Deathly Wind (7 page)

Lachlan laid his pipe in an ashtray and put a hand on the crofter’s arm. ‘Alistair, I know you are hurting right now, which is only natural. But it would be best to deal with it
naturally
. Drinking will only make the hurt worse.’

Alistair did not bother with water this time. He drained his glass and immediately signalled for another. ‘I’ll find my own way home, Padre. And right now, the only person that needs to worry about me drinking isn’t you – it’s that bloody laird!’

One of the things that Torquil had not missed while he had been away was the twice weekly telephone call he was obliged to make to his superior officer, Superintendent Kenneth Lumsden.

‘Time to phone the headmaster,’ he said to Sergeant Morag Driscoll when he arrived back at the converted bungalow on Kirk Wynd, which served as the Kyleshiffin police station.

Morag had been engrossed with paperwork at the front desk. ‘Rather you than me, boss,’ she replied, laying her pen down and jumping down from her high stool to lift the counter flap. ‘Would you like a wee fortifying cup of tea to set you up?’

Torquil sighed and shook his head. ‘I’ve gone off tea for now,’ he shrugged his shoulders dejectedly. ‘I’m sorry, Morag.’

Morag nodded, her own face dropping. They were both thinking of the big constable, Ewan McPhee and his ever-
willingness
to make tea. ‘That’s OK, boss. I guess it wouldn’t taste the same without being stewed!’

Despite themselves they both grinned at the reference to Ewan’s ineptitude at brewing tea.

‘Do you think there’s still a chance, Torquil?’

He bit his thumb. ‘Of finding him alive?’ He gave a slight shake of the head. ‘I can’t see it, Morag. But I hope to God we can find his body, for Jessie’s sake. I’m going to go out in the
Seaspray
first thing in the morning. Are the Drummond twins going to be about?’

‘Aye. They said they’d be in to see you at nine-thirty. They’ve been a couple of stars while you’ve been away, but they still have to make their living.’

‘Thank heaven for our special constables,’ agreed Torquil. And he went into his office and dialled Superintendent Lumsden.

To say that there was a personality clash between Torquil and his superior officer would be an understatement, for they had clashed horns on several occasions, and on one it had even resulted in Torquil being suspended from duty for a short spell. The superintendent hailed from the lowlands of Scotland and seemed to loathe and despise the Hebridean way of life. He was a big man with a ruddy face, a walrus moustache and a chin that could have been carved out of wood. He was a widower and had only applied for the post with the Hebridean Constabulary because his only daughter had married a teacher on Benbecula and he had wanted to be close to her. A police officer of the rules and regulations variety, he had never found it easy to deal with the more laid back approach to life of the islanders. Although he lived on Benbecula and worked between offices on North and South Uist, his jurisdiction ran throughout the whole of the Outer Hebrides. The running of the West Uist division of the Hebridean Constabulary particularly incensed him. Although it only consisted of an inspector, a sergeant, a constable and two special constables, he considered it shambolic to the point of chaos. He disliked the disregard for uniform, schedules and rank. For this he seemed to hold Torquil McKinnon personally responsible. He felt that twenty-eight was too young to achieve the rank of inspector, he himself having had to wait until he was in his mid-thirties.

‘I had been expecting your call yesterday, McKinnon,’ his voice boomed down the phone as soon as Torquil was put through to him.

‘I have been catching up, Superintendent Lumsden. Would you—’

‘What’s the latest on McPhee?’

Torquil bristled. Somehow to have his friend referred to by his surname, as if they were discussing a local crook, rankled. Part of him felt he should remonstrate, but he choked back the feeling and replied calmly.

‘He is still missing, sir. I am going out to look around the island myself first thing in the morning.’

There was a moment’s silence, then a soft creaking noise from the other end of the phone. Torquil imagined the beefy superintendent shaking his head disdainfully, his stiff collar producing the creaking.

‘Do what you have to do, McKinnon. But bear in mind it is five days now since he went missing. He is bound to be dead.’

‘I know that, sir. I just want to find his body. He is – was, my friend. I’ll be going out with the Drummonds.’

At the mention of the Drummond name Torquil imagined that he heard the same neck-creaking noise. Then, ‘If there is no news by tomorrow, I feel that a first report to the Procurator Fiscal should be made. It looks as though there will have to be a Fatal Accident Enquiry.’ There was a sigh. ‘It would be better if we had a body, though.’

Torquil’s hackles rose again, but he suppressed his ire. ‘Talking about a Fatal Accident Enquiry, Superintendent, I have to report that there has been another death. A climbing accident, I think. We found a body at the foot of a cliff at the base of the Corlins.’ He declined to mention that Ralph McLelland, Morag and himself all had reservations about the death.

‘Damn it, McKinnon. Are you some sort of jinx! You go away for a holiday then all hell breaks loose, people fall in the sea and go missing, or fall off cliffs.’

Torquil was about to reply, when his superior snapped, ‘Fax me a full report by the end of the day.’

The line went dead and Torquil found himself staring at the receiver held in his white-knuckled fist. ‘Thank you for your usual support, Superintendent Lumsden,’ he said.

Wallace and Douglas Drummond, the two West Uist Police special constables were only fifteen minutes late, which was actually pretty reasonable for them. They had been out fishing from the early hours and were still dressed in their yellow oilskins and smelled strongly of fish with just a hint of tobacco. They were drinking tea from thick mugs and chatting with Morag when Torquil came out of his office. They both shuffled awkwardly and shook hands with their inspector, whom they had known since their childhood.

‘It is a sad business, Piper,’ said Douglas.

‘And it will never be the same without Ewan,’ agreed Wallace. There was a tear in his eye and a rueful smile on his lips as he held up his mug. ‘He liked a strong cup of tea.’

Torquil nodded. Although six foot tall himself, he had always felt small in comparison with Ewan, the Western Isles champion hammer-thrower, and the two Drummond twins, who towered over him.

They were like peas in a pod, both about six foot five inches in height, without their bobble hats, and with lithe, strong bodies that had seen much toil on the seas and fought many a battle with the elements. Although both were fond of Heather Ale, which was well known across the island, their liking for marijuana was known only to the cognoscenti. As a member of that order, as well as being their superior officer, Torquil turned a blind eye. As long as they were discrete and did not
allow it to interfere with their duties he thought it not unreasonable to take a liberal view about it.

‘Well, we’d better be going,’ Torquil said, pulling on his waterproof jacket. ‘Wish us luck, Morag.’

Five minutes later the
Seaspray
catamaran coasted out of Kyleshiffin’s crescent-shaped harbour, which was replete with small fishing vessels, yachts and cruisers, as it usually was in the summer months. Then when they hit open water Wallace opened her up and they scudded across the waves as they headed north to do a circuit around the island.

It was a hazy day with patches of mist. As they cut a swathe through the water parallel to the stacks and skerries of the coast they attracted a following of gulls. Eventually, when they sensed that there would be no food forthcoming from the
Seaspray
they dispersed and rejoined the swarms of birds that seemed to eternally circle the great basalt columns. It took about twenty minutes to round the northern tip of the island, during which time Torquil had been scanning the shores with binoculars for any signs of a body. As they coasted down the west coast towards the curious star-shaped peninsula of the Wee Kingdom the songs of the fulmar and gannets rose above the winds as adult birds zigzagged back and forth to countless nests in the cracks and hollows of the steep sea cliffs.

Torquil scanned the rocks and sea caves on the shoreline. ‘It would be on these rocks that a body would most likely be swept up,’ he said aloud to the twins.

‘And thank God he hasn’t been,’ replied Wallace. ‘It would be awful to find his body churned and hacked up on those rocks.’

They skirted the three great basalt stacks, each a virtual islet, atop the last of which was the ruins of the old West Uist lighthouse and the derelict shell of the keeper’s cottage. Then they rounded the south-west shore with the machair stretching to the lush undulating hills and gullies, beyond which was the small central Loch Linne. On the hills above
the McKinley croft they saw the black-coated Soay sheep that old Alistair McKinley was so proud of.

As the
Seaspray
headed south, passing the oyster beds and the little jetty alongside which the crofters’ boats were moored, Douglas pointed towards the Wind’s Eye croft where a large container lorry was parked beside the old thatched cottage. A tall metal tower had been newly erected and a couple of figures could be seen working on scaffolding around it.

‘Well bloody hell! There’s the first of those monstrosities on old Gordon MacDonald’s croft. They haven’t wasted much time.’

Wallace whistled. ‘Just two men, as well. I must say though that I thought those windmills would be taller than that. It only looks to be about thirty or forty feet high.’

‘It may just be an experimental one,’ said Torquil. ‘I guess they will have to put up all sorts of wind-measuring
anemometers
and things before they put up permanent structures.’

‘Well I don’t like it,’ Douglas said gloomily. ‘And nor would Ewan. When we last had a pint of Heather Ale he was having a real go about them.’

And at mention of the big PC they brought their minds back to the task in hand. Torquil shaded his eyes and peered seawards, towards the distant Cruadalach isles, an
archipelago
of about a dozen machair and gorse-covered islets.

‘We’ll go and check out the Cruadalachs now,’ he said. ‘It was beyond there that you found the
Seaspray
drifting wasn’t it?’

‘It was, Torquil,’ replied Douglas. ‘But we checked them out already.’

‘And the helicopters went over them, too,’ agreed Wallace.

‘I know, I read the reports. But I want to see for myself. And when we’ve done that we’ll come back and do a full sweep round the east of the island.’

Wallace swung the
Seaspray
round and they headed off towards the mist-swathed Cruadalach isles.

‘Why do you think he was out this far?’ Torquil asked, ten minutes later as they approached the first of the islets.

The twins exchanged troubled looks, then Wallace bit his lip. ‘We think it was because he was in love.’

‘In love?’ Torquil queried. ‘That happened fast, didn’t it? I haven’t been away from the island all that long.’

‘Aye, Piper,’ said Douglas. ‘Fair besotted was Ewan. With Katrina Tulloch, the vet.’ He made an apologetic clicking noise with his lips. ‘He was careful not to say anything to you about it, especially after you and Fiona, and everything.’

Torquil waved his hand dismissively. His own tragedy was something that he wanted to forget. ‘And was she in love with him, too?’

‘They were pretty close, Piper. But we think Ewan was keener than her. And he was beginning to think that he had a rival.’

‘Who?’

‘We only think it, Piper; we’ve nothing in the way of proof. But Kenneth McKinley was very keen on her.’

‘But she must have been six or seven years older than him?’

‘Aye, but what does age matter? Hormones and love, and all that,’ Douglas commented sagely.

Torquil shook his head and raised his binoculars as Wallace cut their speed and they coasted around the little islets. Then he picked up the microphone and clicked on the loudhailer. ‘This is the West Uist Police,’ his voice boomed out through the mist. ‘Is there anyone on the island?’

There was silence except for the motor of the
Seaspray
and the wind.

‘Are you expecting anyone to be here, Piper?’ Wallace asked.

Torquil shook his head. ‘No. But there’s something odd about the atmosphere of the place, don’t you think’? I think there’s something wrong.’

The twins looked at him blankly. ‘Like what?’

‘There is the smell of death in the air,’ Torquil replied softly.

Wallace sighed. ‘If you are after trying to freak us out, Piper McKinnon, you are succeeding.’

Torquil smiled at his friend. ‘I’m sorry, lads, but does it not just strike you as odd that there is no sign of life here?’ He raised his eyes to the sky. ‘No gulls. No seals.’

‘Bloody hell, Wallace!’ Douglas exclaimed. ‘He’s right. And there should be, there is rich fishing round here, as we well know.’

‘Come on then,’ said Torquil pointing towards the nearest isle. ‘Let’s take a look at them one by one.’

It took them the better part of an hour to land and have a look at all of the Cruadalach isles. And it was not until they landed on the last one, a long undulating beach and machair islet with tall, coarse marram grass and yellow-blossomed gorse bushes, that they heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Ewan’s body isn’t here, thank God,’ said Wallace.

‘But someone has been here,’ Torquil announced, after a few moments study of the beach. He pointed to a piece of driftwood that lay some feet away. ‘Look at the pattern of sand on it. It looks as if it was used as a kind of rake, maybe to eradicate footsteps.’ And, as the twins watched him, he crouched down and started examining the machair.

‘Bird watchers, do you think?’ Wallace suggested.

Torquil seemed to be on some sort of a trail, slowly working up the beach onto the machair. Finally, he disappeared behind a large clump of tall marram grass.

‘Or maybe not just wanting to watch birds!’ Torquil said, rising to his feet and coming out of the grass holding his cupped hand out. ‘Maybe whoever it was had killing them in mind. Look at this. An empty cartridge.’

The twins joined him and Douglas prodded the cartridge with a finger. ‘That’s a .308. That’s more firepower than you need to pot a few gulls. That’d be enough to kill—’

His face suddenly drained of colour and he looked aghast at his inspector.

‘Torquil, you don’t think—?’

But Torquil didn’t say anything for a moment. He was busy studying the cartridge. ‘I don’t know what to think yet,’ he said at last. ‘Except that maybe we had better check all the firearm licence holders on the island. Kenneth McKinley had a live .308 lying beside his body.’ He took out a small plastic bag from a pocket and dropped the cartridge case inside.

‘Come on then, we need to get back.’

Neither of the twins thought that a bad idea.

The Padre had played four holes before propping his bag in the porch of St Ninian’s Church, which bounded the green of the hole called
Creideamh
, meaning ‘Faith’. On the other side of the green was the cemetery, where his brother and sister-in-law, Torquil’s parents, were buried. It had been his intention to go into the church to pray, but a thought struck him and he turned and strode over the green, filling his pipe on the way. He struck a light to the bowl and let himself through the wrought-iron gate into the graveyard.

‘Well, Brother,’ he said, a few moments later as he stood over his brother’s grave. ‘A lot has been happening here lately.’ He took his pipe from his mouth and stared at the bowl. ‘But I suppose you know all that already. I just wish you could give us a hand and find Ewan’s body. Torquil is fairly chewing himself up over it.’ He leaned forward and ran a hand over the smooth marble face. ‘You would have been proud of him, you know. He’s made a fine officer – Inspector McKinnon, the youngest inspector in the west of Scotland.’ He grinned to himself. ‘But his friends all call him Piper – because he’s the champion piper of the isles now. In fact—’

He was interrupted in his reverie when he heard a noise from the road on the far side of the cemetery and looked round.

Jessie McPhee was dismounting from an ancient bicycle.

‘I am glad to catch you, Padre,’ she said, letting herself in by the little iron gate, a bunch of pink carnations in her hand.
‘I am just coming to tidy Balloch’s grave and lay a few flowers. I hoped that he’d – you know, look out for Ewan.’

Lachlan put his arm about her shoulders. ‘I was going into the Kirk, Jessie. Would you care to come with me? We can say a prayer together if you like.’

Jessie nodded with a sad smile. ‘That would be good, right enough. But another part of the reason I hoped that I’d see you was so that you could give Torquil this.’ And she held up a small black book. ‘Ewan was no great writer, but lately he’d taken to jotting things down at night. I think he was in love. I’ve not read it myself, I didn’t think it was right. But maybe Torquil as his friend and Inspector could. I only thought about it after he had gone yesterday.’

The Kyleshiffin market was in full swing as the
Seaspray
cruised into its mooring. Holidaymakers and locals were milling around the market stalls that were clustered along the harbour wall, or bobbing in and out of the half moon of
multicoloured
shops that gave Kyleshiffin a strange sort kasbah atmosphere. Calum Steele was sitting on the harbour wall, eating a mutton pie, obviously waiting for them.

‘
Latha math
! Good morning,’ he called in both Gaelic and English as Torquil hopped off the
Seaspray
while the Drummonds tied her up. He wiped a trickle of grease from the first of his two chins and raised his eyebrows hopefully. ‘Any news, Piper?

‘Nothing, Calum,’ Torquil replied with practised
guardedness
. Although they were old friends, everyone on the island knew that Calum Steele took his role as a newspaperman very seriously. He saw himself as a man of letters, an investigative journalist with a duty to keep the good folk of West Uist up to date with the news. He virtually produced the daily
West Uist Chronicle
by himself, which was how he liked it because it meant that he had no one to please except himself. And although most of the time the paper consisted mainly of local gossip,
advertising
and exchange and barter columns, yet it managed enough
of a circulation to keep a roof over Calum’s head and enough in his expense account for Heather Ale and petrol for his Lambretta scooter. The truth was that the islanders liked local gossip as much as anyone else, and Calum Steele was an avid peddler of it. Consequently, everyone was wary of him,
especially
if they might end up in the
Chronicle
the next day.

‘Is that the truth, Piper, or is it the official response?’

Torquil raised his eyebrows and touched his own chin. Calum reflexively wiped another errant trickle of pie grease from his face and then rolled the paper bag that he had been using to collect pastry crumbs between his palms.

‘I am hoping that you are not thinking of littering, Calum Steele,’ Wallace Drummond jibed as he jumped down onto the harbour.

‘It is an offence, you know,’ agreed Douglas, joining him. ‘You don’t want to be committing an offence in front of
officers
of the law.’

Calum spluttered. ‘Officers of the law! You two are a couple of fishing teuchters. I’ve a good mind to write something up in the
Chronicle
about harassment of the press.’