Deathly Wind (10 page)

A look approaching fear flashed across her face and she reached for her spectacles. When she put them on McArdle
quickly recognized that he had rattled her. And that she had recognized him. He grinned maliciously as he laid the envelope between a vase of flowers and a pile of cards on her bedside cabinet.

‘Enjoy your reading,’ he said, before turning and letting himself out. For a moment Rhona stared at the closed door with a look of horror, then she turned her attention to the waiting envelope. Her heart seemed to have sped up.

Torquil found Alistair McKinley in one of his out-houses, vigorously working his handloom. Working out his grief and frustration, Torquil guessed.

‘I’ve brought you a copy of the post-mortem report, Alistair,’ Torquil said, as he pulled off his gauntlets. It’s just a preliminary report, mind you, that we’ll be submitting to the Procurator Fiscal for the Fatal Accident Enquiry.’

The old crofter sighed and laid down his shuttle. He heaved himself out of his high chair and held out his hand for the letter, which he immediately stuffed in the front pocket of his dungarees. ‘I’ll read it later, although I am thinking that I already know what it will be saying.’

Torquil nodded grimly. ‘Death from catastrophic head injury, multiple internal contusions and ruptures, and multiple fractures.’

‘Aye! And I know well what it won’t say. It won’t say a thing about the culprits.’

‘Meaning what, Alistair?’

‘Meaning the man who caused him to go off like he did. And the devil bird that made him fall.’

‘You’ve read the
Chronicle
, then?’ Torquil asked, recalling Calum Steele’s reportage that he had read that morning.

The crofter nodded. ‘But I knew it anyway. I saw his bonnie face myself, remember? You were there when I identified his body. I recognized those scars as talon marks when I saw them.’ He swallowed hard and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. ‘But there will be justice coming.’

Before Torquil could follow up on the remark Alistair straightened up and gestured towards the door. It’s time for a cup of tea. Will you join me, Inspector?’

A few minutes later, as they waited for the kettle to boil, Torquil looked around the kitchen. It was surprisingly clean and functional. A row of basic cookery books were ranged along one half of the solitary shelf, the other half being home to a row of pots containing various herbs and condiments. Pans hung on the wall, crockery was stacked neatly in a dresser, and the old stove was in pristine condition.

‘You have the eye of a policeman, Torquil McKinnon,’ said Alistair. ‘You are wondering how two men managed to keep their kitchen so tidy. Well, it is respect for my late wife, God rest her soul.’

Torquil nodded politely and made no comment about his own home, the manse, which he shared with his uncle, the Reverend Lachlan McKinnon. Many of the nooks and
crannies
of the manse were filled with golf clubs, sets of bagpipes or bits and pieces of classic motorbike engines. Their home was not as neat as the McKinleys’.

With the teapot filled and the tray loaded, Alistair McKinley led the way through to the sitting-room. And in ways it mirrored the kitchen in its Spartan tidiness. The walls were painted a pale green and the brown carpet although clean had three or four frayed patches. There was little in the way of luxury in the room. No modern hi-fi system or computer, just an oldish television set, a box radio, two armchairs, a dining-table with three plain chairs around it, a few pictures and photographs on the mantelpiece. A bottle of whisky with two empty glasses beside it stood on one of those tall thin tables that looked as though it had once supported an aspidistra. Torquil noted the photograph of Kenneth McKinley propped against the bottle and imagined that the old crofter had been drinking a toast or two to his departed son the night before.

As Alistair poured tea, Torquil asked, ‘You told me earlier
that Kenneth had gone out with a rifle. Are you absolutely sure about that?’

A thin smile floated across the crofter’s lips. ‘I wondered when you would get round to asking that. As you know from your records, we have licenses for all our guns.’ And picking up his cup he crossed the room to the bottom of the wooden staircase. ‘Come up and I’ll show you our gun cupboard. It’s all as it should be. We always keep the guns up here under lock and key.’

The gun cupboard was made of heavy oak and stood on an upstairs landing outside the bathroom. It was heavily padlocked and had been bolted to both the wall and the floor. ‘There you are,’ said Alistair, as he unlocked the padlock and opened the cupboard door. Inside, in wooden partitions, there were three guns: two shotguns – one 12-gauge and one 20-gauge – and a .22 Hornet rifle. The end partition was empty. At the top of the cupboard, above the partitions, was a locked metal cabinet that was also bolted to the back of the cupboard. ‘The guns are just as you have them recorded on our firearm certificates, which I assume you have checked out.’

Torquil nodded, and pulling out his notebook opened it at his last entry. ‘So it is the Steyr-Manlicher Scout that Kenneth took with him?’

‘It was. And so when can I have it back?’

‘That’s just it, Alistair. We haven’t found the gun!’

The crofter looked aghast. ‘You haven’t found it? That’s not possible.’

‘No sign of it at all. And that is serious. Were there any distinguishing features about the rifle?’

Alistair McKinley swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘I can let you have a photograph of it.’ He went along the landing and opened a bedroom door. ‘This was Kenneth’s room,’ he said, almost forlornly, standing aside for Torquil to enter.

The posters on the wall attracted Torquil’s attention. They were recruitment posters for the marines: men in combat clothes charging through jungles, or wearing heavy camouflage
gear stalking through woodland, guns at the ready. Then he noted the bookcase, neatly stacked with books about guns and weaponry, the SAS, and various manuals on hunting. On the bed was a scattered pile of clothing: dungarees, various camouflage jackets, rolls of thick socks. Beside the bed was a series of photographs of Alistair, Kenneth himself and his dead mother. Alistair leaned past him and picked up the framed photograph at the back.

‘He liked this one. He got me to take it one day when we were up in the Corlins.’

Torquil took it. It was a carefully posed photograph of Kenneth McKinley with a rifle aimed at some distant target. ‘It looks as though he’s modified his rifle a bit,’ he commented.

‘Aye, he made his own sound modifier.’

Torquil looked him straight in the eye. ‘Why did he need a silencer?’

Alistair shrugged the question away. If you are trying to take out half-a-dozen rabbits before they make it to their burrows then muffling the sound makes a good deal of sense.’

‘I know what might also help,’ Torquil said, as they made their way back along the landing. ‘A sample of the bullets he used.’

Alistair McKinley eyed him curiously then shrugged and unlocked the metal cabinet at the top of the gun cupboard. He opened a box and drew out a bullet. ‘There you are. Just
standard
.308 cartridges. And the other box has .22s.’

He reached into the cupboard and unlocked the partition with the 12-bore shotgun. ‘I might as well get this ready for tomorrow.’

‘For the hedgehog cull?’ Torquil asked.

Alistair McKinley nodded curtly. ‘Aye, and I tell you one thing, Inspector McKinnon, I’m in a killing mood, the now.’

Vincent had been working himself up into a rare temper as he fed Geordie Morrison’s chickens and collected their eggs. He felt that he alone of the Wee Kingdom community actually saw through Geordie’s façade as the jolly carefree eccentric, the natural father and
perfect
husband. Oh, he was affable enough, charismatic even, and he had them all eating out of his hand. No one carped when he just took off with his family, generally leaving Vincent or the late Gordon MacDonald to tidy up after him and cover for his chores. Rhona had always been smitten by him, of course, and the McKinleys never really bothered. They had always tended to be pretty well self-sufficient.

Only now, in amid the irritation, Vincent was starting to worry. This time the family had been away longer than expected. It was usually just a day or two on some joy-ride or whim of Geordie’s. He wouldn’t have thought too much about it, except that they seemed to have suddenly run into death and tragedy everywhere. Gordon had suddenly died of a stroke or heart attack. Young Kenneth had killed himself on some foolish climbing accident in the Corlins. And then Rhona had almost died from a heart attack. There were too many things going on.

Why didn’t Geordie Morrison have a mobile like everyone else? But oh no, him and his bloody ‘green’ lifestyle!

The germ of anxiety had become heated on the flames of the irritation that he was feeling about having to do all these extra chores. He began to wonder whether Geordie really had taken his family and gone off in their boat. The boat had gone, right enough, but were they all OK? Could they be stranded somewhere – or even worse! He tried to shove the thought from his head, but he couldn’t help thinking that Sallie would usually send one of the kids round with a note.

Except when Geordie pre-empted her and just took them off, of course. He had done it before, the big galoot, and only given Sallie time to write a note, which Rhona had found on the mantelpiece.

That’ll be it! Vincent thought. For goodness sake, I’ll have it out with the dim-witted pair of them if I find a note just waiting there. Putting us through all this!

With the basket of eggs in one hand he let himself into the unlocked back door of their cottage. The whole place smacked of family life. The smell of children, their toys, paintings, crudely written messages to their parents were everywhere – on the floor, the walls, attached to the fridge.

Entering the equally children-dominated sitting-room filled him with sudden dread. What if they had had an accident and no one had known about it?

Bugger! Ewan McPhee had died out there somewhere and his body hadn’t been found yet. He cursed himself for a fool and ran up the bare wooden stairs to see if he could find some clue: a map, a book, anything that might point to where they had gone.

But there was nothing. Their beds had all been made, the bathroom was neat and tidy, the towels neatly folded and hanging from the rails. No toothbrushes! That meant that they had gone off somewhere, but that was all.

He was on the point of taking the liberty of checking drawers to see if he could elicit some information, although for the life of him he didn’t know what sort of thing to look for, when he heard footsteps downstairs.

‘Geordie? Sallie?’ he cried, turning and descending the stairs two steps at a time.

Megan Munro was standing in the middle of the room, wringing her hands in agitation. She was dressed in a baggy pink sweater with matching pink bobble hat, with her jeans tucked into pink patterned Wellingtons. He could see that she was trembling so much that her large hoop ear-rings were actually shaking slightly. When she recognized Vincent her lower lip started to tremble and she began to move towards him.

‘Megan, what’s wrong?’

He was silenced as she threw herself into his arms and buried her face against his chest. He felt her rhythmic sobbing.

‘Is it … Nial?’

She moved her head in answer back and forth and mumbled between sobs, ‘We – we had a row! About … birds … and hedgehogs. And her!’

‘Her?’

‘Katrina Tulloch. He says he’s worried about her.’ She made a choking noise. ‘I said he was more worried about her than he is about me! And he went off.’

Vincent stood patting her back, just letting her get rid of her emotions.

She looked up at him. ‘I went for a walk, just to straighten my head out and I saw movement in the upstairs window here. I thought the Morrisons must be back. I thought I’d be able to chat to Sallie. I thought she’d understand.’

Ignoring an unexpected pang of disappointment and resentment Vincent continued to make supportive, soothing movements on her back. ‘There, there, Megan,’ he said softly.

The sudden bang on the doorframe made him snap his head up to see Liam Sartori standing in the doorway, an insolent grin on his face.

‘Well, well! What a cosy scene,’ he said, holding up a hand with a number of envelopes. ‘Listen, don’t let me interrupt anything here. I’ve just come to deliver some letters. You two
are crofters, aren’t you? I met the lady at the – er – party, the other day.’

‘You mean at the wake!’ Vincent returned sharply. ‘You know that you were not welcome.’

Liam Sartori smirked. ‘Ah well, that’s me. Thick-skinned I am. Anyway, here’s a wee letter for each of you,’ he said, looking at the names on the envelopes and reading them out. ‘Miss Megan Munro of Linne Croft, and Mr Vincent Fitzpatrick of Prince’s Croft. And there’s one for Mr and Mrs George Morrison of Tweed Croft, wherever they are.’ He eyed the two of them, still standing with their arms about each other. ‘Convenient that they’re not here though, eh? It means that folk like you can have a wee tryst here when—’

Vincent freed himself from Megan’s embrace and took two swift steps towards Liam Sartori, who immediately adopted a belligerent fighting pose. He grinned and Vincent noticed the strong smell of whisky on his breath.

‘You fancy your chances with me, do you, old man?’ he jibed, his words slightly slurred. ‘Come on then. I’ll show you, too.’

Vincent stood with his fists balled and his elbows bent. ‘What do you mean, you’ll show me
too
?’

But Liam Sartori merely shrugged. ‘Nothing, pal. Just say I had a run in with one of your locals recently. Only he turned my offer of satisfaction down!’ His face twisted into a sneer. ‘But, of course, if you’d like to make something of it!’

Megan put a restraining hand on Vincent’s arm. ‘Leave it, Vincent. He’s just a minion of the new laird. A bully boy. Just take the letters.’ And then to Liam Sartori, ‘Now just leave this property.’

‘Oh I will, missy. I’ve just one more letter to deliver to the old boy who lost his son then I’ll be away.’

And with an insolent wink he turned and left them to open their letters.

Nial Urquart was flushed, bedraggled and slightly out of breath when he came across Katrina’s van. It was parked by the side of the high coastal road. It was empty.

He spied her on the shingle beach below, wandering along the base of the cliffs where at low tide the sea-caves that
typified
the West Uist coastline became visible. He descended quickly and weaved his way between the rock pools, and the seaweed and limpet-covered rocks towards her.

‘Katrina! What are you doing down here?’

She had turned at the sound of his voice, her face distraught. ‘I’m looking for, for—’

He encircled her in his arms. ‘You’re looking for Ewan McPhee!’ He put a gentle hand under her chin. ‘It’s no use, Katrina. You have to accept it. Ewan has gone.’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘But I can’t stop. I care—’

‘And I care about you, Katrina.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I want you to let me care for you.’

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘But you can’t, Nial. There’s Megan! You—’

Then her eyes rolled upwards abruptly and he had to catch her as her body went limp and she fainted in his arms.

Sister Lamb called for Nurse Giselle Anderson as soon as she found Rhona McIvor collapsed on the floor beside her bed. After a cursory examination revealed that Rhona was not breathing and that she was pulseless, Sister Lamb began cardiopulmonary resuscitation while Giselle ran to get the portable defibrillator. By the time she had returned to Rhona’s side, Maggie Crouch had sent out an emergency call for Dr McLelland.

Sister Lamb had already tried two defibrillation shocks to Rhona’s chest when Ralph McLelland arrived. With three of them at work they wired her up to an ECG monitor, put up an intravenous line and injected some adrenaline, sodium bicarbonate and lidocaine into her, before applying two more shocks. But despite their best efforts it was in 
vain. After ten more minutes Ralph McLelland declared her dead.

As Sister Lamb and Giselle started to lay out her body on the bed they noticed for the first time that there was a letter screwed up in her left hand. Ralph prise open her already stiffening fingers and removed the letter. He smoothed it out on the bedside locker.

‘Looks like she was trying to write something on the bottom of this letter,’ he mused, bending and picking up a pen that had rolled under the bed, presumably when she had collapsed. ‘Her heart was obviously pretty fragile. I wonder if this letter had anything to do with it?’

‘I bet that the new laird brought her that,’ Lizzie Lamb said over her shoulder. ‘He was just in here before we found her.’

‘Was he now,’ Ralph murmured as he scanned the letter. His eyes widened. ‘I’m only guessing, but I’d think this letter would have pushed her blood pressure through the roof. And I’d say that she collapsed before she could finish her note.’

‘What does it say, Doctor?’ Sister Lamb asked, as she and Nurse Anderson pulled the sheet up to Rhona’s chin.

‘Just two words in capital letters – CARD IN – then there is a squiggle, which I assume is when she arrested.’

‘A card? Shall I check out her locker, Sister?’ Giselle Anderson asked.

Sister Lamb smoothed the bedcover and stroked a stray wisp of hair from Rhona’s face. ‘That’s a good idea, Giselle. We’ll need to get everything ready for her next of kin.’ And having said that she put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh mercy me, she has no next of kin! She was all alone.’

There was a tap at the door and then it was pushed ajar to reveal a sad-faced Lachlan McKinnon. ‘Is it OK to come in?’ he asked. ‘Maggie Crouch said that Rhona just passed away.’

Ralph opened the door fully and ushered Lachlan in. ‘Come away in, Padre. I’m afraid that Rhona had just one strain too many.’ He showed him the letter and explained about the visit from Jock McArdle. I am thinking that she had
a shock, then she arrested – and although we did our best, we lost her.’

Lachlan looked down sadly at the body of his old friend. ‘I’ll say a wee prayer for her then, if you don’t mind. Who are you planning to tell?’

‘We were just talking about that, Padre,’ replied Ralph. ‘She was on her own, wasn’t she? I suppose it must be the other crofters on the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Aye, they’ll all take it badly. I was heading over there after I’d seen Rhona anyway. Would you like me to do the needful?’

‘Padre, it would be a great help if you would,’ replied Sister Lamb. ‘And if you tell them we’ve got her things here. The letter and cards and all.’

Morag had logged all the messages and enquiries that had come in throughout the morning and duly gave Torquil an update upon his return from the Wee Kingdom.

‘Calum Steele called in for his usual snoop around. He said to tell you that he’ll be going up to photograph the windmills.’

‘There are two towers up already. I had a wee run-in with the chaps that were putting them up. They’re not as big as I imagined, but they are just experimental ones to gather
information
about the wind. The foreman said that they were his company’s most standard models and that they are planning to put up about ten. If all goes according to plan, then they may start building the big ones and that means a real wind farm.’

Morag grimaced. ‘That new laird seems set to put the Wee Kingdom crofters’ backs up, that’s for sure.’ She tapped the book with her pencil. ‘And talking about him – the Laird of Dunshiffin as he likes to call himself – he phoned up too. He wanted to see you straight away, but I told him you were out on official business. He put the phone down on me, the ignoramus!’

‘Well he can go and boil his head!’ exclaimed Torquil with exasperation.

Morag laughed. ‘May I tell him that myself if he rings again?’

‘Actually, Morag, I rather think I’ll enjoy doing it myself. I’m not over-keen on his diplomacy skills, especially when he’s a newcomer to the island.’

Morag ran through the rest of the messages then went through to the kitchen to make tea while Torquil began work on his report.

When Morag came back through with the tea-tray she found him comparing the empty cartridge he had found on the Cruadalach isles with the two live cartridges – one that had been found beside Kenneth McKinley’s body and the other that he had obtained from Alistair McKinley.

‘These certainly look to me as if they’re from the same batch,’ he explained. ‘And from my chat with Alistair it is clear that young Kenneth McKinley had a thing about guns. He had a bookcase full of books about weapons, the SAS and hunting.’

He shoved the photograph that Alistair McKinley had given him across the desk. Morag swivelled it round and frowned.

‘I see what you mean. And it makes you think about Ewan’s entry about GUNS in his diary.’

‘Aye, and his gun is nowhere to be found.’

‘Is it a dangerous gun?’

‘They all are potentially deadly, Morag. And this one is a .308. It could easily take down a stag.’ He shook his head. ‘Superintendent Lumsden is going to love this. And I have to say that I have a bad feeling about it all.’

Torquil was just about to go off to meet the Drummond twins at the harbour when his mobile phone rang. It was his uncle, the Padre.

‘I think you had better come out to the Wee Kingdom,
laddie. I have just found a body.’ His voice hesitated for a moment. ‘It looks nasty, Torquil. Somehow I don’t think this was a natural death!’