Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

‘What are we going to do with Tulsa, boss?’ Danny Reid asked. ‘Dallas sounds upset.’

‘We’ll take her back to the castle,’ McArdle replied sourly. ‘Or rather you boys will in the four by four. I’ve got an appointment in the town. Did you bring me fresh togs?’

Liam Sartori was returning from the Boxter with a holdall of fresh clothes when the characteristic whine of a scooter was followed by the appearance round the bend of Calum Steele. The West Uist Chronicle editor-in-chief parked behind the Boxter and came jauntily down the slope to join them.

‘Hello, Katrina, what have you there? A drowned dog, is it?’

With the dexterity of a seasoned conjuror his digital camera had appeared in his hand and he had taken a couple of shots before he even reached a standstill beside the group. He nodded at Jock McArdle. ‘It’s not the usual attire for swimming, so I deduce that you went in and brought the beast out?’ He grinned and held out his hand. ‘You must be Mr McArdle, the new owner of Dunshiffin castle? I was meaning to make an appointment with you and see how you’re settling in. Get your comments on the wind farm and all.’

‘I don’t give interviews to the newspapers,’ McArdle replied emphatically, ignoring Calum’s outstretched hand.

Calum continued to grin good-humouredly. ‘Ah, but maybe you don’t know about the Chronicle . My paper is the epitome of responsible journalism. You ask anyone on West Uist. You see, it’s the best PR you could have on the island.’ He raised his camera and took a photograph of the new laird and his two employees. ‘How about a more smiling one this time? Then we could maybe go and have a chat and a drink—’

‘I don’t do photographs either.’

‘Och, as the new laird you are news, whether you like it or not,’ Calum persisted bullishly. ‘The public have a right and a desire to know all about you.’

Katrina had put her blood specimen containers away in her bag and now stood up. She felt uneasy at the hard expression that had come over McArdle’s face. ‘I’ll – er – be away now then, Mr McArdle. I should have the blood results in a couple of hours and I’ll be in touch if I find anything odd.’

Calum’s head swivelled quickly on his stocky neck. ‘Odd? Is there something odd about this dead dog?’

‘This dead dog, as you so politely put it, was my dearly beloved pet. If there is anything odd about her death then it is nobody’s business except mine and the vet’s here.’

Calum was not renowned for his sensitivity. He pointed the camera at the dead animal and snapped another picture. ‘You’re not thinking that it was poisoned, are you?’

‘Why did you ask that?’ McArdle snapped. ‘Why use the word poison?’

For the first time Calum discerned the hostility that Katrina had found almost palpable. ‘Well, I suppose I meant polluted rather than poisoned. Blue-green algae in Loch Hynish, that sort of thing. But I’m sure it isn’t. Everything is pure and fresh on West Uist.’ He smiled placatingly. ‘I am sure there is no reason to be concerned.’

‘But I am concerned about infringement on my privacy,’ McArdle returned drily. ‘Especially when I’m so recently bereaved.’ He nodded at his employees and immediately Calum found his right arm pinioned in a vice-like grip by Liam Sartori, while Danny Reid prised the camera from his hand.

Calum watched dumbfounded as the Glaswegian hurled the camera as far as he could into the waters of Loch Hynish.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ he demanded. ‘That’s criminal! That was an expensive camera. I’ll have the law on you.’

‘I told you no interviews and no photographs,’ McArdle said coldly, through gritted teeth.

Katrina saw Calum’s face turn puce, just as she noted the belligerent and insolent grins on the faces of Reid and Sartori. And she was all too aware that the young Rottweiler was howling anew and throwing itself against the closed door of the 4 x4.

She caught Calum by the arm and pulled him away. ‘Come on, Calum. Leave it for now.’

Dr Ralph McLelland had gone out on his rounds after his morning surgery and, as luck would have it, was just leaving the house of one of his elderly patients on the easternmost point of the island when Agnes Calanish, the wife of the local postmaster decided to go into labour. But it was her fifth child and she wasted no time about it. The baby was delivered, her episiotomy was stitched up and the baby attached to the breast by the time Helen McNab, the midwife arrived.

‘A fine busy man you have been here, Dr McLelland,’ cooed Helen, as she took over. ‘And such a shame about Kenneth McKinley.’

‘How ever will old Alistair manage the croft without him?’ agreed Agnes, as her newborn babe suckled away contentedly. ‘And what with all these windmills that they say are going up.’

‘Windmills?’ Ralph queried.

Guthrie Calanish, the postmaster himself came in with a tray of tea to celebrate his latest offspring. ‘Aye, the first of them is up now and they are busy setting up a second. I was over at the Wee Kingdom this morning. There are two men and they seem to be setting them up like dandelion clocks.’ He looked regretfully at the local GP. ‘Are you sure you’ll not stay for a cup, Doctor?’

‘No. I’ll be back in tomorrow. But I’m afraid I have work to complete after Kenneth McKinley’s death.’

‘Paperwork, eh,’ sighed Guthrie. ‘The bane of a doctor’s existence, I am thinking.’

Ralph McLelland smiled and left. He had work to do all right, but it was not nearly as pleasant as filling out a few papers.

Kenneth McKinley’s body was waiting for him in the refrigerator of the Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital mortuary. He had promised to do the post-mortem before lunch, and then let Inspector Torquil McKinnon have a report first thing afterwards.

While Ralph McLelland was carrying out the post-mortem on Kenneth McKinley, Katrina Tulloch was back in her laboratory working with reagents on the blood tests she had taken from Tulsa, the dead Rottweiler. When she was at veterinary school she had taken an intercalated BSc degree in toxicology and was well able to do the lab work herself.

The garlic smell had worried her, and her preliminary test had shown that she was right to be worried. She packaged up the specimens for later despatch and full analysis at the department of veterinary toxicology at the University of Glasgow, and put them in the fridge. Yet in her own mind she had enough information. She phoned the mobile number that Jock McArdle had given her.

She hadn’t felt at all comfortable about the way McArdle and his heavies had treated Calum Steele. The man was a bully, that was clear. Yet she felt sorry for anyone who lost their pet under such circumstances.

Arsenic was a particularly nasty poison.

Calum Steele was leaning against the front desk recounting his experience on the shore of Loch Hynish to Morag when Torquil came in. So deep into his diatribe was the editor-in-chief of the West Uist Chronicle that he did not hear the Inspector come in.

‘Thugs! They’re just bloody thugs!’ Calum exclaimed, hammering his fist on the counter.

‘Who are thugs, Calum?’ Torquil asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

‘That new laird and his henchmen.’ And he recounted his meeting with them all over again, much to Morag’s chagrin. ‘One of them threw my digital camera into the loch. It was brand new. Chronicle property. I want to charge them with criminal damage.’

‘Are you sure about that, Calum. He’s a powerful man, I hear?’

Calum’s face went beetroot red. ‘The press will not be intimidated by a bunch of Glasgow bullyboys. I’m going to do an exposé on him.’