Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

‘To my lad, Kenneth McKinley,’ called out Alistair, raising his glass.

A chorus followed, then about twenty glasses were raised, drained and then snapped down on the bar. Half a minute or so of silence ensued, then the customers dutifully and respectfully came up and offered their condolences to the bereaved father.

When the throng had passed, Alistair McKinley fixed Lachlan with a steely gaze. ‘You said just the one, Padre, but I have a mind to drink this place dry. Will you be staying with me?’

The Padre had charged his old briar pipe and was in the process of applying a match to the bowl. He blew smoke ceilingwards.

‘My words were merely cautionary, Alistair,’ he said. ‘I will happily have one more drink with you, but then I will take you home myself. If it is your wish to drink more then I suggest that we get you a small bottle to take home. You need to keep the lid on it.’

‘Padre, you mean well, I know. But at this moment I don’t give a monkey’s curse for anyone. I’ve lost my boy today and that means I’ve lost my whole damned reason for life.’ He tapped his glass on the bar and nodded meaningfully at Mollie, for her to replenish their glasses.

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.’