Кит Мори - Deadly Still

Then she recalled an explosive pain in the back of her head and felt herself hurtling forward, diving into a deep dark pool of unconsciousness.

And then waking up now — in hell.

Early the next morning, over a breakfast of Archie Reid’s famous West Uist smoked kippers, Torquil and his uncle watched the early morning Scottish TV news on the small television set on top of the fridge. Kirsty Macroon was interviewing the political editor about the fallout over a revelation about an affair between two MSPs at Holyrood. As she finished a picture of West Uist appeared in the backdrop.

‘Here it comes,’ Torquil said.

‘And now we turn to West Uist where a human tragedy has occurred. Three teenagers seem to have been experimenting with alcohol, with tragic consequences. Sadly, there has been a fatality.’

She gave a brief account of the event, identifying Jamie Mackintosh as the deceased and asking for consideration for the family. Then: ‘I spoke to Detective Inspector Torquil McKinnon last night when the search for the missing teenager, Vicky Spiers was halted due to darkness. I asked him how the tiny police force on the island was coping.’

Torquil’s voice, slightly distorted due to the telephone connection was accompanied by subtitles.

‘We are doing everything in our power to locate Vicky Spiers. We had the Stornoway Coastguard Rescue helicopter out all afternoon and have drafted in more officers from Lewis. As well as that the West Uist Chronicle assisted us by putting out a request for islander volunteers to help us, with an amazing response. We have split into several teams and are methodically searching the island in a scientific manner.’

The picture turned to Kirsty Macroon. ‘That is good to hear that the community is pulling together, but how concerned are you for her safety? I mean, it is now two days and for a youngster to be out alone in the weather that you get over on West Uist, well, that is worrying. Could you comment on that?’

‘It is alarming of course, but we hope that she has found shelter somewhere. We have to be positive and we will be starting the search again at first light. We will find her.’

As Kirsty Macroon went on to another news item Torquil sighed and switched off the television with the remote control. He harrumphed. ‘I only wish I was that confident. Morag will be out there coordinating the search party again. We just hope the weather doesn’t get too bad, or we have trouble. I’d better get off as I have a stack of things to do at the station. Allan Moorhouse the undertaker took the two bodies across to Lewis on the late ferry and the post-mortem on Jamie is scheduled for first thing this morning at the Western Isles Hospital in Stornoway. I phoned Lorna and asked her to attend on our behalf.’

‘Is Superintendent Lumsden allowing her?’

‘He is. Considering the nature of the event he could hardly refuse. And I’ve also asked her to visit Catriona McDonald while she’s at the hospital.’

‘She’ll not relish the post-mortem, I am thinking.’

‘That’s what she said, but she’s been to many before so she’ll cope. In a way it’s been just as well for us that she’s stationed there at the moment.’

‘What about poor Robbie Ochterlonie? That’s another tragedy we were not expecting.’

‘Accidents happen though, especially when alcohol is involved.’ Torquil rose from his seat and crossed to the door. ‘What are your plans? Golf?’

The Padre tisked and looked apologetic. ‘As a matter of fact I will be playing a few holes despite this situation on the island. I have an appointment with one of my flock, who needs my support. He wasn’t quite ready to unburden himself when we last met, but I think this time he might.’

Torquil nodded. He knew better than to ask more, for his uncle was always loathe to breach a confidence.

Ewan was busy writing up reports when the bell rang alerting him that someone had entered the vestibule. A moment later Stan Wilkinson popped his head round the corner.

‘Ah, Stan, madainn mhath ,’ Ewan greeted. ‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’

Stan came in with a handful of mail. He shook his head as he handed the bundle to Ewan. ‘No, I’ve got a busy round today. I thought I’d call in early and ask if there was more news on the missing girl? Or about Catriona, the one I took to the hospital?’

‘The search is on again this morning for Vicky. As for Catriona, Inspector McKinnon will be checking today.’

The postman pursed his lips. ‘Did you hear that I found another casualty, too.’

‘Angus Mackintosh! Aye, you did another good job there, Stan. The poor man, I cannot imagine what he must be going through.’

‘He was not in a good state when I picked him up.’

‘These things shouldn’t happen on a wee island like West Uist, Stan. But still, we have to do what we can to find Vicky and just hope that Catriona McDonald recovers fully.’

Stan tugged pensively on his beard. Then with a shrug and a wry smile he asked: ‘How are the murder shoes? I bet you’ll have been out trying them out.’

Ewan shook his head. ‘Not yet. To tell the truth, I have neither the time nor the inclination until we find Vicky. They’re still under the counter here in their box.’

Stan gave a short laugh. ‘Could I have a look at them again? I got a bit flummoxed when your detective came in. What did you say her name was?’

‘DC Penny Faversham,’ Ewan replied. ‘Sure you can look, but mind the blades, they’re meant for digging into the ground.’ He bent to pick up the box and placed it on the counter.

Stan opened the box and took one out. He held it up to examine it and ran a finger along the blade.

‘Maybe I’ll see you practising with them another morning when I’m on my round,’ he said, handing it back.

‘That’s quite likely, Stan,’ Ewan replied as he stowed it back in the box, ‘but as I said, I’ve no appetite for it at the moment. I have to say that it’s frustrating for me having to man the phone here instead of being out there on the search with everyone else.’

‘But you’re needed here, mate,’ Stan replied. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts. ‘Well, I’d better be off. Who knows, I may spot the girl on my rounds. They always say things come in threes.’ He turned to go, then stopped and snapped his fingers. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Can I get my phone back now? It’s here, I suppose?’

Ewan held out his hands apologetically. ‘I don’t know where it is, Stan. Sergeant Driscoll had it, I know that. I’ll ask her when I see her. Do you need it urgently?’

Stan waved his hand dismissively and opened the door. ‘No, it’s not urgent, don’t worry about it. I’ll keep popping in until I catch the sergeant.’

Five minutes later Ewan was about to make a phone call when the bell announced another visitor to the station. This time the sound of several dogs barking preceded the opening of the door.

Ewan swallowed hard and put the phone down as an elderly lady dressed in a heavy raincoat and an ill-fitting panama hat with a prodigiously large shoulder bag bustled in with five dogs, but only three of them on leads. A rather disdainful looking German Shepherd and a zestful West Highland terrier came in ahead of three boisterous puppies of indeterminate breeds that were straining on their leads. Annie McConville, a widowed lady of seventy-odd years was something of a local celebrity known throughout the Western Isles both for her vague eccentricity and for the dog sanctuary that she ran single-handedly.

‘Ah, Ewan McPhee, the very man I wanted to see,’ she said, beaming up at him.

‘Mrs McConville, those are three lively wee pups you have there.’