Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

‘All perfectly legal.’

‘I understand that the legality is under question,’ replied Torquil. ‘And then there were those letters you sent to the Wee Kingdom crofters. And the one that you delivered yourself to Rhona McIvor – who collapsed and died immediately afterwards.’

Jock McArdle frowned. ‘I regret her death, of course, but I hope you are not suggesting a connection between my letter and the McIvor woman’s death?’

‘It has been suggested that there may be a connection,’ Torquil returned, casually.

‘Who suggested it?’ McArdle snapped.

‘Doctor McLelland, our local GP and police surgeon.’

Jock McArdle shrugged dismissively. ‘A country quack!’

‘Dr Ralph McLelland is a highly respected doctor, and my friend.’

The new laird of Dunshiffin smirked. ‘I rest my case. Can I go now?’

Torquil eyed him coldly for a moment then glanced at the notes on the desk in front of him. ‘Yes, I’ll be in touch when I have more news, or if I have more questions for you.’

Jock McArdle nodded curtly, stood up and crossed to the door.

‘Oh yes,’ Torquil said, as the laird put his hand on the door handle. ‘You always referred to your employees as your boys . Were you actually related to either of them?’

McArdle shook his head. ‘Neither of them had any family. It’s just an expression. Glasgow talk. I’ve always looked out for my boys.’

‘Is that so?’ Torquil asked, innocently.

McArdle’s eyes smouldered. ‘I should have looked after them better, maybe. But I’ll be looking after their memory, you mark my words – Inspector McKinnon.’

He tugged the door handle and stomped out, almost knocking Lachlan McKinnon over as he did so.

‘Excuse me, Padre,’ he snapped, then left.

Lachlan came in and stood in front of Torquil’s desk. ‘Our new laird seems in a hurry to leave,’ he remarked.

‘I wish people wouldn’t call him the new laird,’ Torquil replied, with a hint of irritation. Then, noticing his uncle’s look of surprise, ‘Sorry, Uncle. It was just a difficult interview. He was not in a good mood, understandably, after he had to identify his employee’s body.’

Lachlan winced. ‘I heard from Morag that it wasn’t a pretty sight. Was he—’ Torquil’s telephone interrupted him and Torquil picked it up straight away. ‘Yes, Ralph,’ he said, into the receiver. He nodded as he listened. Then said eventually, ‘Aye, it would help if you could confirm it with the other tests. Half an hour, that would be great.’ He replaced the receiver just as Morag tapped on the door and came in.

‘I’m sorry, Uncle, what was your question?’

The Padre had plucked his pipe from his breast pocket and was in the process of charging it with tobacco. ‘I was wondering if he was murdered?’

Torquil sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. Ralph says it is definite. He looked up at Morag and explained: ‘That was Ralph just now with the preliminary findings. He thought that there were a couple of things that I ought to be aware of. Firstly, that there was enough alcohol in his system to sink a battleship.’

‘And secondly?’ Morag queried.

‘His trachea was crushed and his neck was broken at the fifth cervical vertebra. It was murder all right. Someone throttled him and then snapped his neck like a chicken’s.’

In the Incident room half an hour later, Torquil stood by the white board with the Padre beside him, while Morag, the Drummond twins and Ralph McLelland sat around the table-tennis table that had been converted into the operations desk.

‘I know it is irregular, but has anyone any objection to my Uncle Lachlan sitting in with us? We’re depleted in numbers and I think he could prove useful in our investigations.’

There was a chorus of approval, and Lachlan sat down, immediately laying his unlit pipe down on the table in front of him.

‘We’ll start with Ralph’s preliminary report,’ Torquil said.

‘As the police surgeon gave a brief synopsis of his post-mortem examination Torquil added the name Danny Reid to the whiteboard. He drew a square around the name and added relevant notes underneath:

ALCOHOL. THREE TIMES LEGAL LIMIT

BODY BADLY BURNED

MEDALLION IN MOUTH

MULTIPLE BODY PIERCINGS

BROKEN NECK – FIFTH CERVICAL VERTEBRA

‘Thanks, Ralph,’ Torquil said, as the local doctor finished his report and sat down. ‘So we have two definite murders here.’ He tapped the boxed names on the whiteboard and went on, ‘And a missing police officer – presumed dead, an entire family missing, an accidental death in a rock-climbing accident and a sudden death from a heart attack.’

‘A tangled skein, right enough,’ mused Wallace Drummond. ‘And don’t forget the two dead dogs, Piper.’

The Padre picked up his pipe and tapped the mouthpiece against his teeth. ‘And it all seems to revolve around Jock McArdle.’

‘Who can hardly be a suspect though, can he?’ said Douglas Drummond. ‘He wouldn’t be killing his own boys, would he?’

Torquil nodded. ‘Ah yes, his boys . Well, while I was interviewing him earlier this morning Morag was busy on the internet doing some research and liaising with her contacts on the Glasgow force. She has made some interesting discoveries about the “laird of Dunshiffin”. He isn’t quite who he seems.’ He nodded to his sergeant, and then sat down.

‘He certainly isn’t,’ went on Morag. ‘Mr Jock McArdle died ten years ago.’

There was a chorus of surprised murmurings.

‘Do you mean identity theft?’ Lachlan asked.

‘Not exactly. There was a Jock McArdle in Glasgow, but he had nothing to do with our supposed laird. No, he quite legitimately changed his name by deed-poll ten years ago from Giuseppe Cardini.’

‘The plot thickens,’ said Wallace Drummond.

‘But why did he change his name?’ Douglas asked.

Morag stared back at him with raised eyebrows. ‘Presumably it was because he had just come out of prison after five years – for culpable homicide!’

The first thing that Jock McArdle did when he arrived back at Dunshiffin Castle was to pour himself a large malt whisky, which he gulped down in one. Then he poured another and carried it through to the library which he used as an office. He sat down behind the leather-topped desk, cluttered with papers and gadgets, and unlocked the desk drawer. He stared inside for a moment then smiled and reached for the telephone.

Superintendent Lumsden answered almost immediately and the two men talked animatedly for a few minutes.

‘McKinnon is a bit of a maverick, I know,’ Superintendent Lumsden said eventually. ‘But I’ll make sure that he plays ball.’

‘I appreciate it, Kenneth. We Glasgow boys have to stick together, especially in a situation like this.’ And after a few pleasantries he replaced his phone on the hook.

He took another sip of whisky and smiled to himself. He was still grinning when there was a tap on the door and he looked up.

‘May I offer you my most sincere condolences, Mr McArdle,’ said his butler.

Jock McArdle leaned back and gestured for him to come in. He smiled wistfully. ‘Thank you, Jesmond. Take a seat. Let’s not be so formal. That’s not my way, you see.’

‘Thank you, sir. I realize that you like informality, sir,’ he said, gingerly taking a seat on the other side of the desk from his employer.

‘So from now on, I’m going to call you Norman. That’s OK, isn’t it?’

Norman Jesmond smiled uncertainly. ‘That’s good of you, sir. It is a privilege, sir.’

Jock McArdle smiled. ‘Well, Norman, there’s something that I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. Something I found in the pantry.’