Deathly Wind (5 page)

‘For why, Vincent?’ she said with a smile. She reached up and stroked his wiry black beard that had recently begun to display a peppering of silver hairs. ‘Would you have stopped this old ticker of mine from having a heart attack?’

He shrugged awkwardly, indicating a particularly large bouquet of red roses that dominated the display. ‘It looks like someone has sent the contents of Betty Hanson’s florist shop.’

Rhona pushed herself up against the bank of pillows and harrumphed. ‘They’re from the new laird, Mr fine and dandy
Jock McArdle. A peace offering, I think. Did you hear what happened?’

Vincent sat down on the side of the bed and handed her his Get-Well card. ‘I saw Morag Driscoll, the sergeant, on Harbour Street. She told me about his plan to put up
windmills
on Gordon MacDonald’s croft.’

‘And I told him it would be over my dead body,’ Rhona said, with shake of her head as she opened the card and smiled at the picture of an old goat in bed. She perched it on the bedside cabinet alongside the others. ‘And then one of his toadies sniggered and I saw red. I was about to give him a good skelp on the side of his head – and then I ended up in here.’

Vincent’s jaw muscles tightened. ‘I think I’ll be having a word with this lad then. He sounds as if he needs teaching a lesson.’

Rhona noticed the way his fist opened and closed. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Vincent. I can fight my own battles and I’ll not have you getting into trouble with the likes of him. It’s not your battle.’

‘It sounds as if it is a battle for all of us on the Wee Kingdom, Rhona. What have the others said about it?’

Rhona pouted. ‘Nial Urquart was round yesterday and he said that Megan was upset, of course. And they’ve had a bee in their bonnet about the wind farm threat anyway for a while. This has just sort of focused everything a bit.’ She bit her lip. ‘God, I could murder a cigarette!’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘You couldn’t sneak in a pack for me could you, Vincent?’

‘More than my life is worth, Rhona. And it is time you were stopping anyway.’

‘Ach! It’s too late for me now.’ She made to fold her arms, but being unable to do so because of the heavily bound wrist with its drip-line she swore volubly.

‘I am seeing that you cannot be too ill then,’ came Alistair McKinley’s voice from the end of the unit. He came forward, nodded to Vincent and bent to kiss Rhona on the cheek. ‘That
was some fleg you gave us yesterday, Rhona. You’ll not be planning another I am hoping.’

Rhona scowled, then looked worried. ‘Will you manage my goats?’

‘Everything is taken care of,’ said Alistair. ‘All the animals are fed, the crops are doing well and the weaving will get done as and when we’ve time.’

Rhona gave a smile of resignation. ‘Of course, like always, the Wee Kingdom folk will pull together.’

Vincent put a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. ‘Will you point out the young fool that caused all this to me?’

‘Vincent!’ Rhona exclaimed. ‘I’ve told you already.’

‘Of course I will, Vincent,’ Alistair McKinley said, ignoring Rhona’s look of exasperation for a moment. ‘But I am thinking that you might need to stand in line if you are contemplating violence. Young Kenneth went off in one of his huffs and you know what a temper he has. He didn’t come home last night. He does that when he’s working himself up about something. And he’s been doing that a lot lately.’ He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the floor for a few moments, as if deep in his own thoughts. Then he added, ‘And as for that mad woman—’

‘Alistair! I’ve told you before about calling Megan Munro names! We have to be united in the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Ach, well, she is mad,’ replied Alistair. ‘Her and her hedgehogs. I don’t know what she gets up to sometimes, but I heard her screaming away this morning. Her man dropped another of those flyers of his on my doormat, but didn’t stop long enough to talk to me. No manners!’

‘What flyer was this, Alistair?’ Vincent asked.

‘This meeting he’s been on about for a while. The
anti-windmill
thing this afternoon. I suppose under the circumstances we should be there, don’t you?’

Rhona sat forward. ‘Of course the pair of you should go and represent our interests. But don’t do anything silly. No violence, or any of that nonsense.’

Vincent smiled and clicked his tongue. ‘This coming from the woman who was going to give that lad a “good skelp” herself!’

No one on the island of West Uist had ever known Jesmond’s first name. He was not a local man, but had come to the island to serve Fergus MacLeod as a footman in the 1950s when he was about sixteen. The household at Dunshiffin Castle had been trimmed right back with the last laird, Angus MacLeod, but Jesmond had worked loyally for his master and had come to be associated with the very fabric of the building. Indeed, when Jock McArdle, the new owner, had purchased the estate he found to his delight that he had also retained the services of a butler.

The elderly retainer seemed to have all the qualities one could have wished for in a butler. He was old, lean as a rake and so straight that he could well have had such an
instrument
thrust up the back of his ever present white jacket. He had a slightly bulbous nose speckled at the sides with tiny red veins, suggestive of a partiality for the castle brandy, and a comb-over that perpetually threatened to fall back whenever he bowed. And the deferential bow was something that he had down to a fine art. He did it perfectly to his master (and that meant to his new master), but with just a tinge of disdain to those he felt disdainful of. All in all, Jock McArdle couldn’t have been happier with him.

But the feeling was not reciprocated by Jesmond. He had been a loyal butler to the MacLeods for fifty years. And in his book, being loyal to the laird meant being loyal to the
estate and all that the estate represented. He did not like the new laird’s two heavies from Glasgow. He did not
particularly
like the new laird himself, whom he thought to be boorish and bullying. He did not approve of the laird’s plans for the development of the estate, such as he had
overheard
while serving dinner or port to him and the two heavies whom he seemed to dote on as if they were his own sons. But more than any of that, he did not approve of Jock McArdle’s two pet Rottweilers. Nasty-tempered buggers, he thought them, leaving hairs all over the place, skidding on the polished floors and barking whenever a fly landed. His nerves were shot to pieces, but he judged that it was too soon in the relationship with the new laird to protest about them.

He came into the billiard-room where the laird was playing snooker with Liam Sartori and Danny Reid. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and he eyed with disdain Liam Sartori’s habit of leaving a cigarette end balanced on the edge of the billiard table while he took a shot.

Dallas and Tulsa, the two Rottweilers, lay sprawled on the mat in the window bay, both growling menacingly at his entry.

‘This note was dropped through the letterbox, Mr McArdle,’ he said, executing his bow and proffering the
envelope
on his little silver salver.

Jock McArdle picked it up and tore the envelope open. As he read it his eyes widened and anger lines appeared between his eyebrows. ‘Did you see who left this?’ he demanded.

Jesmond had moved a crystal ashtray from the side table onto the edge of the billiard table, beside Liam Sartori’s
cigarette
end. ‘No, sir, it was lying on the mat. But as you can see, it was hand-delivered rather than mail-delivered.’

‘What’s it say, boss?’ Liam asked.

In answer, Jock McArdle tossed the single sheet of paper down on the table for them to see. Upon it, with words cut out of a newspaper was the message:

Liam laughed his strange laugh. Is that someone trying to frighten you, boss? That’s a good one that is. That’s original.’

‘Shut it, Liam!’ snapped Danny Reid, indicating Jesmond with a slight motion of his eyes.

‘Should I call the police, Mr McArdle?’ Jesmond asked.

‘Now, pal,’ replied the laird. ‘I don’t think we need bother anyone about this. See, it’ll just be kids playing a joke. Don’t worry about it.’ He patted Jesmond’s arm and picked up a Moroccan leather cigar case and tapped out a Montecristo Corona cigar. He clipped the end and winked at the butler. ‘We’ll be OK, pal. Thanks.’

When Jesmond left, Danny Reid asked, ‘What do you really think, boss? Is somebody playing silly buggers?’

Jock McArdle struck a light and puffed the cigar into life, ‘They’d better bloody not be, lad. These island yokels don’t know what trouble really is.’ He glanced at his Rolex watch. ‘See, it’s almost time for that windmill meeting. You two had better get there in order to … represent my interests.’

Liam Sartori laid down his cue and picked up his cigarette. He took a deep inhalation on it and smiled at his employer. ‘We’ll do you proud, boss.’

‘You do that. As for me, I’m going to take the girls for a walk.’

The Duncan Institute was packed and the meeting was in full swing when Torquil arrived. The Padre had suggested that it would be a good idea for him to be there to get a flavour of the strength of local opinion about the wind farm issue.

Nial Urquart and Megan Munro were sitting behind a long table on the dais, together with Miss Bella Melville, the local retired schoolmistress who had educated most of the local people on West Uist between the ages of twenty and fifty. She
was a sprightly looking seventy-something woman dressed in tweeds and a rust-coloured shawl. A tubby fellow of Torquil’s age with a double chin and lank hair, wearing a yellow anorak was standing in the front row of the audience addressing a question to the
Say No to Wind Farms
committee. In his hands he held an A5 spiral notebook with a pencil poised above it.

‘As you are all aware,’ he said, ‘the
West Uist Chronicle
has been running a series of articles on the pros and cons of wind energy for the last month. The SNWF committee say that windmills are injurious to wildlife, but could you give us any evidence that this will be a problem on West Uist?’

Torquil grinned. Calum Steele, the editor-in-chief, and in fact the only reporter on the
West Uist Chronicle,
was one of his oldest friends. They had been classmates together and both shared a healthy respect for Miss Bella Melville. As Torquil anticipated, their old teacher came out on the attack.

‘Calum Steele, you are fishing for a quote. You were always a nosy boy at school. That’s why I told you to become a
journalist
—’

Calum swallowed hard and two red patches began to form on his cheeks as general laughter went round the hall.

‘— and you already know about the damage that windmills do to bird populations. I sent you a paper about the European experience, which you quoted in an article last week.’ She glowered at him, daring him to refute her statement. ‘You know and I know that it will be just the same here on West Uist if these things are allowed to be erected.’

Calum raised his hand again. ‘Yes, but – er – how do you know it will be the same?’

Miss Melville sighed and shook her head in exasperation. ‘Nial, will you illuminate the
Chronicle
editor?’

Nial Urquart stood up and grinned. ‘Absolutely, Miss Melville. The problem relates to location. If wind farms are based near the coast then there is a significant danger to seabirds. And, of course, on West Uist we have an incredibly diverse seabird population. As the local Scottish Bird
Protection Officer I have been surveying the coastal birds for the better part of a year. We have fulmars, puffins, shags, oystercatchers—’

Calum Steele raised a hand. ‘Excuse me for interrupting, but these are all common birds, are they not? What about our other birds, the protected species? The golden eagles, for example?’

Nial suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘They would be at risk too. They are master predators and will take any food they can. If they were hunting near windmills they might be in danger of flying into the arms.’

‘A good riddance, too!’ exclaimed Alistair McKinley. ‘They take young sheep.’

Nial smiled humorously. ‘That is a myth, Alistair.’

‘They kill hedgehogs!’ Megan Munro piped up. ‘And you know that, Nial. They are vermin! Vermin!’

‘Ach! Not the hedgehog thing again!’ exclaimed Alistair McKinley. ‘Now they are real vermin and we’ll soon be taking care of them.’

Megan Munro shot to her feet. ‘They are not vermin. They are God’s own creatures and you will not touch one of my hedgehogs.’

Nial held a hand out to appeal to Megan for calm, but she shrugged him off angrily.

‘I’ll not touch your wee hedgehog farm, don’t worry, lassie,’ returned Alistair McKinley, ‘but I make no promises for all the other hedgehogs I find on the island.’

‘It is not a farm, it’s a sanctuary,’ Megan snapped, and slumped petulantly back into her seat.

A background murmur of merriment ran round the hall and Calum Steele gleefully made notes. It was just the sort of heated exchange that he had been looking for. Indeed, despite his fear of Miss Melville, he had been machinating for such a reaction. Bella Melville eyed him with displeasure, but he just kept his head down and continued jotting.

Vincent Gilfillan stood up. ‘Are we not getting a bit off the
track here? Let’s be honest. The issue is about a wind farm being set up on the Wee Kingdom, is it not?’

Torquil noticed the two men who had been sitting on the back row, from time to time guffawing and mumbling to each other. Their faces had become serious as Vincent started to talk.

‘What does this new laird plan? Do we know if he’s got a significant wind farm plan in mind?’

Liam Sartori swiftly stamped to his feet. ‘Mr McArdle, the new laird, is not prepared to comment on that.’

‘And would you mind introducing yourself?’ Miss Melville asked. ‘Do you represent the laird?’

Liam Sartori grinned. ‘I am in his employ. Sartori is the name. And yes, I represent his interests at this meeting, as does my colleague here, Mr Daniel Reid.’

‘And can you enlighten us?’

Liam Sartori grinned and shook his head. ‘No comment, that’s all we are permitted to say.’

‘Except,’ added Danny Read, ‘that Mr McArdle is a staunch believer in renewable energy. Surely that’s a good thing in this day and age.’

The comment evoked a mixed reaction from the audience. Indeed it became obvious after a few moments that there was about a fifty-fifty balance, many people being in favour of anything that might increase the number of jobs and pump money into the island.

‘We want to be the first!’ yelled a young man in the middle of the hall.

‘That’s right; we need to get in before they build one on Lewis.’

Torquil looked over the audience and saw Alistair McKinley mumble something to Vincent Gilfillan, and gesture with a nod of his head towards Liam Sartori. Then he saw Calum Steele raise a hand and take to his feet again.

‘It seems that there are a lot of islanders who would welcome wind energy?’

The number of nodding heads and a chorus of assent left no doubt but that the audience was not as anti-wind farm as the SNWD committee had anticipated. It was immediately followed by a chorus of anti-windmill comments, then by a general murmur of disagreement, which prompted Miss Melville to take to her feet and try to subdue it. As she did so Torquil stood aside as Liam Sartori and Danny Reid edged their way out of the hall with amused expressions on their faces. He looked over at his friend Calum Steele, who was scribbling away as if there was no tomorrow, clearly enjoying the mêlée.

He was unsure himself exactly how he felt.

From the meeting Torquil went to pay a visit to Jessie McPhee, Ewan’s mother. A typical West Uist mist had descended suddenly from the Corlins, and its presence was enough to dampen his spirits. He smiled wistfully as he rode up to the shed at the back of the McPhee cottage. There were at least five holes in the shed roof, a result of Ewan’s
hammer-throwing
practice. Torquil pictured the big red-haired constable winding himself up and hurling the Scottish hammer over the roof as he worked on getting the trajectory just right to get maximum distance. Getting round to repairing his ‘low shots’ had been a frequent bone of contention between Ewan and his mother.

‘He was a strapping lad,’ Jessie said, with tears in her eyes and a cup and saucer in her hand, as she and Torquil sat before a peat fire in the front parlour.

‘We must not give up hope, Jessie.’

Torquil had known and respected Jessie McPhee all of his life. She had been widowed when Ewan was a teenager. Her husband, Balloch McPhee had been a fisherman, like so many of the islanders of his generation. And in his spare time he had been a special constable, one of the stalwarts of the Hebridean Constabulary.

‘You were always a good friend to Ewan, Torquil,’ Jessie
replied, finishing her tea and laying the cup and saucer down on the basketwork tray on the coffee table. She sighed. ‘But who are we trying to kid? First it was Balloch and now it is Ewan. Both drowned. It is something we islanders have to live with. You yourself lost your parents to the sea, and I am not the first West Uist woman to lose her menfolk, and I doubt if I will be the last. I just hope that his body will wash up on the shore someplace and then we can lay him to rest properly.’

Half an hour later as he rode his Royal Enfield Bullet along the snaking headland road, scattering countless gulls from the dunes, he had to agree with Jessie McPhee’s pronouncement. He slowed up as the mist suddenly became thicker and he flicked on his full headbeam.

He just could not get his head round the loss of Ewan. He was so big, so strong and robust. He was not looking forward to the inevitable Fatal Accident Enquiry on his friend and colleague.

‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed, as he slowed and swung the Bullet off the road and through thick bracken onto a thin track through the heather towards the Corlins. It was a shortcut that he often took on his way back to the manse.

He heard a cacophony of dog barking ahead of him and a moment later the Bullet’s headlamp beam caught the eyes of first one then two dogs advancing towards him through the mist. He slowed down as he saw a figure appear behind the dogs, frantically waving to him.

‘Heel, Willie! Heel, Angus!’

Torquil immediately recognized the two West Highland terriers and their elderly owner, Annie McConville. The old woman’s eyes were wide with alarm and she looked shocked.