Кит Мори - Deadly Still

‘Look! There’s his van,’ Ewan said suddenly as they turned a corner and saw the cottage with the Royal Mail van parked outside.

Penny parked beside the van and they go out.

‘Well, at least we know he’s here,’ Penny said, nimbly leaping over a puddle and heading for the front door.

She knocked at the old wooden door with its equally old, flaking paint. After a few moments, when there was no reply, she tried the handle, only to find it locked.

‘Maybe he’s round the back,’ suggested Ewan, leading the way round the cottage.

He knocked on a kitchen window as he passed and then on the door. ‘Stan! It’s me, Constable Ewan McPhee,’ he called out. ‘I’m here with DC Faversham. We need to have a word with you.’

As he tried the handle they heard a clicking noise from the other side of the house, then a creaking as a door opened. Quickly, they retraced their steps and saw Stan Wilkinson trying to walk quietly towards his van, a rucksack in one hand.

‘Ah, Stan, there you are!’ Ewan called.

The postman spun round and stared at them with a guilty expression on his face. ‘Stay away from me. I’m going and you can’t stop me.’

Penny pointed at his feet. ‘What have you got on there, Mr Wilkinson?’

‘My murder shoes!’ Ewan exclaimed. ‘So you really did burgle the station.’

Stan raised one foot six inches. ‘I said stay back. These blades could be lethal and I don’t want to hurt either of you.’

‘Stand still!’ Penny commanded. ‘I know exactly who you are and I know that your name isn’t Stan Wilkinson.’

‘You don’t know me,’ he said, shaking his head vigorously and clutching the rucksack to his chest. He took a careful backward step.

‘You like footwear, don’t you, Mr Wilkinson?’ Penny said calmly. ‘I can’t remember your name but it will come to me. I do remember the case file and the shoes and boots. And we’ve seen the photographs on your phone.’

‘You can’t. I’ve got the —’

‘You’ve got the phone, yes, we know,’ Penny replied.

‘I downloaded the whole library in case Sergeant Driscoll’s pictures didn’t send,’ Ewan said.

‘So, Mr Wilkinson, I need you to come with us. I am arresting you on suspicion of burglary. You don’t have to say —’

‘I’m not going anywhere!’ Stan cried. ‘Stay back.’ He raised his foot again, as if ready to kick out. Then he turned round and started to run for his van.

‘Ach, do not be daft, man,’ said Ewan striding quickly after him.

But before the postman had managed more than half a dozen steps the blade of a shoe dug into the ground and he tripped falling flat on his face into a deep puddle.

Ewan ran over to him. ‘I’m afraid DC Faversham is right. You’re under arrest.’

Morag was dealing with a holiday-maker asking for directions to the Glen Corlin Distillery when Calum and Cora came in.

‘And what can I do for you both?’ she asked as the tourist left.

‘Give us more information, please,’ replied Calum.

‘We’re aiming to go to press with the main paper today,’ explained Cora, ‘and we want to make sure we are totally up to date on developments.’

Morag quickly considered how much she could afford to tell them. The fact that they had been of so much help in mounting the search swayed her hand.

‘Come through to the rest room and have a cup of tea,’ she said, lifting the counter flap.

As she put on the kettle the West Uist Chronicle duo looked at the whiteboard.

‘A real tangled skein you have there,’ Calum called out over his shoulder. ‘This is the sum of all your investigations, I take it.’

‘It is but you mustn’t take any photographs, Calum.’

‘So, do you think Robbie Ochterlonie’s murder and the pillbox are all linked through the deadly still?’ Calum asked. ‘We’re planning to run the next issue under that headline.’

Morag came through with three empty mugs, a milk jug and a biscuit barrel on a tray. ‘The kettle will just take a few minutes,’ she said, setting the tray down on the table tennis table. She straightened and joined them in front of the whiteboard. ‘Actually, we think the peatreek bottles were adulterated with methanol.’

‘Can we write this all up?’ Calum asked.

‘Yes, it’s a murder investigation and we need any help we can get from the public.’

‘That’s our role, Morag. We are the conduit between the police and the public. As Torquil has said before, we are your unofficial special branch.’

Morag forced a smile, for nothing seemed humorous at this time, but she knew how susceptible to flattery of any sort Calum was. ‘Aye, Calum, you two are our very special, special branch.’

‘So where does this methanol come from?’ Cora asked.

Morag frowned. ‘DC Penny Faversham is investigating that. She’s found that there were fatalities in India, Poland, Greece and Romania. She thinks —’ She stopped suddenly, as if having just experienced a eureka moment. ‘Actually, I need to go, folks. I know it seems a strange one, but all the others are out right now. Could I ask a big favour? Could you stay here and look after the station? Nothing will happen, just take any messages and one of us will be back soon.’

She was at the door before they could say anything.

‘Help yourself to the biscuit barrel,’ she called as she went along the corridor to the front office.

‘Is there any sugar?’ Calum called back. But all they heard was the door closing behind her.

Once inside her old VW Beetle Morag pulled out her phone to call Torquil, only to find the battery had discharged again.

‘ Damnaidh! I need to upgrade this thing,’ she said, tossing it onto the passenger seat and starting up the engine.

Carrying the bottle gave a sense of power. By all accounts there was death for several people contained in it. Certainly pouring this down the kid’s throat would do the job. No need to do anything different from before, just use this stuff instead of the whisky. The aim now was to terminate her rather than just subdue.

Of course, the likelihood of snuffing her out had always been on the cards, but now it had to be done. It couldn’t be left any longer. It was the dumb kid’s fault anyway. All of their fault.

The key made a slight rattling noise in the lock and the bottom of the door scratched on the floor as usual. He opened it and stepped inside.

Vicky had heard the noise and felt her heart pound with expectation. The cigarette lighter in her back pocket had been difficult to retrieve, but she had managed it. She had burned herself as she manipulated the lighter to burn her bonds. It had been old rope and it burned well enough for her to eventually break her hands loose. Then freeing herself had been relatively straightforward, despite the weakness and fear. It had been such a relief to unwind the duct tape that had been wound round and round her eyes and her face, leaving only room for her nose so she could breathe.

Having freed herself, she had explored the place she had been imprisoned and concluded that it had been some sort of workshop, only without any tools. She had been tied to a large heavy chair that had been bolted to the floor, which was why she had been unable to move while she was bound. Apart from that there was just an old mattress and some blankets.

But the place had only a small window high up, which was too small to escape through even if she had the strength to climb to it. And the door was securely locked and wouldn’t budge.

So she had waited and waited behind the door with the only weapon she could find in her hand. A glass bottle half full of whisky.

When the man entered she moved from behind the door and swung it at his head with all the force she could muster.