Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

‘Yes,’ Katrina agreed. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for if he caused Rhona to have a heart attack.’

Nial Urquart picked up the bird cage and prepared to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought he plucked a couple of leaflets from a side pocket of his waterproof jacket. ‘Could I leave a few of these in your waiting-room? They’re for a protest meeting against the wind farm.’

Katrina looked at him with concern. ‘Be careful, Nial. The new laird doesn’t sound as if he’s the sort that it is wise to cross.’

The bird protection officer grinned. ‘I didn’t know you cared, Katrina.’

‘It’s Morag I’m worried about,’ she lied.

It was actually after lunch before Katrina could get out to the Wee Kingdom to see Alistair McKinley’s sheep. It was misty for one thing. For another the causeway across to the little islet was blocked by a large container lorry that could only just get across, by literally edging its way inch by inch, each move directed by a swarthy well-built youth in a red baseball hat. After waiting behind it for about quarter of an hour she zipped past in her battered old Mini-van, ignoring the wolf whistles from the driver and his mate as they pulled into the side of the road prior to negotiating the pock-marked drive up to Wind’s Eye croft.

As Katrina expected, she found the old crofter working away at his hand loom in one of the outhouses, outside which Shep, his nervous but friendly old collie stood guard. After a cursory bark the collie advanced with tail wagging at half mast. Katrina patted him, stroked his head then entered the outhouse. ‘You never stop, do you, Alistair?’ she said admiringly.

‘Time is money, Vet,’ he returned, barely looking up to acknowledge her entry. ‘Just let me finish off this bit of weaving, and then I’ll be with you.’

Katrina watched admiringly for a few minutes as he operated the foot treadles which raised the heddles to open a shed for the shuttle, which was thrown across when he pulled a string with his right hand. That done, he swung the sleay back and forth, gradually transforming a seemingly impossibly complicated arrangement of threads of yarn into the famous patterned West Uist cloth. There was something almost hypnotic about the pleasing rattle-tattle noise of the most basic technology.

‘It really is a cottage industry in every sense, isn’t it?’ she commented. ‘West Uist Tweed is sold all over the west of Scotland, yet I guess few buyers in the fancy shops realize that it is all made by hand in the crofts of the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Aye, that’s right. We don’t have the market of the Harris Tweed, of course, but we have our own style. All of the crofters contribute and we all aim to make our quota each month. It’s the way it has always been.’

‘And will it always be done like this, Alistair?’

Alistair McKinley finished and tapped the shuttle, ‘I have my doubts, Veterinary. Especially if that new laird has anything to do with it.’ He looked as if he was about to spit, but thought better of it. ‘Windmills!’ he exclaimed in exasperation. ‘He’s just sent poor Rhona into hospital and as for my Kenneth—’

‘He’s sent Kenneth where, Alistair?’

The old crofter turned sharp penetrating eyes on her. ‘Are you interested in Kenneth, Katrina? I saw he got your blood up yesterday at the wake.’

Despite herself, Katrina flushed. ‘I interrupted you, Alistair. What do you mean, am I interested in Kenneth?’

‘Are you just being polite when you ask where he is, or are you interested in my son?’

Katrina smiled and gently shook her head. ‘I think we are talking at cross purposes here, Alistair. I had heard that Rhona had been sent to hospital and I somehow thought you meant that Kenneth had gone too. And to answer your question – your very direct question – I am not interested in Kenneth as a boyfriend. He’s a good-looking lad, but he’s … a lot younger than me.’

‘Not all that much, lassie. He’s twenty-two now you know.’ Still the penetrating eyes fixed on her. ‘And he likes you, you ken.’

Katrina pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest. ‘OK, how can I say this,’ she said pensively. ‘I am interested in—’ She hesitated and bit her lip. ‘I was interested in someone else.’

‘Young McPhee, the policeman?’

Katrina stared at him for a moment, saying nothing. Then she glanced at her watch. ‘Maybe I could see those sheep you’re worried about.’

Alistair McKinley shrugged and stood up. ‘This way then,’ he said. At the door he stopped and looked at her pointedly. ‘But look, lassie, I think you need to be realistic. It’s been days since the accident. I doubt that we’ll ever see Ewan McPhee again.’

The mists had rolled down from the tops of the Corlins making the ascent perilous. Yet the assassin was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Or rather, he usually was. Having slept rough overnight he had eaten snails, a few worms and taken a goodly few drams of whisky from his flask. The combination had slightly numbed his senses and he was aware that he had taken one or two chances that he would not normally have taken. Even so, he shinned up the almost sheer slope of the crag that levelled to a small shelf in a little less than half an hour. He pulled himself over the jutting overhang and after resting for a moment or two to get his breath he stood up and adjusted his rucksack. The mist swirled around him making it hard to see more than an outline of the upward crag, atop of which he knew rested the eyrie.

‘It’s illegal to steal golden eagle eggs you know,’ said the voice from out of the mist.

He started despite himself, his hand reaching over his shoulder for the rifle in its shoulder bag. Then he regained his composure, and he laughed. ‘It is also illegal to kill eagles, but I am going to.’

The figure came out of the mist. ‘No, you will not! You will restrict yourself to the tasks I give you. And there will be no more killing.’

He scowled angrily. ‘I take orders from no one.’

‘What did you do with the bodies anyway?’

‘I … disposed of them.’

He swung his rucksack off and delved inside, pulling out a small thermos flask. He tossed it over and watched with amusement as the other raised it and gently shook it. Their eyes locked, then, ‘Are they iced?’

‘Just as you said.’

He watched as the lid was unscrewed and some crushed ice was allowed to escape before a polythene bag fell out into the waiting hand. He half-expected a reaction upon seeing the gory contents, but there was none. Instead:

‘And what about the policeman?’

He sneered, ‘I already told you.’

‘You were lying.’

His eyes narrowed, then he bit his lip. ‘He got in the way.’

‘You fool!’

‘Never call me that!’ he snapped, swinging the rifle bag off his shoulder and undoing the press studs to withdraw the weapon. ‘I did what I had to do and that’s that. And maybe now I should be the one to give orders.’

They both heard the sound of flapping wings followed by the characteristic chirping noise that it made as it returned towards its nest.

The assassin screwed on the silencer on the barrel of his Steyr-Mannlicher rifle.

‘What did you do with—?’

‘With him?’ He laughed. ‘That’s my wee secret. Now get out of my way. I’ve got another job to do.’

‘I won’t let you this time.’

‘Don’t try to stop me.’ He put the rifle to his shoulder and squinted through the mist in the direction of the last screech. ‘Come to me, birdie!’ he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.

‘I said – no!’

‘Shut up!’ he hissed.

The mists swirled and he thought he saw a shape flit across the Leupold ’scope. He swung the weapon, squeezed the trigger and there was a popping as the report was muffled by the silencer. Looking up he scowled and took a step backwards towards the ledge to get a better view upwards.