakfast, then we—’

The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor was followed by a staccato rapping on the door.

‘Fergie! It’s me, Geordie! Let me in will you?’

‘Geordie? We’re having breakfast,’ Fergie called back irritably.

‘It’s urgent. Let me in!’

Fergie snatched up his hairpiece and deftly put it on. Once Chrissie gave him a nod of approval he climbed out of bed, dragging a sheet with him to wrap toga-style about him. He strode across the room and imperiously pulled the door open, as if he actually was an emperor of Rome.

Geordie Innes slid past him, his face the epitome of bad news. ‘I just had a phone call from Guthrie Lovat. He’s changed his mind. He won’t come on the show tonight.’

‘Wh … Wh … Why not?’ Fergie spluttered.

‘It was a done deal,’ Chrissie added.

Geordie Innes glanced over at Chrissie, sitting by the dressing–table, her dressing-gown doing little to conceal her feminine charms. He unconsciously licked his lips before turning back to Fergie.

‘He saw the show last night, didn’t he? He said he hadn’t realized the sort of programme it was.’ Geordie swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously. ‘He said we could stick our show!’

Fergie’s cheeks reddened.

Then Chrissie voiced the thought that had been bubbling up in her mind.

‘Look’s like we were wrong, Fergie, my love. Sometimes bad publicity is just bad publicity.’

Torquil was sitting behind his desk stroking Crusoe as he listened to Morag’s account of Cora Melville’s visit. The Drummond twins stood leaning on either side of a filing cabinet, while Ewan was standing by the door so that he could hear if anyone came into the station.

‘I could cheerfully throttle Calum Steele sometimes,’ she said. ‘Fancy him sending that young girl to do his dirty work.’

‘Aye, but we shouldn’t shoot the messenger,’ said Wallace.

‘Especially not such a bonnie one, at any rate,’ agreed his brother.

Ewan clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘You two need to take things a bit more seriously.’

‘I am serious,’ Douglas protested. ‘She is really bonnie.’

Torquil gave Crusoe a final pat then drew his chair up to the desk. ‘Ewan is right, lads. There is a serious issue here. A man that we had taken into custody has been found dead just a few hours after we released him.’

‘After I released him,’ Morag corrected. ‘It is my responsibility.’

‘Ours too,’ Wallace promptly put in. ‘We saw him and we agreed with you. He was sober enough to get home on his own.’

‘Absolutely,’ Douglas agreed. ‘Solidarity, that is what we have in West Uist. All for one and one for all, and all that.’

Morag gave them a weary smile. ‘I appreciate that, boys, but, as I said, it was my responsibility. I made the decision.’

Torquil shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, Morag, as the officer in charge, the responsibility is all mine. Yet before we all start self-flagellating, let us be clear about the whole thing: was it your honest opinion that it was safe to let Dr Dent go home?’

‘With my hand on my heart, Torquil, I thought he was sober enough, yes.’

‘And you lads?’

The Drummonds looked at each other and curtly nodded. ‘Us too,’ Wallace declared for them.

‘In that case I would be quite happy to make a statement backing my officers.’

Morag’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean that you are going to talk to that wee gutter-snipe, Calum Steele?’

Torquil grinned. ‘I didn’t say that. I said that I would be happy to make a statement, but only to a responsible journalist. Calum Steel no longer fits that bill and from now on is persona non grata in this station.’

Ewan’s face lit up. ‘Is that official, boss? Can I show him the door if he sneaks in?’

‘If I am here I will talk to him, or rather, I’ll give him a talking to. If I’m not in, then it is official and he can be shown the door.’

Then he turned to the twins. ‘And the same thing goes for any other representatives of the West Uist Chronicle. If in doubt, refer them to me. Do you understand, lads?’

Wallace and Douglas looked crestfallen.

‘It’s understood, Torquil,’ said Wallace.

Douglas sighed and flicked his eyes ceilingwards. ‘Aye, like I said, solidarity.’

Calum was in his element. He had rung Scottish TV and eventually managed to get through to Kirstie Macroon. He had given her the outline story about Dr Digby Dent’s death and the finding of the body on the moor by the hammer-throwing PC Ewan McPhee. As he expected she just about bit his hand off for the story and so set up an impromptu telephone interview with him. It was something that he had done several times in the past. When the News programme went out they would show the stock photograph that they held of Calum, showing him posing in front of his Remington typewriter wearing a bow tie, braces and with his hair slicked down. Then they would play the interview with a little crackling in the background to illustrate both the remoteness of the affair and Scottish TV’s vigilance and diligence in bringing the news from places as remote as West Uist.

Calum found that these exposures always boosted sales of the Chronicle, both on West Uist and on the other islands the day after.

He was still glowing with pleasure at the thought of his scoop, but even more so at having actually been talking to Kirstie Macroon, when Cora slowly mounted the stairs and slumped down on the settee.

‘That was awful, Calum,’ she groaned. ‘I hated that job.’

‘Did she give you a good statement?’ Calum asked with a grin.

‘She gave me a flea in my ear, more like. I have never been so embarrassed in my life.’

‘Well, you’ll need to toughen up, Cora. A journalist has to have a tough hide.’

‘Don’t you ever – well – er – feel disloyal to your friends?’

Calum pursed his lips for a moment. Then he shrugged and began typing a few notes on his laptop.

‘Never thought about it, lassie. My job is to tell the news, not make friends. Oh, and to sell newspapers, of course!’

Cora stared at him in disbelief for a moment. But it was only for a moment. She began to wonder.

Rab McNeish had been busy preparing a body all night.

It had been an unusual undertaking, as the deceased had lived on the island of Benbecula all of his life, only announcing on his death bed that he wanted to be buried on his native West Uist. Accordingly, after all the red tape had been dealt with Rab had gone out on the evening ferry and returned on the special fuel ferry with the body in a temporary coffin in the back of his carpenter’s van.

He had gone straight to his chapel of rest and set about preparing the body in the embalming-room in readiness for the relatives to view him at noon.

‘And tired out, is what I am,’ he sighed, as he left the chapel and made his way back to his home, a sprawling croft with outhouses and work sheds on Sharkey’s Boot, the curiously shaped peninsula beyond the star-shaped Wee Kingdom on the west of the island.

‘A wee sleep and a bath to revive me and then I’ll be presentable for the relatives at noon.’

But as he drove along the leg of the Boot towards his croft he suddenly felt his heart skip a beat.

The front door was standing open and a panel had been kicked in. ‘My Lord!’ he breathed, braking hard.

He reached over the passenger’s seat and grasped a claw hammer.

‘Please Lord don’t let anyone have found me out!’

Wee Hughie had never known when to stop once he got going. The night before had been such a time, the result being that he had so much alcohol in him that if he had been left to his own devices, he would have slept around the clock.

‘Get up, Wee Hughie,’ Dan Farquarson said sharply, as he shook him awake. ‘It’s after eleven and we should have gone shooting or fishing with McNab and Sandy.’

Wee Hughie clutched his head and blinked his way back to painful consciousness. ‘Crivens! We must have had a skinful last night, boss. Look at me; I didn’t even manage to get undressed.’

‘Me neither,’ replied a crumpled looking Dan Farquarson. ‘And the Lord only knows where Sandy is. It looks as if he’s gone off without us.’

‘Gone shooting?’

Despite himself, Dan Farquarson laughed. ‘Sandy King has gone shooting! That’s a good one, Wee Hughie. Very droll.’

Wee Hughie rose to his feet, pleased to think that his boss had thought he had deliberately made a joke.

Dan Farquarson shook his head. ‘But this is all going wrong. I rented this luxury cottage here in the back of beyond and booked this hunting and shooting trip with the Hebrides’ very own Crocodile Dundee so that we could get Sandy away from the limelight long enough for us to have a good meeting.’ He slumped down on the edge of Wee Hughie’s newly vacated bed and thumped the bedside table. ‘But nothing is going to plan.’

Neither of them heard the footsteps in the hall.

‘And just what plans would those be, Mr Farquarson?’ asked Sandy King. He stood in the doorway, dressed in a black track suit and trainers. ‘I think it is time that we put our cards on the table, don’t you?’ IX

Early that evening Calum and Cora stationed themselves at a table in the lounge bar of the Bonnie Prince Charlie right in front of the big plasma TV screen. As news of Dr Digby Dent’s sudden death had already travelled round the island by old-fashioned bush telegraph the bar was full, as people had flocked in to have a drink while they listened to the news. Mollie McFadden and her staff were doing a roaring trade.

The background chatter suddenly stopped when the Scottish TV news signature tune came on.

‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’ Cora whispered to Calum, when Kirstie Macroon appeared.

Calum grunted and beetled his brows to indicate that he wanted to listen. Cora sat back suitably rebuked.

And then Kirstie Macroon was reading out the headlines:

‘Another sporting star involved in nightclub brawl.’

‘Sudden death of respected insect expert on West Uist.’

The familiar inter-slot jingle sounded then:

‘First we shall go straight to West Uist where earlier today I talked to local news editor, Calum Steele.

The photograph of Calum with slicked-down hair, bow tie and braces flashed up. Almost immediately there were hoots and laughter from around the bar.

‘What have you done to your head, Calum? Stuck it in a vat of oil?’

‘What’s he wearing a ribbon around his neck for?’

‘Look, he’s wearing braces!’

Calum glared about him and waved his hands for silence as on the TV Kirstie asked him to give an account of the story. The audience quietened down and listened to the sombre tale.

‘And I believe that there is some question of police negligence, Calum?’ Kirstie asked pointedly.

‘It has been rumoured, I am afraid,’ came Calum’s voice. ‘The man was in police custody last night after being arrested for interrupting the TV show Flotsam & Jetsam.’

‘Do you think that there could have been negligence, Calum?’

There was the sound of breath being drawn in, as if Calum was thinking hard before he answered. ‘I would hate to think it. I know all of the local police on the island. The truth is that you have to keep an open mind. And then there was the question of the hammer.’

‘Ah yes,’ came Kirstie Macroon’s voice. ‘The hammer in question was a Highland hammer, for throwing that is?’

‘Aye, it was PC Ewan McPhee’s hammer. He is the champion hammer thrower of the Western Isles. His hammer was found in the blood-soaked pool just inches from Dr Dent’s head.’

Kirstie Macroon’s voice sounded pained. ‘It didn’t hit the poor man, did it?’

‘I am assured not,’ Calum replied.

‘But it still begs many questions.’

‘Indeed it does, Kirstie,’ Calum replied.

There was another inter-slot jingle then the shot turned to Kirstie Macroon in the studio.

‘And that was Calum Steele the West Uist Chronicle editor. We will be keeping in touch with Calum to keep you in touch with any developments on that story. And now for our next story we need to go over to Oban….’

The chatter in the bar started up again and Calum clapped his hands and turned to Cora. ‘Well, that went rather well, I think. Come on lassie, I’ll buy you a drink.’

But when he stood and turned towards the bar he was met by rows of frosty glowers and glares.

‘What’s the matter folks? Aren’t you going to congratulate me on another scoop? Who’ll have a drink with me?’

Mollie McFadden voiced the general mood of the bar. ‘I think you and your lassie will be better drinking somewhere else, Calum Steele. You will not find many folk here wanting to drink with you.’

‘No!’ chirped in one of the regulars. ‘Nor turn their back to you after the back-stabbing you just did on TV!’