Кит Мори - Deadly Still

With his pipe charged and lit, Lachlan ambled over to the St Ninian’s golf course, leaving a trail of tobacco smoke in his wake, where he met George Corlin-MacLeod on the first tee as they had arranged the day before.

‘I haven’t brought a hipflask, Padre,’ said the distillery owner, opening his bag and taking out one of the Glen Corlin’s distinctive handbell shaped bottle, ‘but here’s one of our 50-year-old Glen Corlins that I’d like you to have.’

Lachlan whistled as he took the bottle. ‘There is no need for this at all, George. I am more than happy to have a few holes and a chat about your worries. Life often throws these things at us and as I always say, a problem shared is a problem halved.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows questioningly. ‘And maybe have a prayer afterwards, like yesterday?’

George reached into a pocket and drew out a new ball and a fresh tee. ‘Well, I can’t turn that down. It helped me and I’m grateful to you for letting me use you as a sounding board.’ His lips tightened and he shook his head. ‘After what happened to those poor kids I’d say we all have a lot to pray about. Shall I drive off first?’

‘Ready golf, George. Away we go.’

They had elected to play a full eighteen holes, going round the St Ninian’s course three times. As they reached the last tee, George surprised Lachlan.

‘If you don’t mind, Padre, I think I’d like to break open that bottle.’

‘A stirrup cup before the last hole? That’s not a bad idea, but let me give you a drink from my hipflask, if it won’t offend you?’

George looked at him quizzically. ‘Why would I be offended, Padre?’

‘Because I have it filled with Abhainn Dhonn, your competitor’s whisky.’

George gave a wry smile. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t care if it was just peatreek. I could do with a dram.’

Lachlan produced his pewter hipflask and two small leather covered whisky cups from a pocket of his bag and handed the cups to George. ‘You will find it a good drop and with quite a distinctive nose,’ he said as he poured a generous measure into each vessel.

The distillery owner sniffed his drink and nodded his approval before raising the cup to Lachlan. ‘Here’s to the last hole, Padre. I appreciate you giving me all this time in spite of all that’s going on here on West Uist, with those teenagers and everything.’

‘ Slainte mhath ,’ Lachlan said, raising his own cup and taking a sip. ‘That’s not a problem, George. I am here for you if you want to talk. I deliberately didn’t mention anything about this unfortunate business since I realise that you have things on your mind.’

‘The golf has helped to calm my mind, but you may have noticed that over the last few holes I’ve been a bit nervy.’

‘You are working up to telling me about your troubles.’

‘It’s awkward, Padre.’

‘You said that the last time.’

‘It’s a sexual matter.’

Lachlan looked around to ensure that there was no-one within earshot. ‘Would you like to go into the church where it is private to tell me?’

George shook his head and drained his whisky. ‘No, we should finish the game. My problem is that I have trouble in the bedroom department, Padre.’

Lachlan was taken aback. ‘In that case, George, I am not really qualified to help you. It’s a doctor that you are perhaps needing to see, not a minister.’

‘No need. You see, I know exactly why I have the problem. It’s entirely psychological.’

‘But George, I’m just a man of the cloth. I’m not a psychologist. If it is anxiety that you think is causing your problem, then a professional might —’

George handed the cup back. ‘I’m not anxious, Padre. I’m angry. Bloody angry! I want to kill someone and I’m scared that I might just do it. That’s why I need help.’ And then, almost nonchalantly he teed up his ball. ‘Shall we finish the round before the mist closes in again?’

Vicky had no idea what time it was. Deprived of any sensory input apart from her hearing, she had found herself drifting in and out of sleep. There in the bleak darkness of her mind grotesque dream images would jolt her back to her current nightmarish reality.

Her headache had lessened in intensity so that the pounding had turned into a constant background aching. The nausea had persisted, but had been gradually diminished by two other unpleasant sensations. First was an intense thirst such as she had never experienced in her life and second was the increasing pressure as her bladder started to fill up. Her mind latched onto both to increase her discomfort and state of fear.

She thought she heard a slight scratching noise, like a door being slowly pushed closed. She wanted to cry out and demand if there was anyone there, but the tape was too tight and she could not open her mouth.

Suddenly, her hair was grabbed and her head roughly yanked back so that her face was pointing up to goodness only knew where. She felt her heart pounding fast and could feel a violent pulsation in her abdomen as blood pumped through her aorta.

She felt a pressure on her mouth and heard a slight ripping noise as if the tape was being cut. Then the hand holding her hair tightened and pulled her head further back and something was thrust through a hole in the tape, forcing itself through her lips and between her teeth into her mouth. A tube of some sort.

Panic set in and she felt her breathing quicken.

There was no sound, no voice. No spark of kindness.

Water began to trickle slowly into her parched mouth and she eagerly swallowed, feeling some relief from the awful thirst. She had no idea how much water she was given before the flow stopped. When it began again she was horrified at the raw, burning taste. It was whisky. She desperately tried to blow it back, but the attempt made her gag as the end of the tube was shoved further back in her mouth, almost down her throat.

Panic stricken, she swallowed and swallowed until the flow stopped for a few seconds before water again was trickled into her mouth. Then the tube was pulled free and her head released.

She tried to mumble the word why, but only a guttural noise came out. Another long ripping noise was followed by pressure on her mouth and then she knew only too clearly that more tape was being wound round her face, plugging the hole.

Her thinking became really difficult and she knew that the whisky was rapidly kicking in and making her feel sleepy.

Moments later, she heard the scratching of wood on stone again. She knew that her captor had gone.

Blind fear helped in her struggle to stay awake and try to think. There hadn’t been time to dole out the same treatment to Catriona and Jamie, which meant only one thing.

I’m all alone!

Torquil was riding the Bullet when his phone went off in his pocket. He immediately slowed down, coasted into a layby and switched off the engine. He slipped his goggles up and answered. It was Lorna calling him from Stornoway about the post-mortem.

‘Are you all right, darling? Was it awful?’

‘It was really horrible, Torquil, seeing a young lad like that being cut open.’

‘Who performed the post-mortem?’

There was a pause as she consulted her notes and read from them. ‘A Dr Giles Lamont. He’s a forensic pathologist with the Crown Office and Procurator Fiscal’s office in Oban. He came over and did the post-mortem in the hospital PM room.’

‘What was his verdict?’

‘Well, you know the score, he was emphatic that the post-mortem is just the start of the process.’

‘So it was inconclusive?’

‘No, far from it. Young Jamie had a kidney trouble, which may have contributed to his death. He showed me. His left kidney was healthy looking, but the right one was tiny and hadn’t developed. Dr Lamont thinks it may never have been a functioning organ. He diagnosed it as renal dysplasia. He said it is not that uncommon and that because the left one worked, he would never have had any symptoms.’