Deathly Wind (15 page)

And as she recounted the meeting in Geordie Morrison’s cottage, Morag made notes.

‘Where is Geordie Morrison and his family?’ Morag asked.

‘We don’t know. I think with all the other tragedies that have been going on lately, we’re all a bit worried that
something
might have happened to them.’

‘What does your partner think of it all?’

At the question Megan suddenly burst into tears. Morag patted her hand and pushed a box of tissues across the desk to her. ‘I am sorry, Megan. Is there something upsetting you?’

‘It – it’s Nial. We had a row yesterday. Two actually, one in the morning and one when he got home last night. And he’s barely talked to me this morning. He was up and out before I woke.’

Morag made a note in her book. ‘Are you worried about him?’

Megan nodded. ‘Oh, I don’t think anything bad has happened to him. In fact, I think I know where he is. And who he’s with!’

Morag said nothing; experience having long since told her that people will often volunteer their information.

‘He will be with that vet, Katrina Tulloch. He drools over her. I know that now. He’s gone from my bed to hers.’

‘That isn’t something that I can do anything about, I am afraid.’

‘No, but perhaps you ought to know about him. He’s not exactly the harmless bird officer that everyone thinks. He’s opinionated and he gets a bee in his bonnet about things. When he does that he can be … tenacious.’

‘I don’t follow?’

‘We first met at an animal rights meeting.’

‘Go on,’ Morag urged.

‘He used to be an activist. He—’

‘Has he a record, Megan? Is that what you are saying?’

Megan bit her lip as if she was having an internal argument as to what she should divulge. Then, finally, ‘He told me that he once fire-bombed the warehouse of a factory that was involved in supplying a laboratory with animals for animal experimentation.’

Lachlan stood looking out of the window of Alistair McKinley’s cottage, a glass of whisky in his hand. ‘It is a magnificent view that you have here. I hadn’t realized that you had such a good sight of the old lighthouse.’

‘Aye, and from the other side of the house we’ll soon be able to see all these wind towers that fool of a laird is
planning
.’

‘Are you sure that it is all legal, though, Alistair? Have you had it checked out? I am no expert, but I would have thought he would have at least needed planning permission rather than just hoicking them up.’

Alistair sipped his whisky. ‘Rhona usually saw to all the business and legal side of the Wee Kingdom. I suppose one of us will have to see to it now.’

There was a knock on the open door and Wallace Drummond popped his head round the frame. ‘Ah Padre, we were not expecting to see you here.’

His brother Douglas appeared beside him. ‘It is Alistair McKinley that we are needing to see.’

‘Come away in lads,’ the old crofter urged. ‘We were having a dram. Will you have one too? In memory of my lad.’

Wallace shook his head with a pained expression. ‘I am sorry. We would have loved to join you, but we are here on duty. Our sergeant sent us on an errand. It’s a bit tricky.’

‘Out with it then,’ said Alistair.

Douglas pointed to the shotgun bag leaning against the wall. ‘We have been told that we are to confiscate your guns. Until further notice, the West Uist Police have put a ban on any hedgehog cull on the island.’

Jock McArdle and Danny Reid were watching the evening Scottish TV news in the large sitting-room at Dunshiffin Castle while they waited for Jesmond to call them to dinner.

‘See that Kirstie Macroon, boss,’ Danny said with a slightly
lascivious tone as he handed his employer a whisky and lemonade. ‘Liam fair fancied her.’

The redheaded newsreader went through the headlines while they sat and drank. Then the backdrop behind her changed to a picture of Dunshiffin Castle.

‘Here that’s us!’ exclaimed Danny Reid. ‘We’re on the news!’

Jock McArdle waved his hand irritably and sat upright. ‘Let’s listen then.’

Jock McArdle swallowed the rest of his whisky and lemonade and held the glass out to Danny Reid for a refill.

Then Calum Steele’s voice came over the television:

Jock McArdle cursed. ‘Careful you wee bastard!’ he said to the screen, which showed Kirstie Macroon nodding her head as she listened to Calum.

Jock McArdle shot to his feet. ‘Get the Porsche. It’s time that wee busybody learned not to meddle in my business.’

Nial Urquart had just walked into the sitting-room of Katrina’s flat with a cup of coffee in his hand. He switched on the television and caught Calum Steele’s piece on the news.

‘Bastard!’ he exclaimed.

‘Who is a bastard?’ Katrina called through from the kitchen.

Nial flicked the channel control to the BBC. ‘Oh no one. Sorry for my language. It’s just my team. They lost in the league.’

Then he switched the television off.

The Bonnie Prince Charlie was busy as usual and Mollie McFadden and her staff were occupied with pulling pints of Heather Ale and dispensing whiskies. At the centre of the bar Calum Steele was holding court, clearly enjoying his newfound celebrity status on Scottish TV.

He was just telling an eager group of listeners for the third time how he had winkled out the information from the internet, when he felt a tap on his shoulder and then felt himself being whirled round.

‘I don’t allow anyone to broadcast my business affairs!’ Jock McArdle snapped.

‘And I’ve warned you once before, chubby,’ said Danny Reid, running a finger up and down the zip of Calum’s anorak. He looked aside at his employer who nodded his head.

Calum swallowed hard and held his chin up. ‘The press have a perfect right to keep the public informed.’

‘Is that so?’ Jock McArdle said, as Danny Reid grasping the zip fastener of Calum’s greasy yellow anorak. ‘Well, let me give you a friendly warning, Mr Calum Steele. In future you will keep your nose out of my affairs and you will be … respectful of my position.’ He leaned forward and took the fastener out of Danny Reid’s hand. ‘In other words – zip up!’

And he yanked the fastener all the way up and caught a tiny fold of Calum’s double chin in the zip.

Calum howled in pain.

‘Just a warning!’ McArdle said. ‘Good night everyone.’

As he and Danny Reid reached the door, Mollie McFadden’s voice rang out. ‘Aye, that’s the door Mr McArdle. Laird or no laird, you and your bodyguard are herewith banned! You are not welcome here again!’

Jock McArdle turned and sneered. ‘See, darling, that’s OK. Why would anyone want to drink in this hovel anyway? Good night and God bless.’

It was ten o’clock by the old grandmother clock in her
sitting-room
and Megan Munro had cried all evening. She had sent three texts to Nial Urquart and tried to phone him half-
a-dozen
times, but without success. So desperate had she felt that she had even contemplated trying to drink a glass of wine, but the thought alone revolted her. But music usually helped her, loud music to try to lift her mood. Yet not even Queen nor the Red Hot Chili Peppers could help. She turned off the CD player and went to switch off the lights. It was then that she thought she heard the sound of crackling, and smelled smoke.

She looked out of the window and saw the glow from Gordon MacDonald’s croft. The cottage was in flames and next to it, like a couple of beacons, the two wind towers were engulfed in flames.

The West Uist Volunteer Fire Brigade was scrambled upon receiving Megan’s emergency call. They arrived within ten minutes in their 1995 Convoy van, which had been specially converted into a Light Fire Appliance. With its four-man team, lightweight pump and four fire extinguishers, it was doubtful that they would be able to deal with the inferno that was Gordon MacDonald’s croft.

Torquil had been alerted as a matter of course and arrived moments after them on his Royal Enfield Bullet.

Alistair McKinley and Vincent Gilfillan had heard the crackling flames and had joined Megan Munro by the croft and all three had attempted to douse the flames with buckets of water from the nearby duck pond. It had been clear, however, that their efforts were in vain.

‘Just thank the lord that there was nobody inside,’ said Alistair.

‘That we cannot be sure about, Alistair,’ Torquil said, as they stood back to let Leading Fireman Fraser Mackintosh and his volunteers do the best that they could.

Vincent Gilfillan put a hand on Torquil’s arm. ‘You can’t think that anyone is in there!’

Torquil bit his lip, his brow furrowed with anxiety. ‘I doubt it, but one thing is clear – this is a case of arson. There is no way that the fire could have spread to the wind towers.’

Megan clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘My God! Nial! Where
is he?’ She began to scream. And then she was running towards the cottage.

Vincent and Torquil both stopped her and drew her back. Fraser Mackintosh came over. ‘It is no use, Torquil. All we can do is contain it. It will have to burn itself out.’ He pointed at the wind towers. ‘At least those towers are metal and won’t burn. The wood platforms we can probably put out, but it looks as if any equipment on them will have been destroyed.’

Vincent took Megan back to her cottage and the others watched and waited until the fire burned itself down and the roof collapsed. Fortunately, rain began to fall and helped to dowse the fire.

But even so, it was not until the first light of morning that they were able to enter the smouldering building. And it was then that they found the badly charred body of a man.

Doctor Ralph McLelland was doing an early morning call on Agnes Calanish’s latest arrival, after her husband Guthrie, the local postmaster had called him at five o’clock.

‘We’re right sorry, Dr McLelland,’ said Guthrie, ‘it is just that he seemed too young to be having the croup. We were worried that he might need to be admitted to the hospital.’

Ralph McLelland wound up his stethoscope and replaced it in his black Gladstone bag. ‘No, there’s no need,’ he said, with a well-practised smile of reassurance. ‘He’s still getting rid of some of the secretions. His chest is as clear as a whistle. He’ll be just fine where he is.’

The local doctor was well used to night visits, although the islanders by and large did their utmost to deal with problems until a respectable hour. For Guthrie Calanish who had to be up at four every morning to get down to the harbour for the early morning ferry, five o’clock seemed perfectly respectable.

‘There might not be any post for some time, Dr McLelland,’ said Guthrie. ‘The ferries have been cancelled until further notice by order of the police. I was down at the harbour this morning just on the off chance, but nothing is doing.’

‘It is all these deaths, isn’t it, Doctor?’ Agnes suggested, as she redressed the latest addition to the household on a changing mat.

‘I am afraid so, Agnes. But the police will be making good headway.’

‘Do you think so, Dr McLelland?’ Guthrie asked. ‘I heard from Wattie Dowel, the chandler, that they’re pretty much in the dark. Could you—’

Ralph’s mobile phone went off just then, which under normal circumstances would have caused him some alarm, since there was a good chance that it indicated another call and a receding opportunity to take breakfast before morning surgery. But he was well used to Guthrie Calanish’s attempts to get gossip out of him, so he raised his hand for quiet as he answered the call.

He was not expecting it to be a call for him in his capacity as the police surgeon. His eyes widened as Torquil told him that they had found another body on the Wee Kingdom. He replied curtly, ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

‘Something urgent?’ Guthrie enquired, a tad too curiously for Ralph’s liking.

He forced a smile. ‘Just another call. A doctor’s life is rarely dull, you know.’

Agnes smiled up at him. ‘Oh no one could ever accuse you of being dull, Dr McLelland.’

Guthrie gave her a withering look and showed Ralph McLelland to the door. He watched the doctor hurry up the path with shoulders hunched to protect his neck from the rain, then he nodded thoughtfully and reached for the
telephone
.

The rain stopped at about five o’clock. Morag and the Drummond twins had arrived in the branch Ford Escort before Dr Ralph McLelland. Once Leading Fireman Fraser Mackintosh had satisfied himself that the site was safe from further fire, and he and Torquil had checked to make sure
that there was no possibility that the charred body showed any signs of life, they had withdrawn to preserve the crime site. For that was what Torquil had deemed it to be, especially after Fraser Mackintosh had informed him that he believed there to be strong evidence of arson caused by some
incendiary
device.

‘The place was petrol bombed, Piper,’ he had said. ‘The cottage and the wind towers.’ And he had pointed out the shattered fragments of milk bottles and the empty
blackened
petrol can that lay in a corner of the burned-out sitting-room.

Both Torquil and Morag Driscoll were CID and forensic scene of crime qualified, having both been seconded for training a few years previously. It was the chief constable’s view that the Hebridean Constabulary should be totally
self-sufficient
and able to deal with all situations, without recourse to the mainland force. Accordingly, together with their
ever-willing
special constables they had cordoned off the crime site with posts and tape barriers and then donned protective white coverall suits, as dictated by the Serious Crimes Procedure, while they awaited the arrival of Dr Ralph McLelland, the GP-cum-police surgeon.

‘My God, I can guess what you’ve got for me. I caught the characteristic smell half a mile off,’ said Ralph McLelland as he closed the door of his car and came over to them with his Gladstone bag in one hand and his forensic case in the other.

‘It is nasty, Ralph,’ said Torquil. ‘There is a badly burned – unrecognizable – body, in the ruins of the cottage.’

He waited while Ralph opened his forensic case and from it drew out a white coverall suit. ‘An accident?’ Ralph asked suspiciously, as he climbed into his suit and zipped up.

Torquil shook his head. ‘No, it is suspicious all right.’

‘It is a sight that you would be better seeing without having had breakfast,’ Wallace Drummond said.

‘I nearly lost mine,’ Douglas, his brother, confessed.

Ralph nodded sanguinely and picked up his case. Then he
followed Torquil and Morag along the designated access path into the ruins to view the body.

It was a grisly sight. The blackened, shrivelled body lay sprawled on the floor near the hearth in what had once been the sitting-room of Gordon MacDonald’s croft. Ralph sucked air between his lips with a pained expression and stood looking about him for somewhere to lay his bag down. Finding a spot he put the forensic case down and placed his Gladstone bag on top. He knelt down, opened the bag and drew out his stethoscope and an ophthalmoscope. Torquil and Morag watched him admiringly as he painstakingly
examined
the body as best he could without disturbing its position. An absolute stickler for routine and precision in all matters medical and forensic, he checked to ensure that the body was truly dead, and that there was no activity in the heart or nervous system.

‘Dead as a piece of coal,’ he announced, coiling his
stethoscope
and replacing it and his ophthalmoscope in his Gladstone bag, his bag for the living. Then he reached for his forensic case, which contained the instruments he used for examining the dead.

‘Can you tell us how long, Doctor?’ Torquil asked, his tone moving to the official.

The inspector was rewarded with a look of scorn. ‘You are kidding me, Inspector!’ Ralph replied, with a touch of sarcasm. ‘A body found badly burned in a burned-out ruin of a house! The normal post-mortem changes mean nothing.’

‘Not even the body’s position?’ Torquil persisted.

Ralph allowed a grim smile. ‘Ah, you noticed,’ he said. ‘The fact that he was not curled up is suggestive that the individual was dead before the fire started.’

Morag grimaced. ‘Another murder?’

Torquil looked at her with a troubled frown on his
forehead
. ‘It looks like it. But we have a more immediate question to ask.’

‘Aye’, said Wallace Drummond. ‘Who the hell is he?’

Ralph looked up at the special constable and shook his head. ‘That is going to be difficult, considering the fact that his features have been burned beyond recognition – except perhaps to someone very close to him. We may have to get hold of dental records.’

Torquil pointed to the blackened body piercings on the lips, ears and eyes. Then to the mouth, which seemed to have fixed into a charred look of agony. ‘What do you make of that?’

And, as Ralph looked, so he noticed for the first time the gold chain about the body’s neck, disappearing into the mouth.

‘It looks like a chain, possibly with a medallion,’ Ralph returned. ‘I will know better once I have done a full
examination
back at the mortuary. But first do you want to get the scene properly photographed and documented?’

And for the better part of an hour Morag, the Drummonds and Torquil set about recording the scene in notes,
photographs
and diagrams. While they did so Ralph drove back to Kyleshiffin and swapped his car for the Cottage Hospital Ambulance. On his way back he passed the familiar sight of Calum Steele on his Lambretta scooter. Despite Calum’s wave to stop, Ralph merely acknowledged him with a nod of his head and drove on. He knew all too well that the
Chronicle
editor had somehow scented out a story, and that he would be trying his damnedest to winkle out whatever information he could. But with a suspected murder on the cards Ralph knew it was best to leave that to the official force.

Torquil was busy in the ruins, but heard the tell-tale Lambretta engine approaching.

‘Shall I intercept the wee man himself?’ Douglas Drummond asked.

Torquil sighed. ‘No, but thank you for the offer, Douglas. It would be as well to make this official and I need to make sure that he doesn’t do his usual thing and expound his own
theories
to the public rather than the official line.’

‘Good luck, boss,’ Morag murmured, as she continued making a detailed diagram of the charred cottage ruin.

‘
Latha math,
Good morning, Inspector McKinnon,’ Calum greeted from the other side of the tape barrier. ‘Arson attack, is it? Is somebody dead?’

‘What makes you ask those questions, Calum?’

The newspaperman gestured to the burned-out ruins and the blackened wind towers. ‘A cottage can catch fire, but I cannot see how fire would jump all that distance to catch those towers. And this is Gordon MacDonald’s cottage, there was no one in here, was there? Those windmill riggers were using it I know, but they left the island on—’

‘So why do you ask about a death? How did you get wind of this, Calum?’

Calum tapped the side of his nose. ‘Let’s just say that as a journalist I have my sources. And I passed Dr McLelland on my way here, which rather implies that he was coming here on professional business. All that and the fact that he wouldn’t stop when he passed me, meant that he had
information
that he didn’t want to divulge.’ He grinned. ‘And you are all wearing those official white dungaree suits. So what’s up, Piper? Tell your old schoolmate Calum.’

Torquil shook his head good humouredly. ‘All right, Calum. This is the official statement, but don’t go passing it on with any of your journalistic embellishments.’

‘No, no, you can depend on me. I am a responsible
journalist
and there will be no poetic licence excuse from me. Just the facts.’

‘And the facts are that the West Uist division of the Hebridean Constabulary are investigating a house fire on the Wee Kingdom, and the discovery of a badly burned body in the burned-out ruins of the cottage.’

Calum had clicked on the Dictaphone in his top pocket and for effect also jotted notes in his spiral-bound notebook. His eyebrows rose and he asked quizzically, ‘Murder?’

‘The fire and the death are being treated as suspicious,’ Torquil replied.

Calum nodded sagely and wrote ‘suspicious’ in capital
letters and underlined it emphatically. In his mind’s eye he already saw the headline he would use for the piece. And more immediately, how he was going to deliver it by phone to Kirstie Macroon, the pretty red-headed newsreader with pert breasts that he frequently fantasized about, and whose voice melted his insides. Then, realizing that his mind was straying, he cleared his throat.

‘The cause of death?’

‘We are awaiting the post-mortem report. And that will be some time, since we have yet to remove the remains from the major incident scene.’

Calum leaned over and craned his neck to try to get a better view. Screwing up his eyes he could see the Drummond twins and Morag Driscoll inside, but that was all. ‘And who is it?’

‘We have not identified the body yet, Calum.’

‘Any chance of a picture?’ Calum asked, hopefully.

‘Now you are pushing your luck, Calum. After that last stunt of yours down by the causeway?’

Calum was about to protest, but the noise of the West Uist ambulance crunching up the drive halted the words before he had formed them. ‘Ah the doctor, maybe I’ll—’

‘Maybe you will leave Dr McLelland to get on with his police surgeon duties, Calum. And that isn’t a request, by the way.’