Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

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.’

‘Is it a threat of defamation now, then?’ asked Wallace.

‘That’s an offence too, Calum Steele,’ Douglas said. ‘And you’ve got crumbs on your anorak now. You want to watch all those calories you know.’

Calum flushed. ‘You pair of malnourished, long-limbed Neanderthals, I’ll give you calories – where they hurt!’

The twins looked at each other and nodded their heads. ‘Oh he’s good with words, isn’t he? No wonder he’s the editor of the local rag.’

‘A rag! You two should learn to read and then you’d know if it was a rag or not!’ But then as they both burst into laugher, and even Torquil grinned he shook his head resignedly. ‘One day I’ll sort the pair of you out.’

And then he said to Torquil, ‘I saw Ralph McLelland, Piper. He told me about Kenneth McKinley. That’s a sad accident, so it is.’

‘Aye, I don’t know what old Alistair will do without him,’ Torquil returned.

‘I’m going to go over and see him. Do a proper obituary.’ He pulled out a small camera from his anorak. ‘I thought I’d take a few pictures of the Wee Kingdom while I’m up there. Give it a bit of colour and link it up with the piece I’m doing about the wind farm.’

‘Aye, there’s some sort of wind tower being put up on Gordon MacDonald’s croft now,’ Torquil informed him. ‘We saw it from the sea.’

‘This new laird could change the whole nature of the island if he gets his way,’ Calum said. ‘I’m going to see if I can get an interview with him. It would be a good thing to introduce the folk of the island to the new laird with a photo-feature. What do you think, boys?’

‘I’m wondering if you’ve got a licence for that digital camera, Calum Steele?’ Douglas Drummond said with a twinkle in his eye.

Jock McArdle was at that moment standing on the shore of Loch Hynish tossing sticks as far as he could into the loch in the direction of the crannog with its ancient ruined tower. His two Rottweilers, Dallas and Tulsa launched themselves in and swam powerfully to retrieve them, depositing them on the pebble shore with much barking as they pleaded for more.