Deathly Wind (4 page)

Katrina smiled uncertainly, scarcely believing that Annie McConville hadn’t seen the abscess as large as a duck’s egg to the left of the Alsatian’s anus. Attempting to examine the brute had almost cost her a couple of fingers.

‘I’ll make an appointment then shall I, Miss Tulloch?’ Annie asked, alternately stroking the Alsatian and tugging on the chain leash to encourage him off the examination table.

‘Just see Jennie at the reception and we’ll get him in tonight. He’ll need an operation tomorrow.’

The Alsatian jumped down and yowled with pain.

‘See, he’s not liking that proposition,’ said Annie.

And while Katrina sprayed the table with disinfectant and then washed her hands in preparation for her next client, she
mused that in many ways human medicine seemed preferable to veterinary work.

‘Hi, Katrina,’ came a familiar male voice.

She spun round at once, her face registering surprised joy, which was quickly suppressed by professional bedside manner. ‘Oh Nial,’ she said, on recognizing the Scottish Bird Protection officer-cum smallholder. He was holding a cage containing a young fulmar. ‘You sounded just like someone else.’

Nial Urquart pressed his lips together. ‘I’m, sorry, Katrina. You mean Ewan McPhee, don’t you?’

Katrina shook her head and smiled dismissively. ‘Forget it. What can I do for you, Nial? A wounded fulmar is it?’

The bird protection officer nodded and laid the cage on the table. He undid the front grille and, reaching in gingerly, removed the bird.

‘Just hold her on the table, will you, while I give her the once over,’ Katrina said. And swiftly and skilfully she assessed her patient. ‘She’s been lucky,’ she announced. ‘She’s got a pretty bloodstained wing, but the wound is superficial. No bone damage that I can find.’ She looked up at him, instantly aware that his eyes had been roving appreciatively over her upper torso. She pretended not to notice, instead asking, ‘What was it, an eagle?’

‘It was one of the golden eagles from up in the Corlins. I saw it swoop on her in mid-flight, and just failed to keep hold. I saw her fall and the eagle just flew on and took the next fulmar it spotted. The last I saw it was heading back towards its eyrie in the Corlins.’

‘You really love those eagles, don’t you, Nial?’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘They are majestic creatures, Katrina.’ He put the fulmar back in its cage, then turned to her with a smile. ‘I love all beautiful creatures.’

Katrina chose to ignore the flattery, if flattery was intended. Instead, she continued conversationally, ‘I’m heading up to the Wee Kingdom after I finish surgery here. I’ve got to go and
see Alistair McKinley’s sheep. He’s worried that a couple might have a touch of foot rot.’ There was silence for a moment, then she asked, ‘Any news of Rhona?’

‘I’ve just been to the cottage hospital. She’s was really out of it, with morphine I guess. She just came round enough to ask me to get her some cigarettes, then she fell asleep again. I don’t know if she actually realized that it was me. That set-to with the new laird didn’t help one iota.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘The bastard! Him and his two Glaswegian lackies.’

‘Yes,’ Katrina agreed. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for if he caused Rhona to have a heart attack.’

Nial Urquart picked up the bird cage and prepared to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought he plucked a couple of leaflets from a side pocket of his waterproof jacket. ‘Could I leave a few of these in your waiting-room? They’re for a protest meeting against the wind farm.’

Katrina looked at him with concern. ‘Be careful, Nial. The new laird doesn’t sound as if he’s the sort that it is wise to cross.’

The bird protection officer grinned. ‘I didn’t know you cared, Katrina.’

‘It’s Morag I’m worried about,’ she lied.

It was actually after lunch before Katrina could get out to the Wee Kingdom to see Alistair McKinley’s sheep. It was misty for one thing. For another the causeway across to the little islet was blocked by a large container lorry that could only just get across, by literally edging its way inch by inch, each move directed by a swarthy well-built youth in a red baseball hat. After waiting behind it for about quarter of an hour she zipped past in her battered old Mini-van, ignoring the wolf whistles from the driver and his mate as they pulled into the side of the road prior to negotiating the pock-marked drive up to Wind’s Eye croft.

As Katrina expected, she found the old crofter working away at his hand loom in one of the outhouses, outside which
Shep, his nervous but friendly old collie stood guard. After a cursory bark the collie advanced with tail wagging at half mast. Katrina patted him, stroked his head then entered the outhouse. ‘You never stop, do you, Alistair?’ she said
admiringly
.

‘Time is money, Vet,’ he returned, barely looking up to acknowledge her entry. ‘Just let me finish off this bit of weaving, and then I’ll be with you.’

Katrina watched admiringly for a few minutes as he
operated
the foot treadles which raised the heddles to open a shed for the shuttle, which was thrown across when he pulled a string with his right hand. That done, he swung the sleay back and forth, gradually transforming a seemingly impossibly complicated arrangement of threads of yarn into the famous patterned West Uist cloth. There was something almost hypnotic about the pleasing rattle-tattle noise of the most basic technology.

‘It really is a cottage industry in every sense, isn’t it?’ she commented. ‘West Uist Tweed is sold all over the west of Scotland, yet I guess few buyers in the fancy shops realize that it is all made by hand in the crofts of the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Aye, that’s right. We don’t have the market of the Harris Tweed, of course, but we have our own style. All of the crofters contribute and we all aim to make our quota each month. It’s the way it has always been.’

‘And will it always be done like this, Alistair?’

Alistair McKinley finished and tapped the shuttle, ‘I have my doubts, Veterinary. Especially if that new laird has anything to do with it.’ He looked as if he was about to spit, but thought better of it. ‘Windmills!’ he exclaimed in
exasperation
. ‘He’s just sent poor Rhona into hospital and as for my Kenneth—’

‘He’s sent Kenneth where, Alistair?’

The old crofter turned sharp penetrating eyes on her. ‘Are you interested in Kenneth, Katrina? I saw he got your blood up yesterday at the wake.’

Despite herself, Katrina flushed. ‘I interrupted you, Alistair. What do you mean, am I interested in Kenneth?’

‘Are you just being polite when you ask where he is, or are you interested in my son?’

Katrina smiled and gently shook her head. ‘I think we are talking at cross purposes here, Alistair. I had heard that Rhona had been sent to hospital and I somehow thought you meant that Kenneth had gone too. And to answer your question – your very direct question – I am not interested in Kenneth as a boyfriend. He’s a good-looking lad, but he’s … a lot younger than me.’

‘Not all that much, lassie. He’s twenty-two now you know.’ Still the penetrating eyes fixed on her. ‘And he likes you, you ken.’

Katrina pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest. ‘OK, how can I say this,’ she said pensively. ‘I am
interested
in—’ She hesitated and bit her lip. ‘I was interested in someone else.’

‘Young McPhee, the policeman?’

Katrina stared at him for a moment, saying nothing. Then she glanced at her watch. ‘Maybe I could see those sheep you’re worried about.’

Alistair McKinley shrugged and stood up. ‘This way then,’ he said. At the door he stopped and looked at her pointedly. ‘But look, lassie, I think you need to be realistic. It’s been days since the accident. I doubt that we’ll ever see Ewan McPhee again.’

The mists had rolled down from the tops of the Corlins making the ascent perilous. Yet the assassin was as
sure-footed
as a mountain goat. Or rather, he usually was. Having slept rough overnight he had eaten snails, a few worms and taken a goodly few drams of whisky from his flask. The combination had slightly numbed his senses and he was aware that he had taken one or two chances that he would not normally have taken. Even so, he shinned up the almost sheer
slope of the crag that levelled to a small shelf in a little less than half an hour. He pulled himself over the jutting overhang and after resting for a moment or two to get his breath he stood up and adjusted his rucksack. The mist swirled around him making it hard to see more than an outline of the upward crag, atop of which he knew rested the eyrie.

‘It’s illegal to steal golden eagle eggs you know,’ said the voice from out of the mist.

He started despite himself, his hand reaching over his shoulder for the rifle in its shoulder bag. Then he regained his composure, and he laughed. ‘It is also illegal to kill eagles, but I am going to.’

The figure came out of the mist. ‘No, you will not! You will restrict yourself to the tasks I give you. And there will be no more killing.’

He scowled angrily. ‘I take orders from no one.’

‘What did you do with the bodies anyway?’

‘I … disposed of them.’

He swung his rucksack off and delved inside, pulling out a small thermos flask. He tossed it over and watched with amusement as the other raised it and gently shook it. Their eyes locked, then, ‘Are they iced?’

‘Just as you said.’

He watched as the lid was unscrewed and some crushed ice was allowed to escape before a polythene bag fell out into the waiting hand. He half-expected a reaction upon seeing the gory contents, but there was none. Instead:

‘And what about the policeman?’

He sneered, ‘I already told you.’

‘You were lying.’

His eyes narrowed, then he bit his lip. ‘He got in the way.’

‘You fool!’

‘Never call me that!’ he snapped, swinging the rifle bag off his shoulder and undoing the press studs to withdraw the weapon. ‘I did what I had to do and that’s that. And maybe now I should be the one to give orders.’

They both heard the sound of flapping wings followed by the characteristic chirping noise that it made as it returned towards its nest.

The assassin screwed on the silencer on the barrel of his Steyr-Mannlicher rifle.

‘What did you do with—?’

‘With him?’ He laughed. ‘That’s my wee secret. Now get out of my way. I’ve got another job to do.’

‘I won’t let you this time.’

‘Don’t try to stop me.’ He put the rifle to his shoulder and squinted through the mist in the direction of the last screech. ‘Come to me, birdie!’ he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.

‘I said – no!’

‘Shut up!’ he hissed.

The mists swirled and he thought he saw a shape flit across the Leupold ’scope. He swung the weapon, squeezed the trigger and there was a popping as the report was muffled by the silencer. Looking up he scowled and took a step
backwards
towards the ledge to get a better view upwards.

He had no time to deflect the blow. He felt a thump on the side of his head, a searing pain in his face – and then he was falling backwards, the rifle slipping from his hands as he clawed futilely at space. His scream rang out and died upon the moment of impact on the rocks below.

The other stared down, only dimly conscious of the flap of retreating wings.

Megan Munro’s libido was always at its best in the early morning. As a self-styled neo-pagan, she believed that it was because she felt closest to the earth when her mother-earth force awakened and demanded satiation. Regardless of morning breath, overnight perspiration or flattened hair, the need was there, like a powerful itch. And the means of assuaging it was also there in the form of Nial Urquart her partner, always eager to please, and to be pleasured by her.

Afterwards they lay side by side, heart rates gradually recovering, thoughts turning from the carnal to the more mundane business of the day ahead. And as usual it was Megan who threw back the duvet and ran naked to the
bathroom
to brush teeth and perform ablutions before hitting the kitchen to make that first post-coital cup of tea.

Nial took a few sips then lay back dozing contentedly. Morning sex with Megan had been a revelation. It lifted him to heights of delirium then plummeted him into pleasant somnolence. She was like an enchantress, he mused, as he rolled over and burrowed further under the duvet. In many ways she liked to project a simple persona. She eschewed make-up, avoided alcohol, tobacco and drugs. She dressed simply and made no secret of her beliefs and opinions. She was vegetarian – on moral grounds – a former animal rights campaigner – as was he – and a paid up member of the Green Party. Yet in the bedroom, or any other room where
the fancy took her for that matter, she was primal passion itself. Yes, that was it, he thought, passion was the key to her personality. She was passionate in everything that she thought or did.

Animals seemed to come first with her, even more so than they did with himself. But especially those blasted hedgehogs of hers. He grinned through his semi-conscious haze as he pictured her now, buff naked, running through the dew, to check the runs of her ‘Mistress Prickleback Sanctuary’. The islanders all thought that she was a nutter of course, with her New Age ideas, her views on animal rights and her obsession with the West Uist hedgehog population. To him she was more than that. She was a wonderful, eccentric
nymphomaniac
that he was happy to live with – for now. As to whether he would want to spend the rest of his life with her, however, was another matter. But, as he inhaled the scent of her body on the bedding, he felt the stirring of a fresh erection. And because she was not physically there his mind spiralled off in another direction, conjuring up an image of that other woman whom he found so attractive. He grinned as he thought how wonderful it would be …

Megan’s scream broke through his reverie and he shot out of bed, stopping only long enough to pull on a pair of
underpants
. The kitchen door was open and through it he saw her slowly walking up the path, as naked as she was born, her face contorted in horror as she stared at her outstretched, bloodstained hands.

Her eyes slowly rose to meet his and she screamed again.

The Padre was busily stirring a porridge pot on the Aga while a couple of herrings in oatmeal sizzled in a pan when Torquil slinked into the kitchen in a towelling dressing-gown and bare feet.

He was a tall, dark-haired young man of twenty-eight, handsome in the opinion of many an island lass, albeit with a slightly hawk-like profile that he himself disliked. Despite his
exhaustion after all his recent travel, he had slept poorly, because his mind refused to stop thinking about Ewan McPhee, his friend as well as his constable. He had showered and shaved off his accumulated stubble, much to his uncle, the Padre’s approval.

‘That’s better, laddie,’ he said, lifting the porridge pot and taking it over to the table. ‘You look more like an inspector now and less like a tramp.’

Torquil grinned and ran the back of his hand over his freshly shaved chin. ‘And there was me toying with the idea of letting the beard grow.’ He took his seat and sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘I must say, I had dreams about having a good West Uist herring while I was away.’

‘Porridge first though, eh,’ said Lachlan, ladling out two bowls. He smiled at his nephew, then, ‘It is good to be having you home, laddie. I just wish it could be under happier circumstances.’

‘Like it was before we lost Ewan?’

The Padre nodded. ‘And before we lost Fiona.’

Torquil sighed. ‘It was losing Fiona that made me take time off. I thought I had it all sussed. That’s why I am thinking of leaving the force.’ He sprinkled a little salt on his porridge. ‘But I’ll have to put my plans on hold for a while. The Procurator Fiscal will need to be consulted, and a Fatal Accident Enquiry is likely.’

‘I keep hoping that we’ll find the lad’s body. There’s nothing worse than knowing somebody’s drowned, but not being able to pay your respects properly. I’ve been praying every day that we’ll find him washed up on some shore.’

Torquil shivered despite himself and reached for the previous day’s copy of the
West Uist Chronicle
that his uncle had been reading as he prepared the breakfast.

‘Calum Steele has written a fine piece about Ewan,’ Lachlan said. ‘He’s written a review of all of Ewan’s sporting
achievements
since he was a boy at the school. I doubt if his hammer record will ever be beaten.’

Torquil scanned the two-page article, then jabbed a
photograph
of a row of windmills. ‘Calum is taking up cudgels about windmills, I see. A regular Don Quixote, eh?’

The Padre raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Windmills indeed! Here on West Uist.’

‘But there has been talk of wind power in the Hebrides for years. Why are you against it, Lachlan?’

‘I’m not, in principle. I don’t much like the new laird of Dunshiffin though.’

‘That’s not like you. You usually give everyone the benefit of the doubt. What have you got against the man?

The Padre shook his head disdainfully. ‘He cheats at golf for one thing. You can tell a lot about someone’s character by the way they play golf.’

‘Ah, the hallowed game,’ Torquil said with a grin.

‘Aye, laddie, you may laugh, but it takes a lot—’ Then seeing his nephew’s grin growing wider he shook his head. ‘Suffice it to say that despite his cheating I took a fiver off him and put it straight into the “
Say No to Wind Farms Group
”’s kitty.’

Torquil finished his porridge and sat back. ‘So what exactly is the laird proposing?’

‘We don’t know precisely yet, beyond the fact that he’s already ordered the first one and is having it set up on Wind’s Eye, Gordon MacDonald’s croft on the Wee Kingdom. From what he said the other day I don’t think he’s planning to let anyone work the croft in the future.’

‘But I thought the crofters had a right to transfer their crofts to family or close friends if they had no offspring.’

‘That’s what everyone thought, but it doesn’t look to be the case. The laird has looked into it.’ Lachlan finished his own porridge then stood up and went over to the Aga where he had left the herrings at the side of the simmering plate. Transferring them to plates he returned to the table. ‘Och! And I don’t like the way he’s taken on the title of “laird.” He’s a puffed up Glaswegian—’

‘A Glaswegian what, Uncle?’

‘I don’t know exactly, Torquil. But I suspect that he’s a bully as well as a cheat. And I cannot abide a cheat.’ He sighed as he poured tea for them both. ‘The trouble is that I have seen his like before and I fear what may happen in the future. I am concerned about Rhona McIvor and the other crofters. I don’t like to take issue with the Good Book, but the fact is that the meek do not seem to inherit the earth. It is the bully-boys who do, and they are the ones who seem to know how to hang on to things.’ He started on his herring with gusto.

‘What is his background, Uncle?’

‘Bakery, I think. He calls himself an ice-cream and
confectionary
millionaire, but that’s a bit suspicious if you ask me. You know about the ice-cream wars in Glasgow back in the eighties? Well, he’s got a couple of heavies that he refers to as his boys with him.’

‘Sounds like I should check out his background.’

The Padre buttered an oatcake. It would do no harm to let him know that we have law here on West Uist.’

Torquil nodded. ‘Maybe I’ll take Ewan—’ He stopped,
realizing
that he had momentarily forgotten that he would never be able to take his friend Ewan McPhee, the big
hammer-throwing
champion, on official business again. He hit the side of his head with his fist and scowled. ‘Maybe I’ll take the Drummond lads with me.’

The Padre smiled sympathetically and nodded. ‘Aye, they are good lads and will not be intimidated by any number of Glasgow heavies.’ He sipped his tea then nodded reflectively. ‘So tell me, what were you planning to do if you left the force?’

Torquil leaned back and stretched his legs under the table. He nodded towards the open kitchen door where a half-stripped carburettor from one of their classic motor cycles could be seen leaking oil onto an old newspaper. The whole hallway was similarly littered with bike parts and repair
equipment. ‘Mend motor cycles maybe,’ he said with a grin. ‘Or perhaps something to do with music and the pipes. Teaching maybe, or even set up a business.’

‘A piping business here on West Uist? You would starve, laddie! There’s only really you and I who play the pipes on the island.’

Torquil grinned. ‘The internet, uncle. Technology has changed the world. If you set up a decent website and do your homework you can soon have customers all over the world. And You’d be surprised how many people are now interested in piping. The Tartan Army showed me that. People love the Scottish football fans and their pipers.’

‘But you’ve put the idea on the back burner? You’re not going to leave the force? Morag really needs you right now.’

Torquil stood up and stretched. ‘Aye, I’m staying put for now. But later on, who knows.’

Nial Urquart stared transfixed at the blood on Megan’s hands and at the way her jaw trembled as she shifted her attention from them to him. But no words came, instead she screamed again, startling him into motion. He ran to her and gingerly put an arm about her shoulders, but she shrugged him off, her eyes wide with horror.

‘It is awful, Nial!’ she exclaimed. ‘The body! It has been—’

She did not finish, but suddenly bent double and vomited.

Nial patted her back, feeling uncertain how he could best comfort her. Then as she continued to retch he decided that action was the best course. ‘I’ll take a look, Megan,’ he said. He ran down the path and passed the outhouses, beyond which were the hedgehog runs and the tiny sheds filled with straw that were used to house Megan’s prickly waifs and strays.

The body was lying in between two of the runs, covered in blood and with deep lacerations from which the vital fluid had oozed. It looked as if it had literally dropped from the sky. And indeed, looking at its position between the
runs, he assumed that must have been exactly what had happened.

He steeled himself and bent over the body of the dead hedgehog and pictured what had happened. He was sure that he had witnessed something similar the day before. The golden eagle swooping on the flock of fulmars, catching one, then dropping it and nonchalantly taking the next with barely a break in its flight. And now in his mind’s eye he saw the great bird swooping down from above, having spotted the hedgehog run. Grabbing one in its two-inch talons, rising a few feet, then dropping it and returning for the next
unfortunate
hedgehog that had not scurried to the safety of the small sheds, and flying off with it to the eyrie up in the Corlins. A natural killer, it wouldn’t have given a second’s thought to the exsanguinated hedgehog that it had left behind.

‘You’re a bit of a butterfingers, aren’t you!’ he mused with a grin.

He heard Megan behind him and instantly the grin on his face disappeared.

‘I … I thought it was still alive,’ she sobbed. ‘I picked it up—’ She looked down at her bloodstained hands, still held well away from her naked body. ‘They’re evil, Nial. They’re murderers. They enjoy killing.’

He was worried by the glazed stare in her eye. She was bordering on the hysterical. He stood to put himself between her and the sight of the dead hedgehog. ‘Come on, Megan, let’s get you into a bath then I’ll make you a good strong cup of chamomile tea.’

‘You’ll bury it, won’t you, Nial?’

He put an arm about her shoulder and shepherded her back to the cottage. ‘I’ll do it while you are having a bath,’ he assured her.

‘We have to get them, Nial. Kenneth McKinley was right. They’re vermin! Vermin!’

Vincent Gilfillan stood at the end of Rhona McIvor’s bed in the four-bedded unit of the Kyleshiffin cottage hospital. The fact that she was the only patient seemed oddly poignant, as if her health was particularly precarious. Tears threatened to form in the corners of his eyes as he looked down at the middle-aged woman who meant more to him than his own mother. This is all wrong, he thought. It shouldn’t be happening this way. Not to Rhona. Although she was twenty years older than him he loved her dearly.

He shuddered as he looked at the wavy green trace on the oscilloscope of the heart monitor, at the wires attached to her chest and the intravenous line that ran into the back of her heavily bandaged left wrist. There seemed to be flowers, fruit and Get-Well cards everywhere. He looked at his own modest collection of freesias and let out a disdainful puff of air through tight lips. It was enough to wake the dozing Rhona. She turned her head and saw him, her eyes
momentarily
opening wide in alarm. It was not the sort of reaction that he was used to from Rhona. She reached for her
spectacles
on the cabinet and put them on. Then, recognizing him, ‘Vincent,’ she said dreamily, almost with relief as if she had woken from a troubled sleep. She held out a hand to him. ‘You startled me.’

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Rhona, I’m sorry,’ he mumbled apologetically. ‘I heard as soon as I came off the ferry. I should have been here.’