Flotsam and Jetsam (7 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lachlan had slept fitfully, which was unusual for him. When dawn broke he rose, did his ablutions and dressed before going downstairs to collect his clubs from their usual place in the hall. Alongside the wall a line of oil-stained newspapers protected the parquet floor from the assortment of carburettor components, oil filters and gears. They were all part of the
ongoing
project that he and Torquil were engaged in, to rebuild an Excelsior Talisman Twin Sports motor cycle.

His gaze hovered lovingly over these for a moment, and then he gave a start as he noticed something move in the shadows beyond the stripped-down carburettor.

‘Goodness!’ he exclaimed, after taking a sharp intake of breath. ‘I forgot we had a new lodger.’

Crusoe looked out from the clothes basket that Torquil had placed at the far end of the hall and began furiously wagging his tail.

‘At least you are not a noisy yapping wee chap,’ Lachlan said, squatting and giving him a pat. ‘That is a point in your favour right enough. Are you ready for a walk?’

Crusoe was instantly on his feet, his tail thrashing back and forth so much that it was literally wagging his body. Lachlan clipped the lead to his collar then slipped the loop over his wrist. Shouldering his golf bag he let himself out of the manse. Together they scrunched their way down the gravel path to the wrought-iron gate, then crossed the road to the stile that led directly on to the ten-acre plot of undulating dunes and machair that was St Ninian’s golf course.

‘We will walk over to the second hole then give you a wee test. If you can sit quietly each time I play a shot, then maybe I will be happy about you staying a bit longer with us at the manse.’

When they arrived at the tee Crusoe gave a soft bark and then as the Padre raised his finger to his lips and dropped the lead on the ground, he lay down and wagged his tail uncertainly.

Lachlan filled and lit his pipe. ‘Good boy,’ he nodded approvingly. ‘It is looking as if you have had some training in dog manners,’ he said with a grin. Then he pulled out his two wood and teed his ball up. ‘Now for the acid test. Quiet on the tee while I drive off.’

After a couple of his usual waggles he swung easily and the ball took off like a rocket and arced down the fairway into prime position for his second shot. The dog lay still and did not make a murmur.

‘Hmm, maybe you’ve had a bit of gundog training. I certainly have never seen you on the course before so it is not a golfer that has trained you. You are a bit of a curiosity, Crusoe, my wee friend.’ He picked up the bag and picked up the lead. ‘We will play the second and the third, then we will go to the church where I will say my prayers.’ He winked at the dog, who appeared to be listening to his every word as if
understanding. ‘That will include a prayer for you. Then we will play the eighth and ninth and get back in time to fix breakfast for Torquil.’

A couple of rabbits suddenly darted out of a cluster of gorse bushes and ran zig-zagging towards a nearby bunker. Crusoe barked three times and strained at the leash.

‘Stay!’ Lachlan snapped.

To his surprise, the dog instantly sat down.

‘I am afraid that there would be no good chasing them, even if I let you off the lead. By the time you got to the bunker they would be down their burrows and I don’t want to risk you getting stuck down one of them.’

Crusoe gave another bark, causing a flurry of movement over on the Padre’s left. He grinned as half-a-dozen sheep broke into a run.

‘And even though you are a collie, you will have to remember that dogs are not allowed to chase the sheep on the golf course.’ He pointed the stem of his pipe at Crusoe. ‘These sheep are precious, you see. They nibble the fairway grass down and make the course playable. They are our greenkeepers.’

Crusoe wagged his tail and looked after the retreating sheep but showed no sign of wanting to give chase. Lachlan scratched his chin. Crusoe was proving himself to be quite an enigma. Although he was still little more than a puppy, yet he had been trained to keep still and not to chase sheep. It was something he would tell Torquil about.

Torquil had slept like a log until his mobile phone roused him at seven. He answered it in a semi-doze, but when he heard his
girlfriend, Lorna Golspie’s voice he was instantly awake. Their conversation was typical of those still in the first flush of unbridled fresh love. At Lorna’s news that she would be coming home for five whole days in a week’s time his spirits had soared. Indeed, they soared so high that he rose, showered and prepared a breakfast of fried herrings in oatmeal before the Padre and Crusoe had returned.

‘Oh Mo chreach!
Oh dear me!’ Lachlan exclaimed as they entered to the mouth-watering smell of the fish sizzling in the pan. ‘Now this is a sight, Crusoe. My nephew is up and cooking breakfast with a smile on his face, and it is not even a pipe practice morning for him.’

Crusoe gave a small bark and a big wag of his tail.

‘Lorna is coming home for five days next week,’ Torquil volunteered. ‘I don’t know how she has wangled it with Superintendent Lumsden. I am so chuffed I am going to the cave to compose a piece to welcome her home.’

Lachlan washed his hands then sat down and unfurled his napkin. ‘Ah, so it is an unscheduled pipe practice morning then! Will you be taking the dog? I have to say that I have been impressed with his patience so far. He sat and watched me play each shot and didn’t want to chase the ball. He even wagged his tail when I hit a good shot.’ He grinned. ‘He was not quite so impressed with my putting though.’

Torquil laughed. ‘Aye, it is curious that anyone could have been so cruel to him. I would like to get my hands on whoever cast him adrift like that.’

‘Well, if it is any help, I would say that someone had started to train him as a gundog.’ And he explained about the way that he lay down on the tee and about how he did not want to chase sheep. ‘It sounds like he could belong to a farmer, or a crofter somewhere.’

Torquil frowned as he ladled fish on to his uncle’s plate. ‘I kept the cord that he was tied up with. I will be examining it later. There was something very curious about the knots. I didn’t recognize them at all, and I have been messing about in boats all my life.’

Lachlan attacked his breakfast with gusto. ‘And speaking of curious things, we came on one as we left the church. We went out through the cemetery to the eighth tee. There were fresh flowers on the grave of that lassie, Heather McQueen.’

Torquil stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘The girl who drowned in Loch Hynish last year?’ He suppressed a shiver at the thought. The loch was one of the island’s beauty spots with its crannog and ruined castle in the middle, yet it held sad memories for him.
2

‘Aye. The curious thing is that whoever put those flowers there must have done so last evening or night. They definitely were not there when I showed Kenneth Canfield the grave yesterday.’

Ewan was due to take the catamaran
Seaspray
out for a round of the island’s coastline later in the morning. Since that meant that he was more time-limited than usual, he decided to borrow Nippy, his mother’s forty-year-old
Norman Nippy
50cc moped, so that he could fit in a bit of hammer practice before he had to pick up the
Seaspray
from its harbour mooring. Borrowing Nippy was not something that he did lightly, for a 50cc moped was not the ideal vehicle for a self-conscious six
foot four-inch hammer-throwing police constable. He was aware that he cut a slightly comedic figure and tried to ignore all of the winks, nudges and smirks as he went along.

Fortunately, there were not too many people on the road at seven in the morning, apart from the local shopkeepers and the market folk who were all up and about, setting up for the day’s trade. He rode along Habour Street nodding right and left to several of them.

Then the unexpected happened.

‘Hey! Look out, you silly billy!’ He cried as a canary yellow camper-van shot out of Weir Street and skidded for several feet as the driver slammed on his brakes. It stopped a yard over the halt line. Ewan had instinctively swerved and narrowly managed to swing round the front of the van just in time. He drew to a halt by the kerb, dismounted and switched off Nippy’s engine. Hoisting the machine easily on to its stand he walked back as the driver slowly wound down his window.

‘Ah! Sorry,’ the man blustered. ‘You are the – er – the hammer chappie, aren’t you?’

Ewan eyed the two men appraisingly. Unlike the last time he had met them they were both smiling, albeit nervously. They both seemed embarrassed and concerned that they had almost knocked him off his moped.

‘Aye, we are really sorry, Officer,’ said the stocky,
surly-looking
one with the ear-ring who was sitting in the passenger’s side. ‘We are just anxious to get off to a place called the Wee Kingdom. We heard that there are sea otters off the coast there.’

‘Eyes peeled!’ Ewan said emphatically, causing both men to stare back at him in confusion. The truth was that he had verbalized the words that Torquil was forever telling him.

‘Eyes peeled?’ the driver repeated.

‘Aye, you need to keep your eyes peeled,’ Ewan told him firmly. ‘That is what a good driver needs to remember. It doesn’t matter if it is on one of those fancy motorways that they have on the mainland, or one of these back streets in Kyleshiffin. You have to be prepared for anything.’ He gave them both one of his sternest looks. ‘Please do not think of us as a bunch of yokels. We respect the law here on the island – and we impose it!’

The driver nodded. ‘Understood, Officer. And we’ve learned our lesson. We’ll have our eyes peeled from now on.’

Ewan gave them a final steely look then returned to Nippy to continue his journey up on to the moor.

Five minutes later he was doing his series of warm-up exercises. Then, after another five minutes he was whirling his hammer round and round before letting it fly up, out and away over the moor in a pleasingly long parabolic path to disappear in the heather. He grimaced at the splash of its landing, for there was always a chance of him losing it. But fortunately, its pole was sticking up in the air; a decided advantage that the Highland hammer had over the ball and wire design of the Olympic hammer.

He immediately started to pace out the distance, a grin spreading across his face as he did so, since it was a big throw.

‘The porridge is working well today,’ he mused to himself, as he reached the spot where his hammer was protruding from the other side of a tussock of gorse and heather. He reached over thigh high gorse and prepared to pull the hammer out of the bog. He grasped the handle and tugged so that it came away with a sucking, squelchy noise.

But, as it came out, so too did something else. A hazy cloud of midges suddenly rose from the bog and within moments Ewan was enveloped.

‘Away with you all!’ he cried, running backwards a few paces and almost tripping up. ‘This new deodorant I have on is supposed to repel you little scunners.’ He slapped himself where he felt bites and scratched his mane of hair. He turned and lifted his hammer so that he could beat a hastier retreat. Then he noticed that the ball was covered in a thick red fluid. He winced.

‘Ugh! Blood?’ he asked himself. ‘Don’t tell me I managed to land it in a dead sheep or something?’

Gingerly he crept back towards the tussock, waving his free hand for all he was worth to try to cut a swathe through the midge swarm. He peered over the gorse and then gasped in horror.

A man’s body was lying face down in a bog pool, the brackish waters of which had been turned dark red by blood that had oozed out from a nasty head wound.

Ewan felt bile rise in his throat, for it was an ugly sight. He recognized the clothes only too well.

‘My God! I killed him with my hammer!’ he muttered, as he stared at the blood-soaked ball that dangled from its pole, then at the crushed head injury.

He stood for a moment in total shock, oblivious to the innumerable bites of the midge swarm.

Cora had been almost dead on her feet by two o’clock in the morning when she and Calum had finally written up all of the articles and columns for the special issue of the
West Uist
Chronicle
. Although it was officially a twice-weekly newspaper, whenever Calum felt that a special was needed, he duly
produced it and the good folk of the island readily paid up and avidly read the extra gossip. Some weeks it was a daily event.

The main news that Calum wanted to impart related to the events surrounding the calamitous
Flotsam & Jetsam
TV show the previous evening. This in itself would not justify a whole paper, so he had shown Cora how to produce copy at the drop of a hat. To her delight he had allowed her to contribute, by writing up about the vandalism at the
Chronicle
office, as well as a short column about Crusoe the abandoned dog that Torquil McKinnon had found. He had been encouraging in his comments about her flowery style, which somewhat sweetened the bitter pill that she was forced to swallow as he slashed her 2,000 word article to a mere 1,000 with a few strokes of his blue editorial pencil.

‘Brevity, lassie! That is the thing that you must concentrate on in a local paper. When you are the editor of a paper then you can let your literary juices flow freely. Until then, be concise, accurate and pithy. Like me!’

Cora had taken his words and his editing on the chin. She was determined to make a success of her journalism and was sure that her great-aunt Bella’s advice to listen and learn from Calum Steele made great sense. She recalled the old lady telling her that although Calum Steele could be a puffed up little pipsqueak, yet he had a knack for telling the news. She remembered the exact expression she had used to describe his journalistic manner: ‘He could speir the inside out of a clam!’

Cora had laughed at her great-aunt’s use of the vernacular, for the word ‘speir’ actually meant to ask, to badger, rather than to use a weapon. Effectively, Calum could hector someone so mercilessly that they would give him a story as if their life depended upon it.