Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

Then she packaged up the special tissue sample and laid it in the collection bag with the rest. It looked just like all the rest.

When she had finished she stripped off the gloves, rinsed her hands again and stared in the mirror. Despite herself, her thoughts returned again to Nial Urquart and she felt a tremble of excitement.

Then she chided herself again.

‘What a mess, Katrina, you bloody fool! How do you get yourself into such messes?’

Once Jock McArdle and Danny Reid had left the cottage hospital, Torquil sat and drank a cup of tea with Ralph McLelland and the Padre in Ralph’s out-patient consulting-room.

‘That McArdle is an unpleasant fellow,’ said Ralph. ‘I know he was upset, but he’s not going to win any prizes for politeness.’

‘Calum Steele said something like that, too,’ agreed Torquil. ‘And Calum isn’t himself renowned for that attribute.’

‘I thought that you handled him rather well though, laddie,’ said Lachlan.

Torquil gave a wan smile and sipped his tea. ‘For now. But he’s wanting to come back and talk to me about his dog. Apparently Katrina Tulloch says it may have been poisoned.’

‘The world doesn’t seem to be with Mr Jock McArdle at the moment,’ mused the Padre. ‘What do you think he meant when he said he’d deal with things?’

Torquil shook his head. ‘I think he believes that Sartori was murdered. He saw the scratches on the face, but he didn’t buy them being done by an eagle.’

Ralph McLelland stood up. ‘Well, it’s only speculation at the moment. The post-mortem may tell us more. Can I go ahead?’

Torquil took a final swig of tea and stood up. ‘Absolutely. He’s been formally identified. Let’s see what you find.’

Jesmond, the Dunshiffin Castle butler, was looking nervous when Jock McArdle stormed into the hall with Danny Reid at his heel.

‘I have bad news sir,’ Jesmond said. ‘I tried your mobile but there was no answer. It’s Dallas, sir. I called Miss Tulloch the vet, and she’s on her way. But I think it’s too late.’

‘What’s happened?’ McArdle snapped.

‘I heard her howling, sir. I found her lying in the billiard-room, shaking and frothing at the mouth. Then she just – died! I think she may have been poisoned too, sir.’

Ralph McLelland called Torquil at home that evening, as he and the Padre sat sipping pre-dinner drams of whisky.

The Padre watched his nephew speaking to the GP-cum-police surgeon over the phone, then replace the receiver, looking grim-faced.

‘It looks as though you were right, Lachlan. There’s no doubt in Ralph’s mind. He’s pretty sure that it was murder. And he thinks he has strong evidence to prove it.’

The mouth-watering aroma of fried kippers greeted Torquil as he came down to breakfast the following morning. The Padre was standing by the Aga reading the latest edition of the West Uist Chronicle . He sighed and handed the paper to his nephew.

‘Calum has been busy,’ he announced. ‘He sails close to the wind a lot of the time, but he may find himself in a spot of trouble with this.’

Torquil sat down and spread the newspaper on the table beside his place setting. There was a large photograph of the two wind towers on the Wee Kingdom and the headline: WIND OF DISCONTENT.

The article that followed it was one of Calum’s rants:

The threat of wind farms in the Hebrides is now a reality. The self-styled ‘laird of Dunshiffin’, Mr Jock McArdle, has steamrollered the local crofting community on the Wee Kingdom. These ugly wind towers are each about fifty feet tall and have been erected on the common grazing ground adjoining the late Gordon MacDonald’s Wind’s Eye croft. The new owner of the Dunshiffin estate, of which the Wee Kingdom is a part, has gone against the local wishes and put his ill-conceived plan into action.

The West Uist Chronicle says that this plan is ill-conceived because the legality of erecting these wind towers on common grazing ground is in doubt.

Torquil lifted the paper as his uncle handed him a plate and put the skillet of kippers on a cooling board in the centre of the table.

It’s not too bad as an article,’ Torquil said. ‘I guess he’s just echoing local opinion.’

‘Ah, but he then goes on to get a bit personal about McArdle and he calls his employees “henchmen”. Not content with that he accuses them of intimidatory tactics, and mentions again about them throwing his camera into Loch Hynish.’

Torquil picked up his knife and fork and began to eat as he continued to read.

‘It’s the article on the next page that I meant though,’ Lachlan added, as he poured tea.

Torquil turned to the inside page and saw the photograph of the body of Liam Sartori lying below the causeway. The face had been digitally blurred, but beneath the photograph was the headline: HAVE THE KILLER EAGLES STRUCK AGAIN?

There was a blown up insert at the bottom left of the photograph, featuring a golden eagle swooping on some prey.

‘Good grief, he’s gone mad!’ Torquil exclaimed. And he read:

The body of a man, believed to be in the employ of Mr Jock McArdle, the new owner of the Dunshiffin estate, was found face down in a rock pool yesterday below the causeway to the Wee Kingdom. Our reporter saw the body and informed us that there were unmistakable talon marks across the dead man’s face. He was able to confirm that these are identical to those found on the body of Mr Kenneth McKinley, who died in a climbing accident in the Corlins last week.

Two deaths! Both with talon marks! Isn’t it time that someone did something?

‘The bloody fool!’ Torquil exclaimed. ‘What’s he playing at? It’s bad enough that he’s published a photograph of the poor chap’s body but to write that drivel. It is as if he is inciting some idiot to go hunting for eagles.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Blast Calum and his inflated ego. Why does he feel he has to sensationalize everything?’

‘And there are a lot of hotheads around,’ agreed Lachlan. ‘But he’ll get flak from people like Nial Urquart and the bird lovers.’

‘Damn!’ Torquil cursed, as he pushed his plate aside. ‘That’s all I need with a murder investigation on my hands.’

No sooner had he said it, than his mobile went off. Morag’s name flashed on the view screen.

‘Torquil have you seen—?’

‘Aye, Morag. I’ve got the Chronicle in front of me. Calum Steele is a prize idiot.’

‘He is that,’ Morag agreed. ‘But I didn’t mean the Chronicle , I’ve just been watching the tail end of the early morning Scottish TV news before I take the kids to the minders. Kirstie Macroon has just done a piece on the “Killer Eagles of West Uist”, and she had a tele-interview with Calum. We may be in for an influx of reporters and sensation seekers.’

Torquil groaned.

‘I’ve got everything teed up for first thing though,’ Morag went on. ‘The Drummonds and Ralph McLelland are coming in. I thought we’d have the briefing in the recreation-room at the station. I’ll have it all ready for when you get in.’

Superintendent Lumsden had left a message with Morag for Torquil to telephone him as soon as he set foot in the building.

‘I think his gout must still be playing him up,’ Morag said with a grimace that told Torquil exactly the sort of reception he could expect when his superior officer answered the telephone. And indeed there were no pleasantries or preliminary banter: the superintendent just went straight for the jugular:

‘Why the hell is it always the same with you, McKinnon? Do you set out to embarrass me with the chief constable? Why do I always seem to hear about what’s happening on West Uist when I look at the TV news? Killer eagles for goodness sake! Have you no control over that numskull reporter Calum Steele?’