Deathly Wind (3 page)

Lachlan frowned. ‘But he’s been doing it for years. He’s a trained butcher, isn’t he? And the Wee Kingdom pâté sells all over the islands.’

Rhona shook her head as she screwed another cigarette into her ebony holder and lit it. ‘But that doesn’t cut any ice with Megan. She thinks we should all turn vegetarian.’ She sipped a whisky. ‘I doubt that she will last long as a crofter. We never had any trouble with her great uncle, Hector Munro. He’d be turning in his grave at the way she carries on. And that poor Nial.’ She shook her head sympathetically.

‘Where is Vincent, by the way?’ Lachlan asked.

‘On his way to Benbecula. Oh it’s quite legitimate. He talked to me after the funeral. He has to be there to meet the tweed buyer. It’s normally Geordie Morrison’s job, but he’s gone off somewhere and taken the whole family with him.’

The smell of tobacco had given the Padre a craving and he pulled out his cracked old briar from his breast pocket and filled it. ‘But it’s still school time. He surely can’t have taken wee Gregor and Flora away with him?’

‘Och, Geordie is a law unto himself. Sallie Morrison has just about given up. He gets a bee in his bonnet about going off looking for whales or something, and just tells her that it’ll be educational for the children. And off they go. They’ll be back in due course.’

‘So they don’t know about Gordon’s death?’

‘No, they’ll be devastated when they find out, but we have no idea where they are just now.’

Lachlan struck a light to his pipe and picked up a glass of beer. He was about to take a sip when Megan Munro’s raised voice carried across the room and caused all heads to turn.

‘But you’re a vet, Katrina! You can’t condone the killing of innocent hedgehogs.’

‘Megan, we’ve been through all this before,’ Katrina returned, patiently. ‘The hedgehog population is getting out of control.’

‘It’s no good, Katrina,’ came Nial Urquart’s voice. ‘Megan just won’t accept that point. She doesn’t like birds; she’s just into cute little hedgehogs, hence her Mistress Prickleback Sanctuary,’

‘I might have known you’d bring it round to your precious birds,’ said Megan, heatedly.

‘It’s not that simple, Megan,’ Nial returned. ‘The golden eagles up in the Corlins may take a lot of eggs and young seabirds, but not as many eggs as the hedgehogs. In any case they are a protected species, unlike the hedgehogs. Here the hedgehogs are regarded as vermin.’

Megan was about to reply, when the McKinleys joined the discussion. ‘They are vermin right enough,’ said Alistair, his beard bristling. ‘But so are those eagles in my opinion.’

Katrina Tulloch looked aghast. ‘You can’t be serious, Alistair? The golden eagles are a national asset. We’re lucky that they are nesting on West Uist again.’

‘Not when they take our young lambs,’ cut in Kenneth McKinley.

Katrina McKinley shook her head and smiled at him. ‘I think you’ll find that’s a superstition, Kenneth. Eagles don’t take lambs.’

Kenneth McKinley stood up straight. ‘Don’t patronize me, Katrina Tulloch. You may be a vet, but I’ve lived on Sea Edge with my father all my life and I’ve seen them.’ And suddenly
his eyes widened and he pointed out of the window at the majestic sight of a golden eagle in the distance flapping its way towards the Corlins. ‘If I only had a rifle now, I’d get that one.’

‘And you’d end up in jail,’ Nial Urquart returned. ‘They’re beautiful birds and as Katrina says, they are protected.’

Megan Munro had been seething for a few moments. ‘That’s everyone’s answer to everything here, isn’t it? Kill it! Shoot it! Well, you won’t touch any of the animals in my
sanctuary
. If you do I’ll have the police on to you straight away.’

‘The police!’ Kenneth McKinley exclaimed with a sarcastic tone. ‘If you can find a police officer on the island you’ll be lucky. They all seem to be disappearing faster than smoke around here.’

Katrina Tulloch spun to face him, her eyes registering disbelief mixed with ire. ‘Kenneth McKinley! You – you
insensitive
oaf!’ She snapped her glass down on a window ledge, swung her bag onto her shoulder and with an involuntary sob, ran for the door.

Lachlan was about to go after her, but Rhona stopped him with a hand on his arm. ‘Let her be, Lachlan,’ she said, as the silence that had momentarily followed Katrina Tulloch’s exit was immediately broken by a cacophony of raised voices.

‘Maybe we ought to break it up,’ the Padre whispered to Rhona. ‘It looks as if there’s going to be a civil war in the Wee Kingdom.’

But before they had time to move, there was a loud rap on the door which was shoved open to reveal Jock McArdle and his two boys. Lachlan noticed that they were all dressed as they had been that morning, except that Jock McArdle was now wearing a pair of wire-framed spectacles and a black blazer on top of his golf clothes.

‘Correction, Padre,’ said Rhona, suddenly stiffening. ‘It might be the start of World War Three. Unless I am mistaken this is the new laird.’

Jock McArdle stood nodding his head at the assembled mourners and took off his wire-framed spectacles. ‘It’s a sad
day. A lassie just ran past us as we came in. Greeting her eyes out she was.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and swiftly and noisily blew his nose, then, ‘For those of you who don’t know me, and I think that is probably you all except for the Padre there, I am Jock McArdle.’ He paused for a moment, then added emphatically, ‘I am the new laird of Dunshiffin.’

Rhona was the first to say anything. ‘You will have come to pay your respects to Gordon MacDonald. That’s good of you, Laird. Would you and your sons like a drink?’

Jock McArdle stared at her in bemusement for a moment as his two minders smirked. He shook his head. ‘Oh no, these are my boys, but not my sons,’ he replied cryptically. ‘But a drink would be good, thank you. And I thought that this would be a good time to meet my tenants. A good opportunity to let you know a few of my ideas.’

The Padre being used to organizing groups introduced everyone while Rhona poured drinks.

‘We are not all here, though,’ Rhona said, as she lit another cigarette. ‘Vincent Gilfillan is doing business on behalf of the Wee Kingdom Community in Benbecula and the Morrison family have gone – off somewhere. You will be meeting them in due course I am thinking.’

‘What about Gordon MacDonald’s croft, Laird?’ Kenneth McKinley asked.

Alistair McKinley gave his son a poke in the ribs. ‘My son has pre-empted me, Mr McArdle. I was going to make an appointment to see you. We have some business I need to ask you about.’

Jock McArdle shoved his hands into his golf trousers and stood facing the old crofter. ‘Ask away. I am here now.’

Alistair McKinley cleared his throat. ‘Could my son here take on the lease for the Wind’s Eye croft? Gordon MacDonald died without issue and it is traditional that the holding—’

‘No!’ the new laird replied emphatically. ‘He cannot take it on.’

‘And why not?’ Kenneth McKinley demanded, heatedly.

‘The holding will not be re-leased.’

Rhona McIvor removed her cigarette holder from her mouth. ‘You are not serious! The Wee Kingdom Community has always had the right to pass on the holdings to family or appointed heirs.’

‘I am rescinding that right,’ the laird replied, removing a hand from his pocket and languidly taking his glass of whisky from Liam Sartori. ‘It will not be the case in the future.’

‘Are you sure that is legal, Mr McArdle?’ the Padre put in.

‘Oh it is absolutely legal, I assure you, Padre,’ McArdle returned, his eyes glinting behind his spectacles. ‘I have had my lawyers check over the original agreement. If any of the holders had ever taken the trouble to research it they would have seen that it was written up in such a way as to give the laird the right to do whatever he wanted with the land, subject to certain minor restrictions.’

‘Lairds! I knew this would happen!’ barked Kenneth McKinley. He made for the door, but found his way barred by Liam Sartori and Danny Reid. He squared up to them.

‘Out of my way! Now!’

Neither seemed inclined to move, the same challenging grin having appeared on each of the two minders’ faces.

‘Let him pass,’ McArdle barked. Then once the younger McKinley had stomped out he turned back to the assembly. ‘I will be putting up several wind installations on this croft in the next few days.’ He grinned patronizingly. ‘It will be good for the whole island, you will see it will.’

Rhona had been standing beside the Padre, her face getting whiter and whiter as anger seethed inside her. ‘We’ll not permit this. We will fight you.’

‘That is not recommended, Rhona,’ he replied smugly.

‘You will not break up the Wee Kingdom Community. If you do, it will be over my dead body.’

Liam Sartori sniggered.

Rhona saw him and made to cross the room towards him. ‘You young whelp! I’ll teach you—’

She had taken two steps then suddenly halted, clutching at her chest before collapsing on the floor.

Lachlan was by her side instantly, feeling for a pulse. His face was like thunder as he turned and rattled out the order, ‘Somebody call Dr McLelland. Now!’

The Macbeth ferry
The Laird o’ the Isles
slowly loomed out of the morning mist and manoeuvred into the crescent-shaped harbour of Kyleshiffin. As the great landing doors slowly and noisily descended to allow the walking passengers to
disembark
before the inevitable cavalcade of traffic, Sergeant Morag Driscoll blew into her hands and stamped her feet. She felt cold and shivery, and not just because of the outside
temperature
. She was waiting for her boss, Inspector Torquil McKinnon, to return to the island after his extended leave. And she did not relish the news that she had to give him.

‘Morag! I thought I would find you here,’ came the Padre’s booming voice. She turned to see Torquil’s uncle hurrying along the harbour to join her, his mane of white hair blown awry.

‘Lachlan, have you been on that motor bike of yours without a helmet again?’ she chided him with a smile. ‘You know full well it’s the law.’

‘Och Morag Driscoll, I was in a hurry to meet Torquil. He’s been away a good long while, you know.’

‘I know, Padre, and I was just teasing.’ Her face became serious again. ‘How is Rhona?’

Lachlan clicked his tongue. ‘As well as can be expected. Doctor McLelland has her trussed up with wires all over the place and a monitor that bleeps every second. There’s a
no-smoking
policy in the cottage hospital and she’s threatening
to discharge herself because of that alone. She hasn’t had a cigarette since the wake yesterday. That’s an age and a half for Rhona.’

‘Is it a heart attack, then?’

He nodded. ‘Her third. She’s going to have to take it steady from now on.’

‘Not easy when you work a croft in the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Not easy when your name is Rhona McIvor, you mean.’

‘It sounds as if the new laird of Dunshiffin Castle is causing quite a stir in the Wee Kingdom. There are a lot of rumours going around.’

They moved aside as a stream of walking passengers disembarked from the ferry, fully expecting that Torquil would be among the motor cyclists that were usually permitted off ahead of the heavier vehicles. Half-a-dozen motorcyclists rode down the gangway with much gunning of engines, but there was no Torquil. Instead, a large container lorry edged off.

‘I wonder if he isn’t coming after all,’ mused the Padre.

Morag bit her lip. ‘I hope he comes soon, Padre, or I’m in a fix. There’s only me and the Drummond twins to run the show, and they’re only special constables.’

‘Aye, and they have their fishing business to run,’ the Padre agreed.

The container lorry stopped and the driver wound his window down. ‘Excuse me, darling,’ he called to Morag. ‘Are you with the police?’

Morag smiled up at the man, a large fairly good-looking man with a pony-tail and tattoos on hefty forearms. She understood his question since the West Uist division of the Hebridean constabulary had a fairly liberal attitude towards uniform. She was dressed in jeans and trainers, the only
indication
that she was in the force being the blue Arran pullover with three small white stripes on the right sleeve. ‘Right this minute I am the police. What can I do for you?’

The man nodded at a swarthy, surly-looking youth wearing
a red baseball cap sitting in the cab beside him. ‘Me and the young un here need to find a place called the Wee Kingdom. We’ve got a consignment for the Laird of Dunshiffin.’ He grinned and winked at her, adding, ‘It’s the first of many. I’ll be coming here fairly regularly you ken.’

Morag was a pretty, thirty-something, single mother of three. She recognized the man’s unsubtle meaning and treated it with the contempt she thought it deserved. ‘Follow the road past Loch Hynish, then turn left at the big T junction. The Wee Kingdom is signposted from there. Watch out for the sheep by the roadsides and don’t exceed the speed limit at any time. My colleagues are out with the mobile speed cameras today and we always prosecute.’

His charm having failed to impress her, the smile vanished from his face. He muttered a remark to the silent youth beside him then looked back at Morag, tapped his forehead and started off again.

‘That was a wee bit harsh, was it not, Sergeant Driscoll,’ said Lachlan with mock severity. Then before she could reply he pointed to the side of the lorry as it passed. It bore a large picture depicting a row of windmills linked by lightning bolts. Underneath in red lettering were the words:
NATURE’S OWN ENERGY
.

‘So it’s really going to happen, is it?’ Morag asked. ‘The new laird is going to build a wind farm.’

A stream of cars followed the lorry off, drowning out the Padre’s reply. Then the all too familiar noise of Torquil McKinnon’s Royal Enfield Bullet was gunning its way down the ramp towards them. He was wearing his usual goggles and Cromwell helmet and looked tanned and healthy, despite several days’ growth of stubble. He swung the classic motor bike up onto the harbour road and dismounted. He swept Morag off her feet in a warm hug and then pumped his uncle’s hand.

‘I’m so glad that you two are here to meet me.’

‘Torquil, we need to—’ began Morag.

‘I’ve been with the Tartan Army in Belgium,’ Torquil went on. ‘There were about a dozen of us with our pipes,’ he said, pointing to the pannier on the Bullet, from whence his travel sticker-covered bagpipe case was protruding. ‘The football wasn’t up to much, but that Roi Baudouin stadium in Brussels is something else. And the Belgians just love the kilts and the pipes. It was just the break that I needed.’

‘Torquil, Morag has—’

‘And then I caught the ferry from Zeebrugge back to Rosyth and just tootled up the East coast. I even managed to take in a couple of Highland Games Days.’

He clapped his uncle on the shoulder. ‘I won a pibroch cup at Strathpeffer and a Strathspey at Dornoch. I’ve had lots of time to think things over and I’ve made a decision: I’m leaving the force.’

Morag and the Padre stared at each other in astonishment.

‘But you can’t leave, Torquil!’ Morag exclaimed.

But her inspector put an arm about her shoulder. ‘I know, we’ve been through a lot together, Morag. But it will all be for the best. After Fiona’s death I need to move on. I want you to be happy for me. And I—’

The Padre grabbed his nephew’s wrist and held it firm. ‘Torquil, hold your breath for a minute and listen to Morag.’

Torquil turned to his sergeant and raised an eyebrow quizzically. Then he realized how pained she looked. He felt a shiver of anticipation run up and down his spine.

‘Torquil you can’t leave,’ said Morag, her voice quaking. ‘Ewan is missing! He’s gone!’

Torquil stared from one to the other, his dark, handsome features registering bewilderment. ‘Gone? Gone where?’

The Padre put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This is the fourth day since he disappeared.’ He took a deep breath; then, ‘We think he’s drowned.’

Ten minutes later in his office in the Kyleshiffin Police Station off Kirk Wynd, with a mug of hot, sweet tea in front of him,
Torquil listened in shocked amazement as Morag recounted all that they knew about Ewan’s disappearance.

‘He was on the morning round of the islands and due back at ten o’clock, but he never showed up. The Drummond twins were out fishing and found the
Seaspray
catamaran drifting beyond the Cruadalach isles at about two in the afternoon.’

‘And Ewan?’

Morag shook her head. ‘There was no sign of him. The boat was just drifting and had run out of fuel.’ Her normally unflappable visage was showing signs of strain. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘We think that he must have tumbled overboard.’

Torquil rubbed his eyes and sighed. ‘It’s not possible, Morag. Ewan McPhee, the Western Isles hammer-throwing champion, who’s been a strong swimmer since he was a lad – there’s no way that he could have just fallen overboard. And even if he had, he would have pulled himself back on board, no bother.’

‘We’ve agonized over all that ourselves, Torquil,’ the Padre pointed out. ‘But if the boat had been moving fast—’

‘And he may not have been well, Torquil,’ said Morag. ‘There was blood on the side of the catamaran.’

Torquil eyed her quizzically. ‘You think he may have banged his head and fallen overboard?’

‘No I think he may have had one of his nose-bleeds. You know how prone he is to them when he’s stressed.’

‘And how squeamish he is,’ the Padre added.

Morag went on, ‘The Drummonds notified me immediately and they tried to retrace the route of the
Seaspray
, but they could only guess at the direction he had taken. I called out the
coastguard
helicopter from Benbecula and the RAF at Macrahanish despatched two Sea Kings – they spent two days looking for his body. They combed the whole area but found no trace of him. And you know full well that’s what usually happens. We are waiting day by day to hear about the body washing up
somewhere
along the coast or on one of the islands.’

Torquil picked up his mug of tea and began pacing the room. He sipped it, thinking of the many gallons of stewed tea that Ewan had made him over the years. ‘I just can’t believe it. He was my friend.’

‘He was a good friend to all of us, Torquil,’ Morag said. ‘The Drummonds are both cut up about it and even Calum Steele has been writing sentimental pieces in the
West Uist Chronicle
about him.’ She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Now do you see why you can’t go resigning? I need you, Torquil.’

He turned and smiled down at her. Like Ewan McPhee, Morag was a good friend, as well as being his sergeant. He noticed how tired and drained she looked. And how much weight she had lost, although now he realized that it must have been from worry. He gave her a big hug. ‘Och, of course I won’t leave, Morag – for now anyway.’ He released her, then asked, ‘How is Jessie, his mother?’

The Padre struck a light to his pipe despite the prominent No Smoking notices scattered all over the station. ‘She’s
struggling
, Torquil. But she’s a tough old lady. She lost her husband in a fishing-boat accident when Ewan was only five, so it’s bound to be stirring up old wounds.’ He sighed. ‘But until the Fatal Accident Enquiry, whenever that is, we can do nothing.’

‘Poor Ewan, he’d been through the mill, hadn’t he?’ Torquil said. ‘What with that last relationship and everything.’

‘A relationship may have had something to do with this, Piper,’ said Morag, using the name that Torquil was often known by throughout the island. ‘You know how involved Ewan can get? Well, I think he had fallen head over heels. His mind hasn’t been on the job for days. The trouble was, I don’t think the lassie knew exactly how much he felt for her.’

‘Who is she?’ Torquil queried.

‘Katrina Tulloch – the new vet.’

Torquil nodded his head as he put the face to the name. ‘Old Tam Tulloch’s niece. I met her a couple of times before I left. She’s a bonnie lassie, right enough.’

The Padre blew smoke ceiling-wards. ‘Actually, I think she did know he liked her, Morag. She was upset yesterday at Gordon MaDonald’s wake. She left in a hurry after Kenneth McKinley said something to her about there not being many police officers left on West Uist.’

‘Gordon MacDonald is dead?’ Torquil repeated.

‘Aye, from a stroke. That was Ralph McLelland’s opinion, and he’d been Gordon’s GP for years. He’d been dead for a couple of days before he was found. Rhona McIvor
discovered
him when he didn’t show up to help her with the geese.’ He shook his head. ‘And now poor Rhona is in the cottage hospital herself after having another heart attack.’

And he told Torquil about the events at the wake.

‘So the new laird, this Jock McArdle, is really going to set up a wind farm?’ Torquil asked in disbelief. ‘Here on West Uist? There will be an outcry.’

‘Morag and I just saw the first one,’ said the Padre. ‘That lorry that just came off before you looked as if it was carrying the components for a windmill.’

‘I can’t believe that all this has happened since I went away,’ said Torquil with a sad shake of the head. ‘Especially Ewan falling in love again. And falling overboard and drowning.’

‘We’re all trying to get our heads round it, laddie,’ agreed the Padre.

At that very moment Katrina Tulloch, the veterinary surgeon in question, was not feeling at all caring towards one of her patients. She had been feeling tense and on edge ever since Ewan had disappeared. She knew perfectly well that the big constable had fallen for her, but over the last couple of weeks he had seemed to be preoccupied with something and his
attitude
towards her had been slightly strained, as if he was suspicious of her.

God! How do I get myself in such emotional messes? she mentally chided herself. Without any active encouragement
she had seemed to have had at least three men fawning over her since she had taken over her uncle’s practice. And she had felt torn and confused to say the least. Which of them did she really want? Dammit, it was all so bloody—

Her wandering attention was brought back to bear on the large dog that had begun to snarl at her again.

‘Zimba has always been a wee bit protective of his bottom,’ explained the dog’s owner, Annie McConville, one of Kyleshiffin’s renowned eccentrics. She ran a dog sanctuary that covered the whole of the Western Isles, and she was an almost daily visitor at both the local police station, where she would lodge complaints about local ordinances, and the local veterinary practice with at least one of her many canine charges. Zimba was a large Alsatian who had developed a limp over the preceding week, which had done nothing for his somewhat mercurial disposition.

‘I think I’ll have to take him in for a general anaesthetic, Miss McConville,’ Katrina said, edging backwards, peeling off her latex rubber gloves as she did so. ‘Zimba isn’t going to let me near enough to examine that abscess.’

‘Oh, so it is an abscess that he has? And there was me thinking it was just a bad case of worms again. He sits down and pulls himself along to scratch his bottom a lot.’