Flotsam and Jetsam (10 page)

‘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?’

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!’

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.