Flotsam and Jetsam

SIX

Torquil clicked off the TV just as the Flotsam & Jetsam programme signature tune came on.

‘Calum has really done it this time,’ he said, taking a sip of his pre-dinner whisky. ‘You would think he would have some sense of loyalty, wouldn’t you, Uncle?’

Lachlan McKinnon had leaned forward to tug at the rubber bone that Crusoe had been gnawing away at by his feet.

‘Och, you know Calum, Torquil. He won’t have given it a moment’s thought. He’s so keen to sell stories he won’t have thought that he could be dropping his friends in the mire.’

‘It is Ewan and Morag that I am worried about. They are both sensitive in their own ways.’

‘I take it there is nothing to be worried about? He was safe to be discharged?’

‘I would back Morag’s opinion every time. And the Drummonds agreed with her.’

‘So what now? What is likely to happen?’

Torquil drained his glass and stood up. ‘Right now, I think it is time to eat. Tomorrow I will have to see how I can take the sting out of the story. Calum seems to have precipitated things by getting the TV involved. It will hit the nationals as well, I expect.’ He sighed. ‘And, ultimately, it is all my responsibility. They were my officers acting on my behalf. I have a feeling it could get rather heavy going.’

Lachlan rose too and grinned as Crusoe jumped up, his tail wagging furiously as he held the rubber bone in his jaws as if trying to tease him.

‘Aye, heavy is the head that wears the crown. It is the trouble with being in charge of anything.’ He smiled and patted Torquil’s shoulder. ‘But at least you have Lorna’s visit to look forward to soon.’

Torquil’s mobile went off.

‘Ah, I expect that is her,’ he said with a grin. ‘She said she would phone this evening.’

But, as he answered it, his face dropped and he grimaced at his uncle.

‘Good evening, Superintendent Lumsden,’ he said, in answer to the curt voice on the other end. ‘Yes, I saw it.’

‘And why was that the first I heard about it?’ Superintendent Lumsden snapped.

‘Because there was no immediate need for you to know, Superintendent.’

Torquil winced at the roar from the phone.

‘Of course you should have bloody well told me, McKinnon! What is the matter with you? Why do I always have to hear about your cock-ups on Scottish TV news programmes?’

‘If you will let me—’ Torquil began.

‘Ah, now you want to tell me something, do you? Well, I want to tell you something, McKinnon. I am not happy. Not happy at all. That reporter chap seems to be on the button, which is more than I can say for you. Negligence, that is what he was inferring, you realize that, don’t you?’

‘There has been no negligence, Superintendent. I said—’

Superintendent Lumsden roared again. ‘No negligence? Are you mad? A respected entomologist is found dead with a hammer by the side of his head. A hammer thrown by that buffoon of a constable of yours, and you say there is no negligence?’

‘That is what I said, Superintendent.’

‘And there was nothing negligent about letting him out of police custody just hours before he met his death?’

‘Categorically not, Superintendent Lumsden. I take full responsibility for my officers.’

‘That’s what I wanted to hear you say, McKinnon. It is all your responsibility and if there was no negligence then there was incompetence. And that particular buck stops on your desk. Do I make myself clear?’

‘As crystal, Superintendent.’

‘Your desk, McKinnon. And that means it is your neck that is on the block.’

‘Yes, sir, thank you for your support, sir.’

There was a momentary pause as if Torquil’s superior officer was searching for a response.

‘Well, that is all for now, McKinnon. I am glad that we had this little chat to clear the matter up. You know where we both stand. I want this story squashed as soon as possible otherwise you may be looking at a disciplinary.’

Torquil was about to reply, but the phone went dead in his hand.

Lachlan had diplomatically left the room to squat in the hall and stroke Crusoe. He straightened as Torquil came out of the sitting-room.

‘Lumsden isn’t pleased with me,’ Torquil explained. ‘He as good as said that if I put a foot wrong over this he’ll have my guts for garters. You know how much he’d like to get rid of me.’

Lachlan shoved his hands deep in his pockets and frowned. ‘I take it that means the responsibility does not go all the way up the chain of command?’

‘No, I am the last link.’

‘Did you ask him about Lorna?’

Torquil gave a rueful smile. ‘It didn’t seem an appropriate moment, Lachlan.’

Fergie was in a bad mood after the show that evening. After giving Geordie Innes and the crew a roasting for the way it had all gone, he grabbed Chrissie by the arm and flounced out.

‘Where are we going, Fergie?’ Chrissie asked.

‘For a drink. Maybe four or five.’

‘That’s not a good idea, lover. You know it just makes black moods blacker.’

‘Good. Then maybe I’ll get into a proper dark mood and go and sort somebody out.’

Chrissie pulled him up and spun him round. She grabbed both his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Just what do you mean? Sort who out?’

Fergie’s eyes seemed to be smouldering, as if he was full of rage. He stared back at her defiantly, and then in his best show biz manner he shrugged, smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Just a manner of speech, darling. I’m just peeved at that old fool Guthrie Lovat. He screwed my plans up tonight. That show was like filming a jumble sale at the Wee Free. It wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs.’

Chrissie eyed him askance. ‘You don’t plan on getting drunk though, do you? You know I hate it when you get drunk.’

Fergie laughed. ‘Why, because I get too boisterous?’ Then he winked. ‘Or is it because I don’t get boisterous enough?’

She cuffed him playfully. ‘Come on then. But let’s just make it two drinks, and then go back for an early night.’

Fergie clicked his tongue. ‘Agreed. Just enough alcohol to make me mildly frisky.’

They emerged on to Harbour Street and made their way towards the Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern.

‘I just hope that wee busybody of a journalist isn’t there tonight,’ Fergie whispered, as they approached.

‘Calum Steele? Why, I thought you liked him?’

‘He can give us publicity, Chrissie. I pretend to like him. He has his uses.’

Chrissie frowned. ‘That’s typical of you, isn’t it, lover?’ she said with just the trace of an edge in her voice. ‘You have a talent for finding out how to use people.’

If he detected the edge he didn’t show it. He grinned as he reached out to open the door of the Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern. ‘I do indeed, my darling. And it is that talent that keeps you in the style that you are used to.’

Calum Steele was seething with fury as he and Cora pushed open the door of the Commercial Hotel public bar.

‘Can you believe it, Cora! Mollie McFadden asked me to leave! Me! The editor of the West Uist Chronicle.’

‘And me, Calum. She asked us both to leave. I’ve never been thrown out of anything before. I don’t know what Great-aunt Bella will say.’

At the mention of Miss Melville’s name Calum felt a prickle at the back of his neck. ‘Oh aye, that’s a thought. What do you think she’ll say?’

To his surprise Cora Melville let out one of her effervescent giggles. ‘I have no idea, and to be honest, I don’t care. It’s all a bit of a laugh, isn’t it? I mean, they all think we are the bad guys.’ She tapped her chest with her thumb. ‘Me – a bad guy. It’s so exciting.’

Calum’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. ‘Oh, aye, I suppose it is quite. I mean, you get used to it.’

‘And I guess it can be useful at times for a journalist. Being a social pariah, I mean.’

‘A pariah? Actually, I wouldn’t go as far as that, Cora. But you are right, it can be useful. Then when you make your next scoop they all think you are the bee’s knees.’

‘So we just need a scoop, eh, boss?’

Calum stood looking across the bar, seemingly oblivious to her last words.

‘I said we just need a scoop—’

‘Sh! I heard you, lassie. And I think we might just have stumbled on one. Just act naturally and follow me to the bar, then when we get there take a look at the group of men in the corner. You’ll recognize one I am sure.’

They went to the bar and while Calum ordered drinks Cora casually looked around the bar, focusing as she did on the men drinking whiskies in the corner.

‘I see what you mean, Calum,’ Cora whispered, as she turned back to the bar to take the lemonade and lime that he pushed along the bar to her. ‘There could be a scoop there all right.’

‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’ He stroked his chin. ‘We need to find out what the up-and-coming striker Sandy King is doing on West Uist.’

‘Never heard of him, Calum. I thought you meant Dan Farquarson, the biggest crook in Dundee. Him and his minder, Wee Hughie.’

Calum Steele almost choked on the first swig he took of his pint of Heather Ale.

Guthrie Lovat’s mobile phone went off.

He had been expecting the call. He took a gulp of the whisky and soda that he had just poured then waited a couple of further rings before he picked up the phone and pressed the answer button.

‘Lovat here,’ he said languidly.

‘Christ! I thought you weren’t going to answer. I tried you earlier and you didn’t pick up.’

‘I was beachcombing on the islands,’ he replied. Then he said with a hint of sarcasm, ‘You could have left a message.’

A hostile edge crept into the voice on the other end. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid! You know I never leave messages.’

‘I know. So go on, talk to me.’

‘There will be one tomorrow. Passing the rendezvous at three a.m. GMT. Usual jetsam.’

‘And the usual payment?’

‘Of course.’

He gritted his teeth at that. The whole bloody thing was starting to frustrate him. For a moment he considered trying to draw the guy out.

‘Did you hear me?’ snapped the voice. ‘I said of course. The same payment and all the same arrangements.’

‘I understand.’

The edge was there again. ‘Just make sure you do. You know the penalty for non-compliance! It still applies.’

He swallowed hard. Part of him wanted to tell the voice to bugger off, but he knew that would be dangerous, suicidal perhaps. So instead he said, ‘I know. And I love you too.’

This brought a humourless laugh then the phone went dead.

He stood looking at the dead phone for a moment before hurling it at the settee.

‘One day, you bastard. One day!’

Morag heaved a sigh of relief when she finally got her three children to go to bed. Helping her youngest with homework had been an effort, for her mind had been preoccupied about the death of Digby Dent.

‘Oh Morag Driscoll, what have you done?’ she moaned to herself, as she slumped on the settee with a large gin and tonic in her hand. She took a sip then screwed up her face in disgust.

‘Ugh! Disgustingly bitter stuff that gin is,’ she cursed, leaning forward and depositing the glass on the coffee table. ‘Whatever was I thinking about trying to drown my guilty conscience in this filthy stuff that has been in a bottle for years? Sherry or fizzy white wine, that is your limit, you silly girl.’

She sat tapping the arm of the settee as she brought the previous evening’s events back into her mind and replayed them.

Dent was as drunk as a lord, there was no mistaking that. A proper spectacle he made of himself on the TV show. She shook her head. Why ever would he do that? Drinking himself silly when he knew he was going to be on the TV. It was just so stupid.

Her mind went back to him coming into the station the day before to complain about Bruce McNab and his party.

He was not a very pleasant fellow, even when he was sober, though.

Then she thought about Sandy King and a slight smile came to her lips.

Now he is a much pleasanter chap altogether. Good-looking, a talented footballer and polite as well.

She sighed at the recollection of the interview she had with him, Bruce McNab and that Dundee businessman and his employee.

I wouldn’t have minded having a drink with Sandy King on his own, she mused as her eye settled on the string of bubbles that rose from her unwanted gin and tonic. Her mind went off at a tangent and she leaned back and closed her eyes, imagining that she was reclining somewhere luxurious, with a glass of expensive champagne in her hand.

Maybe I could even grow to like—

The phone warbled in the corner and with a shrug of resignation she heaved herself to her feet.

‘Don’t worry girl,’ she joked to herself. ‘It is probably Sandy King ringing to ask you out for that drink.’

She was still smiling when she answered the phone.

‘Morag, thank goodness I have got hold of you. It’s me, Ralph McLelland.’

Morag suppressed a giggle and the urge to make a saucy joke. But Ralph McLelland was a doctor and sometimes he was just a tad old-fashioned, so she went straight into professional mode. ‘And what can I do for you, Doctor?’ she asked crisply.

‘Was Dr Dent a bit of a junkie?’

‘Afraid I have no idea. Any reason for asking?’

Ralph made a gruff noise as if he was irritated. ‘I think I had better talk this over with Torquil. The trouble is that I just get an engaged noise when I call him. That’s why I rang you.’

Morag sighed wistfully. ‘No one ever calls me unless it is business, Dr McLelland. And maybe the reason you can’t get hold of the inspector is because he is a man in love.’

‘In love? What are you talking about?’

‘Aye, he’s in love with Sergeant Golspie. You remember? She’s working at the station on Lewis. Superintendent Lumsden seconded her to work with the Customs. He’s often on the phone to her at all sorts of pre-arranged times.’

‘Ah! Stupid of me. I’ll try him again. Bye.’

Morag stood looking at the receiver as he rang off. Talking about love had suddenly made her feel empty. Torquil was in love, just as she had been in love with her husband until that fateful day when he had his heart attack and died eight years before. Since then she had been both a mother and a father to her three kids.

‘But right now I could do with a man in my life,’ she said dreamily, as she replaced the receiver. ‘Someone to help me out over this whole mess I have got myself into.’

The gin and tonic on the table started to look inviting.

She sat down and picked it up and then, closing her eyes, she took a hefty swallow.

Torquil had been so glad to hear Lorna’s voice after his conversation with Superintendent Lumsden. He was less happy to hear that the superintendent had just cancelled Lorna’s next leave.

‘The man is a miserable little piece of—’ he began.

‘No need to say it,’ Lorna interrupted. ‘I agree, but we also both know that he has it in for us. Let’s just take it on the chin for now. I’ll be back soon enough.’

Torquil pulled a face. ‘Just what is so important that he needs you there now?’

‘It is important actually, love. A big Customs operation. He wants it to go well so he can add it to his CV.’

Torquil could barely disguise his contempt. ‘Public-spirited of him, with other people’s time.’

‘It would be more Brownie points for him towards some honour or another. I think he is hoping for an MBE or an OBE.’

‘I would love to give him an honour,’ Torquil said sourly. ‘The grand order of the boot. And I would happily give it to him personally.’

Lorna laughed. ‘Just make sure that your foot isn’t inside the boot when you do, or he will have you for assault.’

They both laughed, and then fell into their usual exchange of endearments and lovers’ talk.

The bleep on Torquil’s phone went off to alert him that another caller had tried to ring him.

‘Someone is being persistent,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘But it could be an emergency so I had better go.’

Reluctantly they let each other go, then he pressed the answerphone function to find that Dr McLelland had left three increasingly terse messages. He called him straight away.

‘Ralph, sorry I couldn’t answer straight away, I was—’

‘Torquil, I won’t beat about the bush. I think I have bad news about Dr Dent?’

‘Oh Lord! I was hoping it wasn’t going to get any worse. I am worried about Morag as it is.’

‘I just talked to her. But it wasn’t her that I was concerned about.’

‘Oh no, not Ewan then? Don’t tell me that it was his hammer after all?’

Ralph growled irritably. ‘If you would let me get a word in, Torquil! I have just finished his post-mortem and I am going through some of the laboratory work right now. I don’t like what I am finding.’

‘Tell me, Ralph.’

‘Murder, Torquil. I think you have a murder on your hands.’