Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

The redheaded newsreader went through the headlines while they sat and drank. Then the backdrop behind her changed to a picture of Dunshiffin Castle.

‘Here that’s us!’ exclaimed Danny Reid. ‘We’re on the news!’

Jock McArdle waved his hand irritably and sat upright. ‘Let’s listen then.’

‘And now to West Uist and the revelation by the editor of the West Uist Chronicle that the death yesterday of Liam Sartori, one of the employees of the new owner of the Dunshiffin Castle estate was not due to an eagle attack, as we previously reported, but was in fact due to – murder!

‘The local editor, Calum Steele is on the phone now.

Jock McArdle swallowed the rest of his whisky and lemonade and held the glass out to Danny Reid for a refill.

Then Calum Steele’s voice came over the television:

‘The new owner of Dunshffin Castle is himself causing quite a stir on the island. He has embarked upon a programme of windmill erection, which is of questionable legality.’

Jock McArdle cursed. ‘Careful you wee bastard!’ he said to the screen, which showed Kirstie Macroon nodding her head as she listened to Calum.

And our investigations have revealed that Mr McArdle has a cavalier approach to business. Today it can be revealed that whereas he is publicly proclaimed to be an ice cream and confectionary mogul, in fact he has many investments, most notably in a string of companies involved in animal research. He has previously been the target—’

Jock McArdle shot to his feet. ‘Get the Porsche. It’s time that wee busybody learned not to meddle in my business.’

Nial Urquart had just walked into the sitting-room of Katrina’s flat with a cup of coffee in his hand. He switched on the television and caught Calum Steele’s piece on the news.

‘Bastard!’ he exclaimed.

‘Who is a bastard?’ Katrina called through from the kitchen.

Nial flicked the channel control to the BBC. ‘Oh no one. Sorry for my language. It’s just my team. They lost in the league.’

Then he switched the television off.

The Bonnie Prince Charlie was busy as usual and Mollie McFadden and her staff were occupied with pulling pints of Heather Ale and dispensing whiskies. At the centre of the bar Calum Steele was holding court, clearly enjoying his newfound celebrity status on Scottish TV.

He was just telling an eager group of listeners for the third time how he had winkled out the information from the internet, when he felt a tap on his shoulder and then felt himself being whirled round.

‘I don’t allow anyone to broadcast my business affairs!’ Jock McArdle snapped.

‘And I’ve warned you once before, chubby,’ said Danny Reid, running a finger up and down the zip of Calum’s anorak. He looked aside at his employer who nodded his head.

Calum swallowed hard and held his chin up. ‘The press have a perfect right to keep the public informed.’

‘Is that so?’ Jock McArdle said, as Danny Reid grasping the zip fastener of Calum’s greasy yellow anorak. ‘Well, let me give you a friendly warning, Mr Calum Steele. In future you will keep your nose out of my affairs and you will be … respectful of my position.’ He leaned forward and took the fastener out of Danny Reid’s hand. ‘In other words – zip up!’

And he yanked the fastener all the way up and caught a tiny fold of Calum’s double chin in the zip.

Calum howled in pain.

‘Just a warning!’ McArdle said. ‘Good night everyone.’

As he and Danny Reid reached the door, Mollie McFadden’s voice rang out. ‘Aye, that’s the door Mr McArdle. Laird or no laird, you and your bodyguard are herewith banned! You are not welcome here again!’

Jock McArdle turned and sneered. ‘See, darling, that’s OK. Why would anyone want to drink in this hovel anyway? Good night and God bless.’

It was ten o’clock by the old grandmother clock in her sitting-room and Megan Munro had cried all evening. She had sent three texts to Nial Urquart and tried to phone him half-a-dozen times, but without success. So desperate had she felt that she had even contemplated trying to drink a glass of wine, but the thought alone revolted her. But music usually helped her, loud music to try to lift her mood. Yet not even Queen nor the Red Hot Chili Peppers could help. She turned off the CD player and went to switch off the lights. It was then that she thought she heard the sound of crackling, and smelled smoke.

She looked out of the window and saw the glow from Gordon MacDonald’s croft. The cottage was in flames and next to it, like a couple of beacons, the two wind towers were engulfed in flames.

The West Uist Volunteer Fire Brigade was scrambled upon receiving Megan’s emergency call. They arrived within ten minutes in their 1995 Convoy van, which had been specially converted into a Light Fire Appliance. With its four-man team, lightweight pump and four fire extinguishers, it was doubtful that they would be able to deal with the inferno that was Gordon MacDonald’s croft.

Torquil had been alerted as a matter of course and arrived moments after them on his Royal Enfield Bullet.

Alistair McKinley and Vincent Gilfillan had heard the crackling flames and had joined Megan Munro by the croft and all three had attempted to douse the flames with buckets of water from the nearby duck pond. It had been clear, however, that their efforts were in vain.

‘Just thank the lord that there was nobody inside,’ said Alistair.

‘That we cannot be sure about, Alistair,’ Torquil said, as they stood back to let Leading Fireman Fraser Mackintosh and his volunteers do the best that they could.

Vincent Gilfillan put a hand on Torquil’s arm. ‘You can’t think that anyone is in there!’

Torquil bit his lip, his brow furrowed with anxiety. ‘I doubt it, but one thing is clear – this is a case of arson. There is no way that the fire could have spread to the wind towers.’

Megan clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘My God! Nial! Where is he?’ She began to scream. And then she was running towards the cottage.

Vincent and Torquil both stopped her and drew her back. Fraser Mackintosh came over. ‘It is no use, Torquil. All we can do is contain it. It will have to burn itself out.’ He pointed at the wind towers. ‘At least those towers are metal and won’t burn. The wood platforms we can probably put out, but it looks as if any equipment on them will have been destroyed.’

Vincent took Megan back to her cottage and the others watched and waited until the fire burned itself down and the roof collapsed. Fortunately, rain began to fall and helped to dowse the fire.

But even so, it was not until the first light of morning that they were able to enter the smouldering building. And it was then that they found the badly charred body of a man.

Doctor Ralph McLelland was doing an early morning call on Agnes Calanish’s latest arrival, after her husband Guthrie, the local postmaster had called him at five o’clock.

‘We’re right sorry, Dr McLelland,’ said Guthrie, ‘it is just that he seemed too young to be having the croup. We were worried that he might need to be admitted to the hospital.’

Ralph McLelland wound up his stethoscope and replaced it in his black Gladstone bag. ‘No, there’s no need,’ he said, with a well-practised smile of reassurance. ‘He’s still getting rid of some of the secretions. His chest is as clear as a whistle. He’ll be just fine where he is.’

The local doctor was well used to night visits, although the islanders by and large did their utmost to deal with problems until a respectable hour. For Guthrie Calanish who had to be up at four every morning to get down to the harbour for the early morning ferry, five o’clock seemed perfectly respectable.