Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

‘He had a bad attitude, right enough. I met him yesterday. In Geordie Morrison’s croft. I was there with Megan Munro and he came in and gave us a letter each from the new laird.’ He wrinkled his nose distastefully. ‘I thought that he smelled of whisky.’

‘What were the letters about, Vincent?’

‘I think you know already, Inspector,’ Vincent returned. ‘The same as the letter that McArdle devil gave Rhona.’ His face twisted in distaste. ‘You know – the one that killed her! The one about having wind towers put up on the common grazing ground by our crofts.’

‘Have you got your letter?’

‘Not here. I think I may even have just screwed it up.’ He chewed his lip reflectively. ‘But Rhona’s letter should be here in this holdall. I haven’t had a chance, or the inclination, to unpack her stuff.’ He unzipped the bag, opened the sides and pulled out the letter.

Torquil read it and nodded. ‘Enough to give anyone a shock, let alone someone who had just had a heart attack.’ He held out the letter for Vincent to see. ‘I understand from Dr McLelland that it looked as if she was trying to write a message when she collapsed. Any idea what she meant by this CARD IN?’

Vincent shook his head. ‘No idea. It may mean one of those get-well cards that she had. They are all in there as well. As I said, I haven’t had time to check her things.’

Torquil put the letter back into the holdall. ‘I think that I had better take the bag back to the station. There may be something of relevance. I’ll give you a receipt for it all.’

Vincent looked at him with puzzled brows. ‘I thought you were investigating the murder of that young thug. Why do you need Rhona’s things?’

‘There have been several deaths. Too many for comfort. We’re keeping an open mind about them all.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking yesterday, Inspector. That’s why I was in Geordie’s cottage. I was looking to see if I could find some clue as to where he’d taken his family.’

‘And what was Megan Munro doing there?’

‘I think she had the same idea. But she was upset.’

‘Tell me more.’

Vincent stood up and stretched the muscles of his back. ‘I’m not sure that I should be saying anything about Megan’s problems.’

Torquil eyed him sternly. ‘I repeat, I am investigating a murder. Why was she upset?’

Vincent sighed. ‘I think she is having man trouble with Nial Urquart. She was upset, I comforted her, and that Liam Sartori fellow walked in.’ He held his hands palms up in a gesture of helplessness. ‘She threw herself into my arms and I was giving her a friendly hug, that’s all. There was nothing more.’

‘And what did Sartori say?’

‘Nothing much. Just a smart comment, then he gave us the letters and said he was going on to see Alistair McKinley.’

‘And that was the last you saw of him?’

‘Yes. I had chores to do and Megan was desperate to find Nial. I had already taken care of Geordie’s chickens and collected the eggs. And to tell you the truth I was a bit peeved with him. He’s always going off and taking his family with him, and he’s never too good at telling us where he’s gone.’

‘Who does he usually tell?’

Vincent hesitated for a moment, his expression grim. ‘Rhona.’

‘And presumably she hadn’t told you where they went?’

‘No, but she wouldn’t, would she?’ he replied brusquely.

‘Do I detect a touch of pique there, Vincent?’ Torquil asked.

Vincent ran his hands across his face. ‘Aye, maybe. Look, the truth is that Rhona liked younger men. She always had. Never anything deep. She liked to be in charge of her life.’ He gestured round the room at the bookcases packed with books, the upright piano by the wall, the old manual typewriter and the reams of neatly stacked paper on an old roll-top desk; then, ‘Geordie was the latest.’

‘And does everyone on the Wee Kingdom know that?’

The crofter shook his head. ‘I knew it, and I suspect that Alistair McKinley knew it too. But I’m pretty sure that Sallie, Geordie’s wife doesn’t.’

‘Or perhaps she found out and that’s why they’ve gone off somewhere.’

‘Maybe,’ Vincent returned doubtfully. ‘Geordie is an unpredictable man. I am just not sure what to think.’

‘And were you one of Rhona’s lovers?’ Torquil asked matter-of-factly.

Vincent gave a soft whistle, and then smiled winsomely. ‘You don’t pull punches, do you, Inspector?’ He glanced at a photograph of all of the Wee Kingdom crofters on the mantelpiece. A smiling Rhona was in the middle. ‘The answer is yes, years ago, for a few months. When I first came to the Wee Kingdom to take over my croft when my mother’s cousin died. But not since then. I loved her then.’

Torquil nodded. ‘The Padre tells me that you’ve been here about twenty years now.’

Vincent nodded. ‘That’s right.’ He seemed to look into the distance, into the past. ‘Twenty years, how time flies. Rhona was sort of playing at crofting back then. She was still commuting back and forth to the mainland, and working as a writer in Glasgow or Edinburgh.’

‘She was a journalist, I believe,’ said Torquil. And crossing to the roll-top desk he looked at the piles of neatly stacked papers and the documents in the pigeon holes of the desk. ‘It looks as if she was still busy with writing.’

‘Aye, she hadn’t written anything for years, but she started again – just articles – a few months ago. Mainly about lifestyles and crofting.’

‘She seems to have been very methodical.’

‘Rhona was the administrator of all of the Wee Kingdom business outlets. She did all the paperwork for us.’ He shook his head. ‘God knows how we’ll cope now. I’m helpless at that sort of thing.’

‘And what about the wind towers that McArdle is having put up?’

Vincent snorted with derision. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for.’

‘It looks as if one of his men has already paid for him, with his life.’

‘Aye, maybe so.’

Calum Steele had been busy on the internet. In his own mind he was an investigative journalist par excellence . He felt born to the job, being by nature both curious about his fellow citizens, and having an almost pathological urge to gossip.

‘Calum Steele! You would spear the inside out of a clam with your questions!’ Miss Melville, his teacher at the local school used to say upon being barraged with his questioning. ‘You need to go and be a journalist.’

And indeed that was precisely what he had done, the only thing being that he had done it locally, ultimately becoming the sole staff member of the West Uist Chronicle . Being somewhat thick-skinned, it had never occurred to him that it had been Miss Melville’s hope that he would leave the island to seek his fortune.

Calum had grasped the new technology with both hands. Although he liked to cultivate the image of always having a spiral-bound notebook with him, he always carried a state of the art Dictaphone in his anorak as well as his latest love, his digital camera. He was still rankling at the criminal loss of his last one, which had forced him to shell out £500 on the new one at his elbow.

To his credit, he single-handedly produced enough copy to fill the eight pages that made up the local paper six days a week. Admittedly, four pages were taken up with advertising, but anything on the island that was remotely newsworthy, whether that was the purchase of a new tractor, the number of overdue library books, or the belief that eagles were attacking people, Calum would investigate and write it up. And a murder investigation to him was like manna from heaven.

Not being of a naturally sentimental nature, Calum had found himself in a strange place lately. The loss of PC Ewan McPhee had affected him more than he had thought it would. He had become maudlin and he found himself valuing his friends more than usual. Torquil McKinnon and the Drummond twins, who had all been at school at the same time, and Morag Driscoll, the police sergeant whom he had secretly adored for years, they all seemed vitally important in his life. He had become patriotic, territorial, and he taken a great dislike to the brazenness of the new laird, Jock McArdle and his bully-boy tactics. He had decided to take up a crusade against the wind towers that were being erected on the Wee Kingdom.