Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

‘You didn’t waste a lot of time putting them up. But they’re a bit smaller than I imagined they would be. What are they, about forty or fifty feet tall.’

‘That’s right, Inspector. They’re our standard fifty-foot towers. They are just basic ones to gather information. We measure wind speeds and directions with the anemometer one and the propeller has no turbine, it is just to record likely operating patterns. They’re all recording data which the boffins back at the head office will work out later. We’ve done our work for now and are just off to bring the next lot over.’

‘How many are you putting up?’ Torquil asked.

‘Ten more on this piece of land.’ He said, indicating the Wee Kingdom. ‘Then assuming everybody’s happy with the estimates they get, who knows. It maybe that we’ll be putting up the real McCoys, the big turbines.’ He grinned. ‘Then it’ll be proper wind farm here we come. And for that we’ll have a whole gang of workers, not just gangers like me and the lad here.’

He turned and looked at the youth beside him, as if he had received a kick. The youth held up his watch and the driver pursed his lips. ‘Would you excuse us then, Inspector? We need to catch the ferry.’

Torquil nodded and waved them on. ‘Just watch your speed on these narrow West Uist roads,’ he instructed.

‘We’ll go easy, Inspector,’ returned the driver. He grinned as he nudged his companion. ‘And maybe your wee ticking off will do the lad a bit of good, eh? I keep telling him to give up these coffin nails of his.’

When they had gone Torquil started up the Bullet and made his way over the causeway towards the McKinley croft. As he rode past Wind’s Eye with its incongruous wind towers he found himself mentally recoiling from them. These flimsy looking windmills were bad enough, but a wind farm with giant turbines would change the whole face of the island.

Rhona blinked myopically at Jock McArdle with ill-concealed disdain. ‘What, no flowers for me today?’ she asked coldly.

‘No flowers,’ he replied casually. ‘Just a message.’ His lips twisted into a smile that was curiously devoid of warmth. ‘See, I’m here as a sort of postman.’ He made a theatrical adjustment to the knot of his paisley pattern tie then reached into the inside breast pocket of his Harris Tweed jacket, and drew out a long envelope. ‘Maybe I’m a wee bit over-dressed for the part, but I thought I’d deliver it myself. You’ll be interested to know that it is all entirely legitimate.’

‘Do you think I am remotely interested in anything you have to tell me, Mr McArdle?’

His mouth again curved into his mirthless smile and he smirked. ‘And do you really think that I don’t know who you are, or what you used to do for a living – Rhona McIvor? I’ve got the memory of an elephant, so I have. But you don’t, it seems.’ He tossed his head back and laughed, a cold sinister laugh. ‘Have I changed all that much.’

A look approaching fear flashed across her face and she reached for her spectacles. When she put them on McArdle quickly recognized that he had rattled her. And that she had recognized him. He grinned maliciously as he laid the envelope between a vase of flowers and a pile of cards on her bedside cabinet.

‘Enjoy your reading,’ he said, before turning and letting himself out. For a moment Rhona stared at the closed door with a look of horror, then she turned her attention to the waiting envelope. Her heart seemed to have sped up.

Torquil found Alistair McKinley in one of his out-houses, vigorously working his handloom. Working out his grief and frustration, Torquil guessed.

‘I’ve brought you a copy of the post-mortem report, Alistair,’ Torquil said, as he pulled off his gauntlets. It’s just a preliminary report, mind you, that we’ll be submitting to the Procurator Fiscal for the Fatal Accident Enquiry.’

The old crofter sighed and laid down his shuttle. He heaved himself out of his high chair and held out his hand for the letter, which he immediately stuffed in the front pocket of his dungarees. ‘I’ll read it later, although I am thinking that I already know what it will be saying.’

Torquil nodded grimly. ‘Death from catastrophic head injury, multiple internal contusions and ruptures, and multiple fractures.’

‘Aye! And I know well what it won’t say. It won’t say a thing about the culprits.’

‘Meaning what, Alistair?’

‘Meaning the man who caused him to go off like he did. And the devil bird that made him fall.’

‘You’ve read the Chronicle , then?’ Torquil asked, recalling Calum Steele’s reportage that he had read that morning.

The crofter nodded. ‘But I knew it anyway. I saw his bonnie face myself, remember? You were there when I identified his body. I recognized those scars as talon marks when I saw them.’ He swallowed hard and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. ‘But there will be justice coming.’

Before Torquil could follow up on the remark Alistair straightened up and gestured towards the door. It’s time for a cup of tea. Will you join me, Inspector?’

A few minutes later, as they waited for the kettle to boil, Torquil looked around the kitchen. It was surprisingly clean and functional. A row of basic cookery books were ranged along one half of the solitary shelf, the other half being home to a row of pots containing various herbs and condiments. Pans hung on the wall, crockery was stacked neatly in a dresser, and the old stove was in pristine condition.

‘You have the eye of a policeman, Torquil McKinnon,’ said Alistair. ‘You are wondering how two men managed to keep their kitchen so tidy. Well, it is respect for my late wife, God rest her soul.’

Torquil nodded politely and made no comment about his own home, the manse, which he shared with his uncle, the Reverend Lachlan McKinnon. Many of the nooks and crannies of the manse were filled with golf clubs, sets of bagpipes or bits and pieces of classic motorbike engines. Their home was not as neat as the McKinleys’.

With the teapot filled and the tray loaded, Alistair McKinley led the way through to the sitting-room. And in ways it mirrored the kitchen in its Spartan tidiness. The walls were painted a pale green and the brown carpet although clean had three or four frayed patches. There was little in the way of luxury in the room. No modern hi-fi system or computer, just an oldish television set, a box radio, two armchairs, a dining-table with three plain chairs around it, a few pictures and photographs on the mantelpiece. A bottle of whisky with two empty glasses beside it stood on one of those tall thin tables that looked as though it had once supported an aspidistra. Torquil noted the photograph of Kenneth McKinley propped against the bottle and imagined that the old crofter had been drinking a toast or two to his departed son the night before.

As Alistair poured tea, Torquil asked, ‘You told me earlier that Kenneth had gone out with a rifle. Are you absolutely sure about that?’

A thin smile floated across the crofter’s lips. ‘I wondered when you would get round to asking that. As you know from your records, we have licenses for all our guns.’ And picking up his cup he crossed the room to the bottom of the wooden staircase. ‘Come up and I’ll show you our gun cupboard. It’s all as it should be. We always keep the guns up here under lock and key.’

The gun cupboard was made of heavy oak and stood on an upstairs landing outside the bathroom. It was heavily padlocked and had been bolted to both the wall and the floor. ‘There you are,’ said Alistair, as he unlocked the padlock and opened the cupboard door. Inside, in wooden partitions, there were three guns: two shotguns – one 12-gauge and one 20-gauge – and a .22 Hornet rifle. The end partition was empty. At the top of the cupboard, above the partitions, was a locked metal cabinet that was also bolted to the back of the cupboard. ‘The guns are just as you have them recorded on our firearm certificates, which I assume you have checked out.’