Flotsam and Jetsam (15 page)

Torquil tied Crusoe to the drain pipe then unlocked the front door with the key found among Dr Dent’s possessions. He patted the dog then stood and turned to the others.

‘Did Ralph say anything else when you phoned him?’ he asked Morag.

‘Just to take water specimens from this tank that the boys saw and any other possible places where he could have been drowned.’

‘In that case, don’t forget the garden pond there,’ suggested Wallace.

Torquil pushed the door open and gingerly stepped inside, carefully examining the floor for any signs of anything unusual.

‘There are scuff marks on the carpet,’ he pointed out. ‘Take care as you come in, folks, and walk round them. Morag you’d better photograph them.’

‘I have all the forensic gear with me, boss. I’ll start taking
shots as soon as you say so.’

Torquil nodded and went into the front room that had indeed been decked out as a laboratory. In an umbrella stand were a series of sticks, canes and the broken gossamer insect net that he himself remembered Dr Dent complaining about.

‘Someone has been in here, right enough. They’ve been through his books,’ said Torquil. Then he pointed towards a desk that was littered with papers, journals and print-outs. ‘And it looks as if his paperwork has had a bit of a going through. The question is, was it before or after he was murdered?’

‘I don’t like the atmosphere in this room,’ Douglas said with a shiver. ‘It has an evil feel to it.’

‘And it sounds as if there is running water somewhere,’ added Wallace.

Torquil crossed to the tank and bent to take a closer look at it.

‘Well, this is the sound of running water. There’s a pump that is keeping water flowing. Look there is one pipe coming in and presumably one flowing out. What on earth can this be here for?’

‘Something to do with his midge studies?’ Morag suggested.

‘Maybe,’ Torquil replied and followed the pipes out of a far door that led into a hall.

‘Right enough,’ he said a moment later. ‘There is a pump here from the bath and back again. The bath is full. We’d better have specimens from both the bath and the tank, Morag. Make sure you label clearly which is which.’

‘What do you think, boss?’ Morag asked.

‘I think this is something to do with his midge studies, right enough. Possibly he needed to simulate flowing water, like a river or stream.’

‘Was he drowned here, do you think?’ Douglas asked warily.

Torquil knelt and looked at the pool of water on the floor round the bottom of the tank. He rubbed his chin.

‘It is certainly possible. The water is pretty near the top so if a body was held under the water it would displace it all over the floor.’

‘But wouldn’t it be everywhere?’ Morag asked.

‘It would if he struggled.’

‘He was quite a big chap,’ Morag pointed out. ‘It would have taken a lot to overpower him.’

‘It would if he was conscious and able to struggle.’

Douglas shivered. ‘Ugh! That sounds horrible. Holding an unconscious man under the water.’

‘That would be someone making no mistake about killing him then,’ Wallace ventured.

‘Aye, and that means that the scud on the head that he had could be more significant. He could have been knocked out and then drowned, before the murderer had a good skulk around.’

‘So you are not thinking it was a case of a botched robbery,’ Morag asked.

‘No, I think we need to have a good look about for something that might have been used to knock him out. I am betting that we won’t find it inside the cottage. You lads go and have a look outside. See if you can find anything that could have been used. It might have blood on it.’

When the twins had left Morag set about photographing the room as Torquil stood up, thinking.

‘I am going to switch that pump off, Morag,’ he said after a few moments.

‘Why, is the noise bothering you?’

‘No, it is just that if Dr Dent had been drowned in that tank,
which I rather think he was, then there may well be blood cells floating about in it. And there might be some in the bath as well, since the pump is keeping up a flow. I may be grabbing at straws, but maybe Ralph could tell us if there are more in the tank than the bath.’

‘What do you think the murderer was looking for among his books and papers?’

‘I don’t know, Morag. But I am guessing that we won’t find very much, even after we have been through all of this. Which may take a long time, considering that a lot of it will probably be scientific jargon.’

‘Why don’t you think we’ll find much?’

‘Because I am more concerned about what isn’t here.’

‘I don’t get you?’

‘He is a scientist, yet there is no computer. There is a router on the desk, but where is his PC, or his laptop? I reckon that is what the murderer was looking for.’

There was a tap on the door and Wallace put his head round.

‘Do you want to have a look here, Torquil? Douglas has just fished a stone gnome out of that pond.’

‘A gnome?’

‘Aye, a garden gnome, one of those that looks as if he’s fishing. When we were crossing what was once the lawn we found the gnome’s fishing net. Then we saw its face and hands peeking up through the water lilies.’ He winced. ‘I bet the murderer grabbed that then threw the fishing net aside. After it was done he lobbed it in the pond. There looks to be blood on the little devil’s hands.’

‘And a broken fishing net. Just like Dr Dent’s,’ said Torquil. ‘There’s irony.’

After six paracetamol Fergie had finally managed to gain some ease from the stabbing pains in his head that had felt as if someone had stirred up a hornet’s nest. In its place he had been left with a bee in his bonnet. And this simply would not go.

The old bugger made a right mug of us, he thought to himself, as he drove towards Half Moon Cove. I’ll get him to come on the show if I have to kidnap him to do it.

He grinned. Chrissie would not be pleased if she knew what was in his mind. Still, if I bring off this coup, I’m sure she will be … grateful.

He parked the Mercedes off the track among sand dunes so that it would not be spotted from the house, then he made his way around the tall perimeter fence.

Sod the front gate and that blooming intercom of his. He will hardly be able to turn me away when I have shown such initiative.

He scaled the fence and made his way across the undulating sand dunes towards the house. To his surprise he found the back door standing ajar.

‘Anyone home?’ he called out, as he pushed open the door and let himself in. ‘Hello!’

But there was no answer.

He walked through a large clinically clean kitchen, then a hall, to enter a huge studio that looked outwards towards the sea. Lace curtains were draped across the large bay windows. In one of them a long telescope was set up and aimed seawards at a height that could be readily used from the high stool that stood behind it.

He wrinkled his nose at the all pervading smell of stale cigarettes.

‘You like your whisky,’ he said aloud, spying a side table with a half-empty bottle of Glen Corlan and an empty glass beside it.

Then his gaze took in the benches and tables of driftwood sculptures, many of them covered in dust, and dozens of packets and boxes.

You look like you are a busy bee sending stuff all over the place, even if you’re not so busy sculpting these days. Hello, what’s this for?

He crossed to the back of the studio where a large chest freezer hummed away like some weird futuristic sarcophagus.

I guess you have to be well-stocked up if you choose to live like a recluse.

Curiosity overcame him and he lifted the lid and looked inside.

His eyes gaped and a cry of alarm started to rise in his throat. But it died on his lips the moment a heavy piece of timber smashed into the back of his skull. His hairpiece flew off and hit the wall and was instantly spattered with blood.

Cora had not been keen on meeting Wee Hughie at the Bonnie Prince Charlie, but she reconciled it in her mind as being good investigative journalism experience.

Just as long as he doesn’t suggest anything creepy, she thought as she walked along Harbour Street towards the bar.

I just don’t know why he seemed so keen on meeting me? He’s not my type with all those big muscles. Why should he think I would go for that?

She was still puzzling the question when she entered the lunchtime throng. A shrill whistle immediately rang out and she looked round, as did all of the other customers.

‘Cora! Over here! I have got us a table,’ Wee Hughie called, as he stood to tower over a group of men who had clearly just disembarked from one of the yachts in the harbour.

Cora suppressed the impulse to turn tail. Instead she brazened the looks of amusement and disdain as she sidled through the crowd towards him. It was clear that some people remembered her last visit to the Bonnie Prince Charlie, when she and Calum had been asked to leave.

Come on, Cora, she chided herself. You want to be a journalist, don’t you? Just get used to being a pariah like Calum. And with that resolve she reached Wee Hughie and forced a smile.

‘This is so good of you to come,’ he said enthusiastically, his cheeks looking quite rosy.

‘It’s – er – good of you to ask me.’

He crinkled his nose in a manner than made her picture a goofy boxer dog. ‘I just thought it would be – you know – nice.’

She let him relieve her of her jacket then sat while he went off to the bar to order drinks.

The large plasma screen TV was louder than she would have liked, considering the proximity of the table that Wee Hughie had obtained for them.

‘I’ve got us a menu,’ Wee Hughie said, a few moments later as he handed her a lemonade and lime. ‘Do you like that soft drink stuff?’ he asked, with a nod at her drink before taking a hefty swig of his pint of Heather Ale. He smacked his lips and licked the foam off his upper lip. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Cora. We don’t get anything like this in Dundee.’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t drink much alcohol, Mr – er—’

‘Hughie! Just call me Hughie.’

Cora smiled. ‘I like to be in control, you see. Alcohol does things to the mind.’

Wee Hughie winked at her and took another swig of beer. ‘I’ll drink to that any day.’ Then seeing what he perceived to be disapproval on her face he added rapidly, ‘But see, I hardly ever drink myself. It’s only if I’m on a bit of a holiday like this.’ He clapped his hands. ‘So, what would you like to eat? A steak? The fisherman’s pie? I hear that the seafood platter is good.’

Cora pursed her lips apologetically as she continued to scan the menu. ‘I don’t think there’s much here for me – er – Hughie.
You see, I’m vegetarian.’

‘Really?’ he asked, his eyes opening so wide that his eyebrows rose a full inch. Then he smiled and leaned forward on his elbows. ‘You know, I’ve fancied being a veggie. Why don’t you choose what you want and I’ll have the same?’

Cora feigned delight and then looked over the menu again to see what was the most unappetizting meal available in the meagre list of vegetarian options. ‘Well how about macaroni and cheese?’

Wee Hughie excused himself and went to place their order at the bar. When he returned Cora asked him, ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Oh, a lot, Cora,’ he replied, with the slightest of leers.

Cora suppressed the urge to throw his beer into his lap. Ignoring his innuendo, she went on, ‘What brings you to West Uist?’

‘A sporting holiday. My boss, Dan Farquarson, loves his fishing and hunting.’

‘And what about your friend, Mr King, was it?’

‘He’s a business friend of my boss, Cora. Nothing to do with me. But I have to say that the boy is good fun. He’s a famous footballer, you know.’

Cora shook her head with a smile. ‘I didn’t know that. But he looks like a chap who likes a bit of fun.’

And she cringed as she said it lest Wee Hughie take this as an innuendo directed at him. In truth, she found the big man anything but fun. She quickly tried to deflect any response. ‘Do you think—?’

To her surprise he shushed her.

‘Sorry Cora, it’s the News. I am sort of expecting something. The boss told me to keep an eye on it for him.’

Cora nodded, sat back and listened to Kirstie Macroon’s
dulcet voice reading the headlines from an auto-cue with professional ease.

‘We bring you the very latest news from West Uist.’

Cora’s ears pricked up and she sat forward again.

‘Inspector Torquil McKinnon of the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary has informed us this morning that there have been serious doubts cast over the sudden death of Dr Digby Dent, the noted entomologist who had been working on the island.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Cora muttered.

‘Inspector McKinnon was unable to go into details but informed us that the police are treating the death as a case of suspected murder. We shall be bringing you more news as and when it becomes available to us.’

Cora felt her mouth suddenly go dry. She took a sip of her drink then turned to Wee Hughie.

‘Listen, I’m afraid that I am going to have to cut and run. You see—’

Then she noticed how pale he had suddenly gone.

‘Oh – er – of course,’ he replied. ‘I think I had better be getting back as well.

‘Is anything wrong, Hughie?’

‘Wrong? No, nothing’s wrong, hen. I just – er – remembered something I need to pick up for the boss.’ He glanced at his watch then raised his pint and drained it quickly. ‘I’ll settle up and then I’ll shoot off. Maybe we could do this another time?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Yes, maybe,’ Cora replied.

His forced smile had failed to convince her.

Calum had turned on the TV in the
Chronicle
offices while he waited for Sandy King to arrive for the agreed interview. He stood staring in disbelief as Kirstie Macroon read out the headlines. His mouth gaped wider and wider.

‘… We shall be bringing you more news as and when it becomes available to us.’

‘Unbelievable!’ he howled at the TV. ‘Torquil McKinnon, you rotten swine!’ He stood staring at the mug in his hand for a moment and then dashed it against the wall where it shattered into a myriad of pieces and stained the wall, over an already aged and dried stain from a previous act of long-forgotten petulance.

‘You traitor!’ he yelled.

He only dimly heard the footsteps on the stairs behind him.

‘I hope you are not talking about me?’

Calum spun round to find Sandy King standing at the top of the stairs. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

Sandy King raised an eyebrow. ‘You seemed keener than that to get me here, Mr Steele. Is this a bad time?’

Calum recovered himself and leapt forward. ‘Not at all! Not at all! And please, call me Calum. It’s just that I’ve – er – had a spot of bad news.’ He sucked air through his teeth and held his hands out, palms upward as if seeking understanding from the divine.

‘I have been betrayed, Sandy.’

‘Are you talking about the News? I caught the tail end of it as I was coming up. It was about Dr Dent, wasn’t it? They think he’s been murdered.’

Calum nodded and grimaced as if he was in pain. ‘Aye, that’s what’s bothering me. He should have told me, not gone behind my back to Scottish TV.’

‘Who?’

‘Torquil McKinnon, the local inspector. He’s supposed to be my friend and there he’s gone and stabbed me in the back. There is no such thing as honour these days.’

Sandy King sat down on the settee and crossed his legs. ‘I am not so sure, pal. I think it is still about. In fact, for some people, honour is the guiding principle in their life.’

Leaving Morag and the twins to complete the further investigation of Dr Dent’s cottage, Torquil had put Crusoe in the side pannier of the Bullet then set off for home.

He found Lachlan and Kenneth Canfield coming along the road from the golf course.

‘We were chased away today,’ Lachlan said cheerfully as Torquil coasted to a halt beside them.

‘Midges?’ Torquil asked.

Kenneth Canfield laughed. ‘And not even Lachlan’s
evil-smelling
pipe could keep them off us.’

Lachlan ruffled the fur on Crusoe’s head. ‘You wouldn’t have liked the golf course today, boy. Those midges would have invaded your fur and made mincemeat out of you.’ He put his unlit pipe in his mouth and addressed his nephew. ‘What are you doing home at this time of the day, anyway?’

‘I came to have a word with you both actually. About Dr Dent.’

‘Ah, the midge man,’ said Kenneth. ‘I was so sorry to hear
about his accident.’

‘It was no accident,’ Torquil said bluntly.

‘No accident?’ Lachlan repeated.

‘I believe it was murder, Uncle. We have started a murder investigation. Which is why I wanted to have a word with the Reverend Canfield. I understand that you knew him from the University of the Highlands?’

Kenneth sighed. ‘I wondered when you would get around to me, Inspector.’

‘Shall we go into the manse and talk in comfort?’ Lachlan suggested. ‘It will soon be time for lunch.’

Five minutes later they were all seated in the spacious sitting-room. Crusoe was as usual curled up at Torquil’s feet.

‘How long had you known Dr Dent?’ Torquil asked.

‘About seven years. He was already in post when I became the university chaplain.’

‘Did you like the man?’

‘That’s a direct question, Inspector. I suppose it deserves a direct answer. No! I did not like him and I did not respect him.’

‘And the reason being?’

Canfield licked his lips and his eyes unconsciously fell on the whisky decanter.

‘He had a reputation as a philanderer. I had been involved in two cases of students who had been hurt by him. Emotionally bruised, both of them.’

‘Do you mean that he had relationships with them? I thought that was a sackable offence.’

‘Potentially, it can be. Although in these days….!’ He shrugged. ‘Yet in both cases the lassies did not want to make an issue of it.’

‘So you disliked him because of his morals?’

‘That and the fact that he was a maverick, academically
speaking. Some of his research was regarded as questionable, although it has to be said that some folk thought he was brilliant.’

He glanced again at the decanter and this time Lachlan caught his look and acted upon it. He rose and poured two large drams then held the decanter up and eyed Torquil questioningly.

‘None for me thanks, Lachlan,’ Torquil said. Then, turmng again to Kenneth, ‘Is there anything else that you can tell me about Dr Dent that might help?’

Lachlan handed Kenneth his drink and then cleared his throat meaningfully. Kenneth understood his prompt.

‘There might be something. Heather McQueen, the post graduate student who was drowned last summer. Well, she was his student. He was supposed to be looking after her.’

‘Was he having an affair with her?’

Kenneth took a large gulp of whisky and then pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘I honestly don’t know. But I suspect he was. At the very least I think that he should have shown more remorse than he did.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was his responsibility. He just didn’t seem to acknowledge anything about it. In my book that makes him seem a bit of a psychopath.’

Lachlan ran a finger round the rim of his glass. ‘I told Torquil about the grave, Kenneth.’

‘Did you put flowers on her grave?’ Torquil asked.

‘No.’

‘Any idea who did?’

‘I think it could have been Digby Dent. But I suppose we’ll never know now. It will remain a mystery.’

Torquil nodded and absently reached down and stroked
Crusoe. He was rewarded by a lick on his hand.

Another mystery, he mused. Just like Crusoe here.

Torquil had barely sat down in his office after lunch when the phone went and Morag told him that there was a call on the line.

‘It’s Calum Steele and he sounds peeved,’ she said, unable to keep the mirth from her voice.

It was an understatement. ‘You are a traitor, Torquil McKinnon! How could you do that? You betrayed me – and to Kirstie Macroon. You know that I have feelings for her the same way that you do about Lorna.’

‘Calum!’

‘That makes me look a right fool. And I thought you were my friend.’

‘Calum, listen.’

‘That’s all I ever do is listen. That’s what journalism is all about.’

‘In that case have you ever heard the expression about glass houses and throwing stones?’

‘What are you on about?’

‘If you live in a glass house you shouldn’t throw stones.’

‘Are you going daft? I am talking about loyalty and you betrayed me. You went to the Scottish TV with a story when you should have come to me. I won’t forget this, Torquil.’

There was a click and Torquil found himself listening to the dialling tone.

‘Well, you are welcome, Calum,’ he said as he replaced the receiver. ‘For someone with skin so thick, you are remarkably sensitive.’

But Calum’s mention of Lorna’s name rankled him. He sat patting Crusoe for a few moments then picked up the phone and dialled Lorna’s mobile. She picked up after the third ring.

‘Hello, it’s the Scotch egg Carry-out here,’ he joked. ‘Any requests for lunch?’

Lorna laughed, then to his surprise said, ‘Torquil, gosh, this is not a good time. The boss is on the warpath. Got to go. I’ll ring you sometime. Don’t ring me.’

Once again the phone went dead and he found himself listening to the dialling tone. He sighed and replaced the receiver again. ‘No one loves me today,’ he grumbled.

The sound of Crusoe’s tail thumping the floor made him look down and feel better.

‘Well, let’s just hope that Lorna takes to you the way that you have taken to me, my lad. Now let’s get cracking. We have a murder case to crack.’

Ewan was just about to go through to the kitchen to make tea for the meeting when the station door opened and the bell tinkled. He looked round then gaped. It was Chrissie from the
Flotsam & Jetsam
TV show and a gaunt, young-looking chap with longish hair.