Кит Мори - Deadly Still

Penny was not overly impressed by the size of the office space, but she couldn’t help being soothed by the big constable’s smile and his almost melodic island accent.

Calum and Cora had gone back to the West Uist Chronicle offices in something of a hurry. In fact, ‘newspaper offices’ was a rather grandiloquent title, for although there was a large printed sign attached to the wall beside the door, the offices consisted of two floors, both of which had been used exclusively by Calum, until the happy day that Cora Melville, the great niece of Miss Bella Melville, Calum’s old teacher, had walked into the office and into his life.

The actual news office itself, where Calum interviewed people and took orders for photographs that appeared in the paper, occupied the first room on the ground floor, with the archives of back issues in the room at the back. Upstairs was where the actual work took place. At the front was the room with a cluttered old oak desk where Calum wrote his articles on a vintage Mackintosh computer or on his spanking new laptop. Sitting between the two computers was a dusty old Remington typewriter, which served no real purpose other than to help him feel the part of a writer. In his mind he had been touched with the literary genius of Hemingway, the incisive mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the investigative journalism skills of Woodward and Bernstein.

The rest of the room was occupied with his digital printing press, paper and stationary supplies, and in the corner was the space where he stacked the next issue of the newspaper ready for distribution. Across the landing was a larger room which had been divided up to form kitchenette, a shower, a toilet, and a space with a room containing a battered old settee and a camp bed, which Calum used to use when he was either working late or when he felt too inebriated to return home. As the editor, printer and sole reporter of the paper he used to work flexible hours, his only rule being that however he managed it he would produce a paper every Tuesday and Friday. Sometimes he even produced extra editions, which he called ‘specials’ when there was something of significant newsworthiness that he felt the good folk of West Uist needed to know about.

When Cora joined him as his chief reporter and introduced new technology, he had forked out for a new desk and computer for her and the West Uist Chronicle hit cyberspace, with its own website and a digital edition for those readers who had embraced social media.

‘You really are the most amazing man, Calum Steele,’ Cora trilled as she and Calum lay ensnared together in post-coital somnolence.

‘And you are the most —’ he began, only to be interrupted by his mobile phone suddenly ringing. ‘That’ll be Ralph,’ he said, clicking it onto speaker mode. ‘ West Uist Chronicle . Is that you, Ralph?’

‘No, Calum, it’s me — Torquil. And I need your help.’

The editor swung his stocky legs over the side of the camp bed and sat up. ‘Is it about Catriona McDonald? Me and Cora saw her being taken into the hospital. Ralph was going to call me with news when he was able. I saw Charlie and Bridget, but they were too distressed to talk and I didn’t press them.’

Torquil fleetingly told him about the three teenagers.

‘That’s awful news, Torquil. Jamie used to be one of my delivery lads before he started studying for his Highers. I knew it must be something serious with Catriona, what with her being brought in by Stan Wilkinson in the post van. He was driving along Harbour Street in the mist like a bat out of hell.’

‘Aye, well, Ralph is arranging the transfer for Catriona to the Western Isles Hospital in Stornoway.’

‘And Vicky Spiers?’

‘We can’t say too much yet to the public, but we badly need help. That’s why I can’t go to television or the radio. It’s going to take time that we haven’t got to get extra officers over from Lewis, so I need islanders up at the old pillbox on Harpoon Hill to search for Vicky Spiers. That’s why I need your network.’

‘The West Uist Chronicle is at your service, Piper. We’ve got emails from almost everyone on the island.’

‘Well, maybe just email those folk who have suitable vehicles and who are physically able enough to go trekking across the moors.’

‘And the beaches?’

There was a pause, then: ‘Aye, anywhere the lassie could have wondered to. That includes anywhere she could have fallen. So far, the Drummond lads haven’t found anything.’

‘We’ll get on the case straight away.’

‘Thanks, pal. Just one thing, though. This is going to be incredibly sensitive, so please avoid sensationalism in the email.’

Calum opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it when Cora dug her fingers into his chest. ‘Understood. Let’s just get the lassie home safe first.’

‘Good man, Calum. I promise you I’ll give you a full statement for the Chronicle as soon as I can. Just hold on until then.’

Cora kissed Calum’s cheek as the phone went dead. She shot off the camp bed and skipped naked through to her desk and computer.

‘I’ll get the email list up and start weeding out the folk that won’t be up to going on a search party. If you compose the email you want to send out to them then I’ll make some tea and toast. I guess we’ll need it.’ As she sat down and moved her mouse to fire up her computer she beamed at him. ‘I’m so proud of you for holding back, Calum.’

Calum waved his hand dismissively. ‘Two more lessons in journalism for you, my wee darling. First, respect your sources and be mindful of their wishes. Secondly, sometimes a scoop doesn’t have to appear in print. Everyone who receives the email we’re going to send will appreciate that the news is coming from the West Uist Chronicle .’

Charlie McDonald had waited until Catriona was taken onto the air ambulance.

‘She’s going to be fine, Bridgie,’ he began. ‘I’ll make sure —’

‘I told you, don’t call me that. And don’t ever expect me to believe that you’ll make sure of anything, you stupid man. If you’d been a half decent father, then —’

Catriona groaned on the stretcher. ‘Mum … Dad … don’t start, please,’ she pleaded in a voice slurred from the ethanol she had been given.

Sister Lamb touched Charlie’s arm. ‘They need to go, Councillor McDonald. And Bridget, you’ll need to get in now.’

Charlie had watched the helicopter rise swiftly into the air and head off as the rain started to come down. He pulled his jacket collar up and ran for his Mercedes. It was only when he got in and started up the ignition to put on his windscreen wipers that he noticed the Land Rover Defender parked outside the hospital grounds. Its lights flashed and then it started off and headed down the road, turning quickly uphill to head inland.

He followed at a discrete distance until he was well clear of Kyleshiffin and then accelerated to keep up with it. After a couple of miles the Land Rover turned off the road onto a track leading to the woods, one of their secret rendezvous spots. She always liked outdoor sex and told him that the risk of being discovered gave their relationship an extra frisson.

He drew into the small clearing where her vehicle was already parked. Esther Corlin-MacLeod was leaning against it. She was dressed elegantly in a quilted Barbour jacket over West Uist tweeds with knee high leather boots that looked more fashionable than necessary for a woodland walk. Indeed, with her ponytail protruding from under a stylish country cap she could have a model on a shoot for Country Life rather than the entrepreneurial owner of a leading distillery and renowned Hebridean shooting estate.