Flotsam and Jetsam

SEVEN

Calum had listened as Cora had whispered what she knew about Dan Farquarson and his dealings in Dundee. One of her tutors on the Abertay University journalism course had a second job on one of the Scottish dailies and had been involved in an undercover investigation into crime in the city. On a couple of occasions she had even gone drinking with him in a couple of the watering holes where some of the local bad boys hung out. She had even seen Farquarson and his main henchman, Wee Hughie. It was only an outline of the dealings that she had gleaned, but they were enough to make her cringe when she saw the two men in the corner of the bar.

‘So what are we going to do?’ Cora whispered to Calum, as they stood at the bar.

‘Just wait until one of them comes to the bar to buy a round, then I’ll engage them in conversation.’

Cora suppressed one of her giggles. ‘Sorry, boss,’ she said as he raised an eyebrow at her. ‘I’m just a bit excited. It’s like real journalism.’

‘What do you mean real journalism?’ Calum replied nonplussed. ‘I’ll have you know—’

But he did not finish the sentence for he had seen Bruce McNab gather a batch of empty glasses and start to move across the crowded bar. ‘Watch me and wonder, lassie. Opportunity is on its way. First, we make room.’

And Cora watched as Calum casually straightened and turned, just as Bruce McNab approached the bar to give his order.

‘Bruce!’ Calum cried, as if greeting a long-lost friend. ‘Why, fancy seeing you here. Come on, there’s space here with me and my new reporter Cora Melville. Let me buy you a drink.’

Bruce McNab eyed Calum warily, then his eye set on Cora and he smiled. ‘You are not related to Miss Bella Melville, are you, Cora?’

Cora shrugged her shoulders and smiled demurely. ‘My great-aunt’s reputation proceeds her everywhere I go.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Bruce said. Then, nodding at Calum, ‘But I’ll have to resist your kind offer, Calum. I’m with a party.’

‘Oh aye,’ Calum said, matter-of-factly, peering past Bruce as if seeing his party for the first time. ‘Oh goodness me, is that Sandy King, I spy there?’

Bruce nodded to the barman and pointed to the empty glasses. ‘Same again, Tam. And whatever Calum and Cora here would like.’ As the drinks were being dispensed he placed a large hand firmly on Calum’s shoulder. ‘My clients are here on holiday, Calum. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Oh aye, I know, Bruce,’ Calum replied, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Discretion. Don’t worry, it’s my middle name.’

‘That’s funny, Calum. Most folk around here think it is Nosy-Parker!’

Calum’s cheeks reddened, but he said nothing. He merely grinned.

But this time Cora was unable to suppress one of her rippling giggles. It rose above the hubbub of the bar and almost every head turned to see the source of the laugh and to try to discern the cause of such hilarity. Wee Hughie stopped with his pint halfway to his lips and his eyes lit up. Seeing that Bruce McNab seemed to be having a joke with them he signalled them all over, much to Dan Farquarson’s disdain.

‘Hughie, what do you think you—?’ Dan Farquarson began, then seeing that Bruce McNab was returning from the bar with drinks, helped by the giggling girl and a short tubby fellow in a yellow anorak, he scowled and said in a short aside to Wee Hughie, ‘We’ll have words later, pal.’

But Wee Hughie gave no sign that he had heard his employer. He was on his feet immediately, pulling out a chair for Cora. ‘Come away and sit down,’ he cooed. ‘Any friend of Bruce is a friend of mine. What was the joke?’ He tapped her arm with his elbow. ‘It wasn’t anything smutty, I hope.’

Cora giggled again. ‘Oh no, it was just that—’ She looked at Calum’s raised eyebrows and then at Bruce McNab’s stern mouth and hesitated. ‘It was just something that my boss, Calum here, said. You tell them, Calum.’

‘Well—’ Calum began.

‘Calum Steele is our local newspaper editor,’ said Bruce.

‘A journalist?’ queried Dan Farquarson, guardedly.

‘Aye, Calum Steele, editor-in-chief of the West Uist Chronicle, at your service.’ Despite himself, Calum’s chest swelled slightly beneath his anorak. ‘And this is Cora Melville, my – er – cub reporter.’

‘A cub reporter, eh?’ said Wee Hughie, unable to tear his eyes away from Cora. ‘You mean like an assistant? Well, what I’d like to know is what’s a bonnie lassie like you doing wasting your time on an island out here?’

‘I am a Hebridean,’ Cora replied immediately. ‘I love the islands. I belong here.’

Wee Hughie grinned. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Cora, I like them myself. See, I think I like them more and more all the time.’

Calum took a seat next to Bruce and sipped his beer, then automatically wiped froth from his upper lip. He beamed at Dan Farquarson, then at Sandy King. His eyes opened wide with almost pantomimic effect and he clapped a hand to his mouth. Then as if recovering, he leaned across the table and asked, almost conspiratorially, ‘Is it true? Am I really sitting at the same table as Sandy King, The Net-breaker?’

‘That’s me, all right,’ Sandy replied. ‘But I’m not looking for publicity. I’m just here for the fishing and hunting.’ He grinned and slapped Bruce on the back. ‘That’s why we have engaged the services of the best fisherman on West Uist.’

Calum grinned. ‘Aye, Bruce is famous around here. Not as famous as you of course, Sandy, but in West Uist he’s a sort of celebrity.’

Bruce McNab frowned. ‘That’s havers, Calum, and you know it.’

‘So, how was your fishing this morning?’ Calum asked.

There was a moment of awkwardness as the group looked at each other.

‘We didn’t get the fishing today,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘We had a bit of a mix up. We didn’t really meet up as we meant. So tomorrow we will make up for it. That’s what we are doing now, you see. Planning tomorrow.’

‘Do you like fishing, Cora?’ Wee Hughie asked, staring at her dreamily.

Cora shivered. ‘Ugh! I hate it. I am a strict vegetarian, you see. I couldn’t possibly kill a fish.’ She screwed up her face in distaste.

Wee Hughie looked bemused, but thought quickly. ‘Actually, I’m not so keen myself. I’m just here with my boss.’ He looked beseechingly at Dan Farquarson. ‘I haven’t had a bite at all, have I, boss?’

Dan Farquarson gave a humourless smile. ‘No, nothing at all. He’s useless, Cora. Completely useless.’

‘Well – er – I wondered,’ Calum said to Sandy, ‘how would you feel about giving me a wee interview? The West Uist Chronicle readers would love to know what you think of our island.’

Dan Farquarson cleared his throat and Sandy King darted him a quick glance. It was not missed by either Calum or Cora.

‘Look, Calum,’ Bruce said, ‘my clients are here for the fishing, not to be emblazoned across the front page of the Chronicle.’

‘No need to include us in anything,’ Dan Farquarson added. ‘Wee Hughie and me are just here for the fishing, like Bruce here says. As for Sandy—’

‘As for me, I can speak for myself,’ Sandy King said firmly. Then he said to Calum, ‘I’ll give you an interview all right, Calum. But not here and not now. Tomorrow I’ll call you. How’s that?’

Calum produced a card with the skill of a conjurer and handed it over. ‘Any time, Sandy. Day or night, the Chronicle, reporters are always on hand.’

‘Does that include you, Cora?’ Wee Hughie asked with the hint of a leer.

Cora opened her mouth as if to give an indignant reply, but Calum answered for her.

‘Oh, aye, that goes for all of the Chronicle staff!’

The lights were shining through the frosted glass of the Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital mortuary as Torquil rode up. He dismounted and made his way through the outer doors, then pressed the intercom button and called his name.

Ralph McLelland’s voice sounded almost robotic through the speaker:

‘Come straight through, Torquil. I’m in the lab.’

A buzzer sounded as the lock was released and Torquil pushed the door open and was immediately struck by the coppery odour of blood mixed with that of strong disinfectant. He walked passed the closed post-mortem room door and tapped ‘Oh, aye, that goes for all of the Chronicle staff!’on the laboratory door at the end of the corridor before pushing it open.

Dr McLelland was dressed in blue surgical scrub clothes, sitting at a bench with a heap of notes on one side and several jars containing specimens of viscera on the other. In front of him was a microscope and various bottles of fixatives and stains.

‘OK Ralph, so what have you come up with?’

‘Questions, Torquil. Questions that don’t make sense.’

‘It’s a bit late for riddles, Ralph. Tell me more.’

Ralph took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He pointed at a jar containing pinky-grey tissue. ‘This is Dr Dent’s lung tissue. I’ve been looking at it. There is water in the lungs.’

‘So he was drowned? That’s what you expected, isn’t it?’

‘Yes – and no. That is, I expected to find water in his lungs, but not the type that shows up under the microscope.’

‘The type of what, Ralph? The wrong type of water?’

‘Exactly. He was found face down in a bog pool, right? In which case there should be bog water in his lungs. It should be brackish and teeming with algae and micro-organisms, like the specimen of water that I took when I examined the body in situ.’ He tapped the microscope. ‘But the water in his lungs is as clear as day. It is fresh water.’

‘You mean it is river water?’ Torquil asked with a puzzled look.

Ralph bit his lip. ‘I’m not sure, except that it isn’t the same as the water that he was found in.’

‘Are you absolutely sure of that?’

‘Pretty well sure. In order to be certain I would need to have a detailed chemical analysis done, which will take a few days as I’ll need to send the specimens over to the Forensic Department at Dundee. I’ll also be sending his blood off for toxicology as well, and, as you know, a detailed analysis can take a week or two.’ He scratched his chin. ‘But in the meanwhile there is another anomaly that makes Dr Dent’s death seem decidedly fishy.’ He stood up and signalled to the door. ‘We’ll need to have a look at the body.’

Torquil winced. ‘Is he still—’

‘Still open?’ Ralph divined with a wry smile. ‘No. I’ve done my work and sewn him up nicely so that any relatives can view the body. But it is his skin that I want to show you.’

Torquil followed him back to the post-mortem room. Although he had seen numerous dead bodies in his career, he still was not comfortable when he had to see post-mortems being carried out.

Ralph closed the door behind them then crossed to the raised marble slab in the middle of the room. He lifted the green sheet and pulled it back from the body to reveal the head and neck and the tell-tale T-shaped incision from shoulder to shoulder meeting above the sternum, then extending downwards. Ralph’s neat suturing had united the ends of all of the skin edges leaving only two knots protruding; one at the end of the right-shoulder incision and the other at the T-junction where the two incisions met.

Despite himself Torquil found himself focusing on the sutures and the knots for a moment, rather than looking at the face of the corpse.

‘You could have been a seamstress, Ralph,’ he remarked casually.

Ralph McLelland gave a short laugh. ‘Pah! A frustrated surgeon I am. I always like to do as neat a job as I can for the relatives. And that includes my vertical mattress stitch and my one-handed surgical knots.’

Torquil nodded absently as he looked at Dent’s face. It seemed so strange to think that just a short time before he had been full of life, lodging a complaint at the station.

‘See his skin?’ Ralph asked.

‘What am I looking for, Ralph?’

‘Midge bites. As you will see, there aren’t any.’

Torquil thought back to the finding of the body. ‘I remember Ewan remarked about that. There were no midges landing on him, whereas we were all being bitten to heck. You said that it was because Dr Dent was dead.’

‘That’s right. They are attracted to carbon dioxide given off by living, breathing creatures.’

‘Then I don’t see what you are getting at.’

‘I was being stupid, Torquil. It is true that they don’t bite, but they would have bitten him before he fell. I think the reason he doesn’t have any bites is because he didn’t die in that bog pool.’

‘But he did drown?’

‘Oh yes. He drowned all right, but not there.’

Torquil clicked his tongue. ‘It is not looking good, Ralph. I think you are right. It looks like murder, right enough.’ He shook his head. ‘I have a bad feeling about this. There’s something troubling me about what you’ve just shown me. Something that I just can’t put my finger on.’

Ralph laid the sheet back over the body and nodded. ‘That’s weird, Torquil. I have that same feeling myself.’

Despite Cora’s protests Calum had insisted on escorting her from the Commercial Hotel back to the Chronicle offices where he made up the camp-bed for her with fresh sheets and blankets.

‘I’ll feel safer about you here,’ he explained. ‘I was not liking the look of that big lad, Wee Hughie. He has his eye on you.’

‘But I thought that was what you wanted, Calum?’ Cora replied as she stood watching him with her arms across her chest. ‘You told him that I was always on duty.’

‘Of course I did. You are a carrot, Cora.’

‘A carrot! Thanks very much, tattie head!’

‘No, not a vegetable. The type that you dangle in front of donkeys to get them moving. There is a story here, my girl, and we’re going to get on to it. Now, this is going to be good experience for you. A journalist has to get used to sleeping on the job. You get yourself settled, I’ll grab a few cushions and I’ll bed down in the archives room. You’ll find new toothbrushes and toothpaste in the bathroom. In the morning we’ll make a plan of campaign.’

He yawned, then went to the filing cabinet, pulled it open and took out his bottle of Glen Corlan whisky. ‘I’ll just have a wee dram to help me sleep. Would you like one?’

‘Ugh!’ Cora replied, screwing up her face in distaste.

‘But whisky is OK for vegetarians,’ he said encouragingly.

‘I would rather drink engine oil. Good night, boss.’

Calum sighed as he stuffed a couple of cushions under his arm, grabbed a mug and made for the archive room. ‘Good night, Cora.’

He was troubled. He wondered how she would cope in the cut and thrust world of journalism unless she developed a taste for Glen Corlan.

The following morning Lachlan was up with the lark. As arranged the previous evening his plan was to meet the Reverend Kenneth Canfield at the church for prayers, then have a nine hole rematch before having a long discussion about a project concerning their ministries. He had left food for Crusoe and a note for Torquil, since he had retired the previous evening before his nephew had returned from his mysterious trip to see Ralph McLelland.

He saw Kenneth standing in the cemetery as he approached the church across the golf course.

‘You are up bright and early, Kenneth,’ he called, as he left his golf bag against the fence and pushed open the creaking wrought-iron gate into the cemetery.

‘I was keen to talk to the Lord before I take my revenge.’

Lachlan struck a light to his pipe and joined him at the grave of Heather McQueen.

‘It is a bit of a mystery who put these flowers on her grave,’ he said, as he puffed his pipe. ‘I mentioned it to my nephew.’

‘Why did you do that?’

Lachlan was slightly taken aback at the tone in his colleague’s voice. ‘Oh just because he’s a police officer and he deals in mysteries.’

‘They are only flowers, Lachlan. I have a mind to put some on her grave myself.’

‘It wasn’t you that put these on?’

Kenneth Canfield’s eyes seemed on the verge of watering. He stared at the flowers for a moment then shook his head. ‘No. I have a suspicion who did though.’

‘Oh! Who?’

‘Digby Dent. I think he might have put them here out of guilt.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘I know a lot about guilt.’

‘You were on the verge of saying something about that the other day, Kenneth. Is it something that you want to talk to me about now?’

Kenneth stared at his old friend. ‘About Dr Dent? No, not just yet.’

‘Or about guilt then?’

Kenneth gave a short laugh. ‘Like a confession, you mean?’

‘I am always here for that purpose, Kenneth, you know that.’

Kenneth patted his arm and wrinkled his eyes. ‘Thank you for the offer, Lachlan. I appreciate it, but for now let’s just go and say our prayers then let me get my revenge.’

Lachlan tapped out his pipe and ground the ashes in the gravel of the path. ‘After you then.’ He popped his pipe into his breast pocket and followed his guest. He felt slightly uncomfortable about the way that he had twice mentioned the word ‘revenge’.

Cora had slept badly. Although the camp-bed was comfortable enough she had been unable to cut out the sound of Calum’s snoring. When first light peeped through the shutters she rose, washed and dressed then searched the fridge and cupboards in search of breakfast. Finding only beer in the cupboard and a stack of mince pies and an assortment of things suitable for Calum’s beloved frying pan she decided to simply have a cup of tea. Upon fording the tea caddy empty she pouted with disappointment and decided that the place needed some sensible restocking. She grabbed her bag and headed off for some fresh supplies.

At Allardyce’s, she bought three butter rolls, a tub of low fat margarine and a small pot of honey. She positively skipped along Harbour Street enjoying the fresh sea air as she made her way to Anderson’s Emporium to buy tea-bags.

It was already busy as an assortment of fishermen, yachts folk and nature-loving holidaymakers were buying supplies for the day.

She joined the queue and noted that there was only Agnes Anderson to serve all of the customers.

‘What do you mean you have no paracetamol?’ a wiry young man in his late twenties complained to Agnes Anderson when it was his turn at the counter.

‘I am sorry, sir, but we have had a run on them. You could always try the chemist. It will be open at nine o’clock.’

‘Dash it! I haven’t time to wait. Look, I don’t like to ask this, but is there anything you can do? I just need about four of them. They aren’t for me; they’re for my bosses, Fergie and Chrissie Ferguson. They were – well, they were out having a drink or two last night.’

‘I can vouch for that, Agnes,’ a tall man standing behind them volunteered. ‘I was in the Bonnie Prince Charlie. They bought everybody a drink. I was coming to buy some paracetamol for myself.’

There was communal laughter from the rest of the queue.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Agnes. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll raid our medicine cabinet.’ She raised herself on tiptoe to address the rest of the customers. ‘Sorry, folk, I’ll get to you all as soon as I have taken care of this gentleman.’

When she had left, Geordie turned to the queue. ‘I apologize for this, ladies and gentlemen. That’s show-biz folk for you, I’m afraid. But please, don’t let anyone know that I was in here for this. You know what the media are like. A pack of animals the lot of them.’

The tall man was quick to agree. ‘Aye, and we have a real wee Rottweiler of a newshound here on West Uist. Calum Steele the editor of the Chronicle would hang out his own granny’s dirty washing if it sold more copies of his rag.’

‘He’s more of a Jack Russell in my opinion,’ chirped in someone else, much to the amusement of the rest.

‘I know the man,’ Geordie Innes confided. ‘You should hear what Fergie calls him.’

And, as the other customers joined in the ragging of Calum Steele, Cora felt her hackles rise. Part of her wanted to wade in to defend her boss, but the other part told her to keep her head down. No one knew that she was a member of his staff and that could be useful. She listened as Geordie Innes let one or two little nuggets of gossip about the Flotsam & Jetsam show slip out, much to the glee of the emporium customers.

As the shop gradually cleared and she took her turn at the counter, Agnes Anderson smiled at her.

‘Are you on holiday, miss?’ she asked.

‘No, I’ve moved here for a while.’

‘Working here are you?’

Cora began to feel uncomfortable with the questioning. It was time to be evasive. ‘Sort of. I’m a writer of sorts.’

‘Really? Are you writing a novel then?’

‘Well, I’m thinking about it. That’s why I need more tea.’

Agnes tittered. ‘Oh mercy me, there I go being a Nosy Parker. Sorry, miss. Is it a small box or a big box you want?’

‘Your largest. You have no idea how much tea—’ She stopped herself just in time, for she had been about to mention Calum’s name. She grinned, then added, ‘That I drink while I’m doodling.’

She couldn’t wait to tell Calum about the nuggets she had collected. And, as she walked back to the Chronicle offices, she realized that there was something very exciting about being an investigative journalist. She could quite see why it all gave Calum a buzz.

Yet her image of Calum Steele, editor-in-chief and investigative journalist par excellence took a sudden dip as she bounced up the stairs with her supplies.

The toilet door was open and Calum, dressed in underpants and a string vest, was kneeling over the toilet retching into the bowl.

He pushed himself up and looked round at the sound of her footsteps. His hair was lank and his face was as pale as the porcelain of the toilet bowl that he was clutching.

‘Ah, Cora, I wondered where you were. We had better sit down and plan our next move.’ He hiccupped. ‘I’m not feeling so great today. I think I might have eaten a few too many nuts at the pub last night. My tummy is a wee bit upset.’

Cora refrained from making any comment about the whisky that he had taken to bed. Instead she offered to make him tea with a butter roll and honey.

She winced as he shook his head and sank his head in the toilet to retch again. A moment later he heaved himself up and looked round with a pleading grin.

‘Do you think you could pop round to Anderson’s Emporium and ask them for some paracetamol?’

‘Oh really, Calum!’ Cora cried in exasperation.

Ewan had been for his early morning run and a spot of hammer practice before opening up the station. He was busily working his way through the backlog of cases when Morag came in. One look at her and he lifted the counter flap and took her arm.

‘Morag, what’s wrong? You look like death warmed up. Shall I get you something?’

‘A paracetamol and a cup of your strong tea would be wonderful,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘And anything you have for guilt.’

‘Och, Morag!’ Ewan exclaimed. ‘You have nothing to be guilty about. Everyone has told you that. It was me who wasn’t looking where I was throwing my hammer.’

‘Oh you are a wee darling, Ewan. But it isn’t just that I feel guilty about. I drank too much last night. I was on my own after I had put the kids to bed. It is something I have never done before.’ She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. ‘It was so irresponsible of me.’

Ewan patted her shoulder. ‘No one will think the worse of you for that, Morag. Now go and have a seat in the rest room and I’ll bring tea and a paracetamol through to you.’

No sooner had he performed that duty than the station bell tinkled and the first client of the day came in. It was Rab McNeish.

‘Ah, Mr McNeish,’ Ewan greeted him warmly, belying his real feeling of dread as he expected another tirade of invective amid the inevitable complaints about cats and dogs.

But it never came. Instead, the undertaker looked somewhat sheepish.

‘I – er – I need to report something.’

Ewan picked up his pencil and licked the tip. ‘Fire away then, Mr McNeish. I am all ears. What is the complaint?’

‘It’s not a complaint, it’s a report I am making. About a theft. I have been robbed, sort of.’

‘At your house, you mean? You live out on Sharkey’s Boot, don’t you?’

‘Aye. Well, really all I need is a crime number for my insurance company.’

‘I just need some details first Mr McNeish. Then I can call round on Nippy sometime this morning.’

‘There’s no need for that, it’s just a number they say.’

‘Well, what’s been stolen?’

‘Oh just a few bits of antiques. Nothing grand.’

‘Funny that. I’ve got a few cases of burglary on the books at the moment. Antique clocks, old knick-knacks, that sort of thing. You must be the—’

The bell tinkled again and the door opened to the sound of several dog barks. This was immediately followed by the entrance of Annie McConville in her usual panama hat, cheesecloth dress and a pack of assorted dogs on leads.

‘Ah PC Ewan McPhee, the very man,’ she said, advancing to the counter. Then she saw Rab McNeish, standing rigidly in front of her, both hands clutching the edge of the counter. ‘Ah, and as for you, Rab McNeish, I want a word with you! You’ve been spreading rumours and making complaints about me, I hear.’

It was as if the dogs all noticed him for the first time as well, and two of them bared their teeth, barked and made a lunge at him. Annie immediately tugged their leads and Zimba, her German shepherd put himself between the two small dogs and the joiner.

‘Wheesht, boys!’ she called and they instantly quietened, but stood glaring menacingly at the now stricken Rab McNeish.

Ewan sensed the possibility of conflict and tried to intervene. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Mrs McConville. I was just dealing with Mr McNeish.’ He turned to the joiner-cum-undertaker. ‘So would you like to give me the details of these antiques?’

‘Er – no! I’ve changed my mind. They’re not worth claiming. Not now. Not yet. I’ll – er – I’ll maybe come back.’

He edged round the dogs.

‘I won’t take kindly to hearing any more tittle-tattle, you know,’ Annie went on. ‘If you have something to say to me, say it instead of going scuttling about behind my back.’

Rab McNeish bobbed his head up and down and made a dash for the door.

‘But, Mr McNeish,’ Ewan began.

‘Oh don’t bother your head about him, Ewan McPhee. He’s just a scunner and a troublemaker.’ She slapped her hand on the counter. ‘Now, I have a clue for you.’

‘A clue, Mrs McConville?’

‘Yes, about the case of the abandoned cats and dogs that you are investigating.’

‘Er – are we?’

‘Of course you are! Miss Melville reported it all to Sergeant Morag Driscoll. Don’t tell me that you don’t know.’

Ewan considered that discretion would be the best option. ‘So what is this clue, Mrs McConville?’

‘They don’t like the sound of a saw. I have four of them that just cower away.’

‘I don’t understand you, I am afraid.’

‘I get spare shanks from Mathieson, the butcher. I saw them up for my doggies so that they all get good marrow and plenty of calcium. Well, they all start howling and then they just cower away into corners as if there’s a thunderstorm going on.’ She stared at Ewan who was uncertainly chewing the end of his pencil. ‘Well, write it down then, it could be crucial to the case. Tell Sergeant Morag. Good day to you.’

And without more ado she flounced out with her pack of animals leaving a bemused Ewan to add her information to the day record. He would marry it up with the case which he was sure would be in the backlog.

He was still writing when the bell tinkled again and Sandy King came in, dressed in a plain black track suit.

‘Are – are you—?’

‘Sandy King, that’s right. I just wondered if I could have a quick word with Sergeant Driscoll.’

‘I’ll see if I can find her,’ Ewan said, and turned to find Morag coming in.

‘Did I hear my name mentioned,’ she asked. Then she saw the footballer and colour appeared in her cheeks.

‘It’s a personal matter, actually,’ he said, looking meaningfully at Ewan.

‘Oh, I’ll just put the kettle on, Sergeant Driscoll,’ Ewan said, leaving diplomatically.

‘I’ve been plucking up courage, Morag,’ Sandy King said. ‘Is it OK to call you that? I just thought maybe we could have that drink I mentioned the other day. Just you and me.’

‘I – er – would love to,’ she said. ‘When I’m off duty.’

His smile enchanted her. ‘That’s settled then.’ He handed her a card. ‘My mobile is on there. Just ring when you are free. Look I need to rush, myself. I have another appointment to keep. Look forward to our date.’

Morag stared at the door as it closed behind him. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said to herself.

‘Ewan,’ she called through to the kitchen. ‘Am I dreaming or not? Did Sandy King just come in?’

‘He did, and he asked you out on a date.’

‘Were you listening, you big galoot?’

‘Of course I was, and I’m happy for you. Could you get his autograph for me, or maybe a football shirt?’

There was a chorus of laughter from the rest room and the Drummond twins appeared, both of them dressed in the West Uist police navy-blue jumpers.

‘Special Constables Wallace and Douglas Drummond reporting for duty, Sergeant Driscoll,’ said Wallace. ‘We just came in the back door in time for tea and heard the good news too.’

‘You’ll be asking Torquil for a holiday then,’ said Douglas with a grin.

The bell tinkled again and Torquil himself came in with Crusoe trotting loyally at his feet.

‘Did I hear someone mention the word holiday?’ Torquil asked, as he lifted the flap and let himself in. ‘I’m afraid there will be no holiday leave for a while folks. We’ve got a murder investigation to set up.’