Flotsam and Jetsam (6 page)

Morag made her way past the portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the Prince’s Suite and noticed that the ‘Reserved, Do not Disturb’ sign was stuck to the glass panel of the door. She ignored the message, rapped twice on the wood and immediately entered.

‘Excuse the interruption, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I am Sergeant Morag Driscoll of the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary. I need a few minutes of your time.’

‘That’s a pity, darling, you see we’re a bit busy right now,’ said Dan Farquarson in an unmistakable Dundee accent.

This, Morag deduced from the quality of his clothes and Mollie’s description had to be the business chappie with the big bankroll.

‘Aye, maybe you could come back later, sweetheart,’ added a big man sitting beside him with a pint of beer halfway to his mouth. He had the audacity to wink at her.

‘I said my name is Sergeant Driscoll,’ Morag reiterated assertively in her best no-nonsense voice. ‘And this is official police business, so I am afraid that whether or not you are busy is of no consequence: I need to speak to you now.’

Bruce McNab had been sitting in shadows. He stood up swiftly and came forward, smiling placatingly. ‘Morag Driscoll … I mean, Sergeant Driscoll, sorry. Of course you must ask whatever you want. Please, come in and sit down and let me introduce you to my clients.’

Morag let him make introductions while she swiftly appraised the group. The little middle-aged Dundee businessman was Dan Farquarson. His associate, whose size and bulging muscles made it obvious that he was in fact a minder, was Hugh Thompson – ‘known to all as Wee Hughie’, Dan Farquarson corrected with a laugh. Morag smiled at them mirthlessly, for chauvinism was a moral crime as far as she was concerned, and she was still rankling at the manner in which they had greeted her.

Then he introduced her to the last of the group, Sandy King, and her gaze lingered for what she realized may seem a moment overlong. The truth was that he ticked all of the right
boxes as far as she was concerned. He was less than ten years younger than her, which wasn’t an age apart, and with his long blond hair, square chin and china-blue eyes, she thought that he was quite the best-looking man she had seen in years. That and the fact that he was a football star whom she admired, brought a warmth to her cheeks.

‘Can I order you a drink, Sergeant Driscoll?’ he asked. Then, with a smile, ‘Morag, you said your name was, didn’t you?’

Morag shook her head and ignored his second question. ‘This is official, I am afraid. I am here to ask you questions about a complaint that has been made against all of you.’

‘A complaint!’ exclaimed Wee Hughie, the minder. ‘Who’s looking for a kicking then?’

Morag turned steady eyes on him. ‘We don’t tolerate violence on West Uist, Mr Thompson.’

‘Shush, Wee Hughie,’ said Dan Farquarson, scowling at his associate. Then to Morag, ‘What my friend meant to ask was what sort of complaint, Sergeant? And who made it?’

‘Doctor Digby Dent, an entomologist working on the island, claims that one or more of you deliberately damaged a piece of his scientific equipment.’ She produced a notebook and her silver pen. ‘Now, if I can take a statement from each of you.’

‘Ach, Morag Driscoll, is this really necessary?’ voiced Bruce McNab. ‘That Dent fellow is a nuisance. He puts everyone’s back up.’

‘A complaint has been made and I am duty bound to investigate it,’ Morag replied, quite unperturbed. ‘Now, you first, Mr McNab.’

Morag made neat entries as they each gave their account. She was not surprised to find that their versions were substantially the same as each other and that they were very different from Dr Dent’s. Wee Hughie admitted that he had
trodden on the pole, but had not realized that the net had been torn.

‘It was an accident, Morag,’ said Sandy King.

And on that point the others were quick to agree.

‘You believe us, don’t you, Morag?’ Sandy King asked eagerly.

Morag felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, but she ignored them, just as she refused to be drawn into answering the question.

‘I have noted all of your answers and I thank you. You have all been most helpful.’

‘We would like to just draw a line under it,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘It was an accident and no hard feelings to Dr Dent.’

Sandy King smiled at Morag. ‘You can even say that I will be quite happy to reimburse the cost of his net, as a gesture of good will.’ He held her regard for a moment then added, ‘And maybe we’ll see you again in a less official capacity?’

Morag lowered her eyes and felt her cheeks colour. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘You all sound very reasonable.’

She snapped her notebook shut and was on the verge of asking Sandy King a casual question about the rumours over a transfer to the Picts, when she reconsidered and snapped back into professional mode.

‘Just one final thing: Mollie said that you all came in dribs and drabs. Had you been apart since you left the river?’

Dan Farquarson was quick to answer. ‘No, just visits to the toilet and that, you know. We’ve been together otherwise.’ He looked over at Bruce McNab. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, McNab?’

Bruce nodded with alacrity. ‘Absolutely Mr Farquarson. Together all morning.’

Torquil had taken Calum’s call and agreed to pop round to the
Chronicle
offices. But first he took Crusoe for a walk along by the Mosset Burn that ran down from the moor behind the station to eventually run over a stretch of rapids before dropping into the sea.

Crusoe didn’t seem to mind being put on a lead and walked alongside Torquil rather than straining at the lead.

‘You’ve had a lead on before, haven’t you, Crusoe? And that means that you have had a proper owner.’

As if responding to the question Crusoe turned his head and barked once.

‘Maybe I should just let you off the lead and see if you head off home.’

Crusoe turned his head again and barked twice.

Torquil laughed. ‘Does that mean a “no”? Well, my wee friend, I am planning to let you off the lead sometime. Maybe when I take you home to the manse. If no one claims you then you will have to get used to living with Uncle Lachlan and me for a while. And hopefully, with my girlfriend Lorna before too long.’

Suddenly Crusoe looked ahead and then stood stock still. Then he started to tremble. He barked and kept on barking, as if he was scared of something.

‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Torquil asked. Then he looked ahead and realized. They were approaching the old
humped-
back
bridge that spanned the Mosset Burn. Two young boys of about ten years of age, good lads whom Torquil recognized, were playing pooh sticks from the top of the bridge.

‘Ah, I see. It brings back bad memories, does it, Crusoe? Of being tied to that timber and tossed in the water?’

Crusoe was showing whites of his eyes and his ears had gone back. He yelped and huddled in closer to Torquil.

‘I want to get my hands on whoever did that to you,’ Torquil said, crouching to give the dog a reassuring pat. ‘If we only knew where they threw you in that might help.’ He straightened and tugged gently on the lead. ‘Come on, boy. It’s time that I showed up at the
Chronicle
anyway. We’ll nip through the back alley and do some investigating. If you are going to be a station dog, then I’ll have to get you used to crime investigation.’

Three minutes later they were mounting the stairs of the
Chronicle
offices.

‘Good grief! What’s this, the new West Uist Police bloodhound?’ Calum cried mischievously, as they appeared on the landing, where he and Cora were standing sipping mugs oftea.

Calum introduced Cora.

‘And this is Crusoe,’ said Torquil, bending to give the dog a pat. Immediately, Crusoe sat down, licked his hand and vigorously wagged his tail.

Torquil recounted the dog’s history.

Calum frowned and Cora gave a gasp of horror. ‘How could anyone be so cruel?’ she said, squatting beside Crusoe and stroking his head. The collie responded with a whimper, then lay down and rolled over to accept further spoiling.

‘Would you like me to put a piece in the
Chronicle
?’ Calum asked. ‘We could put up a reward for information.’ He winked at Torquil. ‘Or rather, the police could put up a reward of maybe twenty pounds?’

‘Good idea, Calum my man. We can stretch to that if it helps
us find who did this.’ 

Calum laid down his mug and rubbed his hands. ‘Fine, consider it done. And, in fact, it will be Cora’s first assignment as my cub reporter.’

Cora jumped to her feet and kissed Calum on the cheek, causing him to squirm with momentary embarrassment. Torquil saved him by pointing to the mess. ‘So what happened here?’

He listened and jotted down the details. ‘And you think that someone deliberately lured you out to Largo Head so that they could vandalize the office?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘Any idea who?’

‘No. As you know, a newspaperman makes the odd enemy along the way. It’s an occupational hazard, as I was telling Miss Melville’s great niece here.’

Torquil gaped. ‘You are Miss Melville’s great niece? Gosh, we had better mind our Ps and Qs or we’ll have the old girl on our backs just like in the old days.’

Cora gave one of her effervescent laughs. ‘Oh stop it! I don’t believe my lovely old great aunt Bella would ever frighten anyone.’

Torquil and Calum stared at each other then laughed in unison.

‘Not unless they were really naughty boys,’ Cora added.

The
West Uist Chronicle
editor and the West Uist inspector of police both went silent and stared awkwardly at each other. Cora instantly picked up on the guilty look that passed between them.

‘All right, Calum,’ Torquil said. ‘I’ll get Ewan McPhee to come over in half an hour to photograph and dust the place.’

‘Oh, I can do that afterwards,’ Cora volunteered.

‘I think he means he’s going to dust the place for fingerprints, Cora,’ Calum said with a grin.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Cora. And it was her turn to blush.

It seemed as if half of the population of Kyleshiffin and a goodly number of tourists and other folk from the outer parts of the island had squeezed into the Duncan Institute to watch the filming of the
Flotsam & Jetsam
show that evening.

The TV crew consisted of two cameramen, a soundman and the producer. Many of the audience, set-in-their-way islanders, had written them all off as a bunch of hippy-type, la-di-da luvvies with media studies degrees from a host of English universities. In this they were almost one hundred per cent wrong, since all of them were either Edinburgh or Dundee graduates in the arts or hard science. While Geordie Innes, the producer, looked like a fresh graduate, he was twenty-seven and had already won a coveted Dairsie Award for documentary making.

Lachlan and Kenneth were sitting in the front row, both wearing their dog collars. Lachlan had fleetingly seen Torquil before going in and been told about Crusoe, the prospective new resident of the St Ninian’s manse. He was quite relaxed about it, although he had told Torquil that any house-training would be entirely his responsibility.

Morag was standing in the side aisle with her hands behind her back, while the Drummond twins were stationed at the back and other side of the hall, in the unlikely event of any trouble. She had seen Bruce McNab and his party of fishermen file into seats at the back of the hall. Chancing a glance over at
them she saw Sandy King wink at her and she felt her heart skip a beat.

Don’t be an idiot! she mentally chided herself. You’re a police sergeant and you have three wee ones at home. Stop acting like a schoolgirl!

The stars of the show of course were Fergie Ferguson and his beautiful partner and co-presenter, Chrissie. Earlier in the afternoon they had met half of the audience at the pre-show antique viewing that they always did before an actual broadcast. Since they were planning ten twenty-minute programmes each evening Monday to Friday over the fortnight before the Scottish TV News bulletin they had been granted the use of the back room at the Duncan Institute every afternoon. People came with their antiques and knick-knacks and filed past Fergie and Chrissie as they sat at a central table. There they would give free valuations, occasionally make offers there and then, and essentially spot the antiques that they wanted people to return with to the show proper. They also primed them well, so that it would seem as if they were viewing the pieces for the first time on the show. It was a formula that had worked well for seven seasons and made the show something of a Scottish institution.

Fergie stood on the stage and gave the audience a final
last-minute
run through of the programme’s format.

‘So we would be grateful if everyone could just be careful of their language,’ he said. ‘No heckling, no lewdness, and, please, just remember that this is a family show.’

‘There will be no swearing here, don’t you worry, Mr Ferguson,’ piped up Rab McNeish, the undertaker-carpenter, soberly dressed in his black funeral suit. ‘There is no one who swears on West Uist.’

This was followed by general hilarity.

‘Not from you in your burying suit, at any rate, Rab McNeish!’ someone called out from the back of the hall, much to Rab’s discomfiture. He moved restlessly in his seat and adjusted the old brown suitcase containing the treasures that he had already shown to Fergie at the pre-show viewing.

Fergie laughed good-naturedly and winked encouragingly at Rab. Then ‘We’ll be on the air in about five minutes. See you all then.’

He waved and went over to chat with Geordie Innes, the producer.

‘Last call for snacks, folks,’ called out Alec Anderson, as he stood at the left-hand steps leading up to the stage with his trolley of ice-cream, chocolates and crisps. ‘Or if you would rather a cup of tea or coffee, my dear wife Agnes is at the back of the hall and will accommodate you.’

There was a last minute flurry of customers, then Travis, the soundman, gave them a two-minute bell. Finally, he addressed Fergie and Chrissie on the stage and counted them in before snapping the clapboard to start filming.