Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

Torquil took a deep breath and forced himself not to lose his cool any more than he was doing. ‘We will investigate his claims, sir.’

‘Good. And what about that report I wanted faxing through.’

‘It should be with you already, Superintendent.’

‘Well it hasn’t arrived. Send it again!’

There was a click, as of the receiver being slammed down on a telephone in Bara, and Torquil once again found himself staring at his dead receiver.

After sharing his frustration with Morag, Torquil telephoned Dunshiffin Castle and spoke to Jesmond.

‘The laird is not available, Inspector McKinnon. He has left instructions not to be disturbed. He is upset about the death of one of his Rottweilers. He is very unhappy.’

Torquil thought he detected a slight tone of irreverence as the butler mentioned the breed of dog. ‘Well tell the laird when he is available, that if he wishes to make a report about his dog’s death he can jolly well come into the station and file a report – personally. Goodbye, Jesmond.’

‘I shall tell him exactly that, Inspector. Goodbye.’ Torquil thought he detected a note of glee in the crusty old butler’s voice.

When Torquil arrived home that evening he opened the front door of the manse and was immediately assailed by the aroma of devilled rabbit, one of Lachlan’s specialities and by the sight of the Padre himself on his hands and knees in the hall, leaning over the carburettor of the classic Excelsior Talisman that the two of them had been gradually restoring over the past umpteen years. Bits and pieces of the said bike lay on oil-soaked newspapers along the side of the long hall.

‘Have you a problem, Uncle?’ Torquil asked, knowing all too well that when the Padre had something he needed to work out, he either went and hit golf balls or started tinkering with the Excelsior Talisman.

The Padre raised his eyes heavenwards and exhaled forcefully. Then he gave a wan smile, wiped his hands on an old rag and stood up. ‘You might say that, laddie. But I’ll solve it one day.’ And giving the carburettor a mock kick he pointed to the sitting-room with his chin. ‘You look as if you’ve had a tough day. Why don’t you pour a couple of drams while I check on the supper?’

And five minutes later, with a whisky in their hands they sat on each side of the old fireplace and exchanged news of the day. Lachlan listened with a deepening frown as he heard about the superintendent’s attitude over the telephone.

‘That man is nothing but a boor, Torquil! An obsequious boor at that. I think he kow-tows to the gentry.’

Torquil sipped his whisky. ‘I haven’t met this McArdle yet, but I don’t like the way he’s taking on the mantle of “the laird,” as if it gives him rights over the island.’

‘But he has land ownership rights. The Dunshiffin estate is pretty big, and, of course, he has substantial rights apparently over the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Well, I am thinking that I will be locking horns with him before too long.’

The Padre nodded sympathetically, then, ‘I saw Jessie McPhee this afternoon. She was visiting her husband’s grave.’ He omitted to tell his nephew that at the time he had been paying his own respects at Torquil’s parents’ graveside. ‘She’s making peace with herself over Ewan, the poor darling.’

He pulled out his pipe and was reaching into his pocket for his tobacco pouch when his hand touched the little black notebook that Jessie had given him. ‘Oh, you’d better have a look at this. It’s Ewan’s. Jessie said that he’d taken to making lots of wee notes. She particularly wanted you as his friend and senior officer to have a look.’

Torquil laid down his whisky glass and reached out for the notebook. He skimmed it, immediately recognizing the big constable’s untidy handwriting. It seemed to be quite shambolic, having no set order; quite typical of Ewan, Torquil thought. There were bits and pieces of observations, things he’d highlighted to do, to say to various people, including Torquil. But interspersed among it there were personal thoughts.

The Padre noticed his nephew’s change of posture, his expression of studied concentration. Slowly Torquil’s head came up, his eyes sharp. ‘He had a lot on his mind, Uncle. It looks like Ewan was feeling pretty desperate!’

Morag was looking bleary-eyed next morning after spending half the night looking after her youngest daughter Ailsa, who was subject to the croup. Sitting on the other side of Torquil’s desk she read his summary of Ewan’s notebook, which he had divided into three brief sections, respectively dealing with his feelings about Katrina Tulloch, his suspicions about something he suspected Kenneth McKinley of being up to, but which he hadn’t been altogether clear about, and things that he was planning to discuss with Torquil and others.

‘He seemed to have lost his heart to Katrina,’ Morag said with a sigh. ‘She’s a bonnie girl, but—’ She shook her head and stopped in mid sentence.

‘But what, Morag?’ Torquil queried. ‘Is this something to do with your famous woman’s intuition?’

Morag yawned as she thought. ‘I don’t suppose it is fair of me to say it, but she’s a bonnie girl and she knows it. There’s something … sensual about her. I think she would not be a one-man woman.’

‘But I understand that she’s been upset since he disappeared. Lachlan told me about Gordon MacDonald’s wake.’

‘Oh yes. Just as we all have been upset. And she’s been spotted wandering around the coast roads and the skerries. The Drummonds have seen her van parked overlooking St Ninian’s Bay and Calum Steele says she burst into tears when he saw her in the Bonnie Prince Charlie the other lunchtime.’

Torquil nodded and pushed the latest edition of the West Uist Chronicle across the desk for her to see. ‘Speaking of our esteemed journalist, I think he’s well and truly peeved.’

Morag read the headline: THE LAIRD, THE CAMERA AND THE LOCH

There followed a piece of Calum’s most purple prose describing his encounter with the Laird of Dunshiffin, the dead dog, the Glaswegian bodyguards and the hurling of his digital camera into Loch Hynish. Morag smiled as she read it.

‘So he’s considering a claim for damages,’ she mused, as she read that Calum had been forced to buy a very expensive substitute so that the Chronicle photographer would still be able to illustrate the articles in the paper. ‘He’s not planning to make friends with the new laird then?’

Torquil frowned. ‘And he’s in danger of losing credibility as well. Look at the next page. He’s written a piece about Kenneth McKinley.’

Morag turned the page to find a photograph of a golden eagle in flight, with an insert photograph of Kenneth McKinley above a headline reading: DID A GOLDEN EAGLE MARK CROFTER OUT AS PREY?

Morag stared at the article with wide eyed disbelief, and then slowly read it out loud:

‘While walking her dog at the foot of the Corlins yesterday, Miss Annie McConville, the well-known local proprietor of the Kyleshiffin Dog Sanctuary, discovered the body of Mr Kenneth McKinley of Sea’s Edge Croft. It seems that Kenneth had been climbing and somehow tragically lost his footing.

But upon his face were the unmistakable marks of a bird’s talons.

‘No doubt at all, he was struck down by one of the eagles,’ Miss McConville told our chief reporter.

Miss McConville told us that she had discovered the body minutes before the arrival of our local Inspector Torquil McKinnon. Miss McConville reports that she pointed out the talon marks to the inspector, who was perplexed. A post-mortem examination is awaited at the time of writing.