Кит Мори - Deadly Still

Ewan nodded emphatically. ‘Of course, I shouldn’t have put you in such an awkward position, Stan. I apologise.’

Stan climbed into his seat and pulled the door closed. ‘No problem, Constable McPhee. Just be patient, and if your murder shoes are here, I’ll be delivering them later on when I get back to Kyleshiffin.’

Ewan laughed and then watched the Royal Mail van drive off, soon disappearing in the mist. That Stan is a good fellow , he thought. That’s just what we need on West Uist, chaps like him with a natural respect for rules and the law. And gentle types like Cameron Beamish too, who care about nature.

He chuckled to himself as he thought of the owlish solicitor with his high-powered binoculars. Aye, in this mist he’ll need all the help he can get to spot any birds at all.

The Kyleshiffin police station was a converted pebble-dashed bungalow off Lady’s Wynd, which ran parallel to Harbour Street. After his training session Ewan McPhee had let himself in and then locked the door and changed into his regulation Police Scotland uniform, which they were now forced to wear instead of the casual blue Arran sweaters that they used pre-2013 when they were just members of the Hebridean Constabulary. Now they had to wear black trousers, matching black wicking top with zip-up collar, epaulettes with numbers and rank and a utility belt with all the accoutrements of law enforcement. Ewan didn’t mind it at all, but he was aware that the others resented it, especially when they had to wear high-vis jackets and caps.

At quarter to eight he nipped out to Allardyce, the baker’s shop on Harbour Street to get a supply of butter rolls for when the others arrived. He planned to make the tea when he returned, so it was fresh for them.

There was a queue inside the shop already.

‘ Latha math . And it’s a good morning to the big lawman himself,’ said a small tubby man in a yellow anorak, wearing thick spectacles. Ahead of him a young woman turned and smiled at Ewan.

‘Hello Ewan, what time do you call this?’ she asked, with an impish grin.

‘Good morning Calum and Cora. Don’t tell me, the West Uist Chronicle ’s news team have been up all night working on the next issue,’ Ewan replied, cheerily.

‘Aye, you got it in one, Ewan,’ said Calum. He leaned towards the big policeman and spoke in hushed tones lest any of the other customers should hear. ‘The truth is, we were scratching our heads about what to put in. There’s been nothing happening lately and we’ve been scouring the internet to write feature articles. We’re written a long one about you, actually.’

‘He’s only kidding,’ said Cora, elbowing the editor of the local newspaper in the ribs. ‘We’ve been plenty busy. We at the West Uist Chronicle are now 24/7 purveyors of the news with our newspaper, website, blog and Facebook page.’

‘You mean you are dragging Calum screaming into the digital age, Cora?’

Cora Melville giggled and slipped her arms around her boss — and boyfriend’s —waist and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘He needs a bit of dragging around sometimes,’ she added with another giggle.

Gordon Allardyce, a ruddy-faced, middle-aged bachelor and notorious flirt winked at Cora as he reached behind the counter for some pies for the customer he was serving. ‘You could drag me around anytime, sweetheart. Besides, you never know which gutter the editor of our local rag has been wallowing in.’

Calum knocked a knuckle on the glass counter. ‘We’ll have less of the flirting with my chief reporter if you don’t mind, Gordon. And a bit more respect for the press. After all, we have the law beside us today and if you’re not careful we’ll tell him what you lace your pasties with.’

A few minutes later the two journalists and Ewan emerged onto the mist-shrouded Harbour Street which was beginning to get busy at the start of the day.

‘Look, there’s Nathan Westwood and Helen Beamish over by the harbour wall,’ said Calum as he took a bite on a mutton pie. ‘Let’s have a chat. I like to watch an artist at work.’ He nodded towards the harbour where a tall man in a rollneck sweater and chinos was leaning against the wall sketching something on an artist’s pad, while chatting to a petite, striking woman with auburn hair tied back in a ponytail.

Ewan glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to open the station up, so I’d better be on my way.’ Clutching his bag of butter rolls he touched his cap in a half salute and strode off towards Lady’s Wynd.

‘ Latha math — good morning to you both,’ Calum said, announcing his approach halfway across the road. ‘What on earth are you drawing in this mizzle, Nathan? Are you not getting your paper wet?’

Nathan Westwood was an Englishman who ran Westwood’s Art and Antique Gallery, a pink-facaded shop with two large bay windows halfway along Harbour Street. In one half of the gallery he displayed his own watercolour paintings and those of other Western Isles artists, while in the other half he ran a thriving antique business.

Nathan turned round and laid his sketch pad on the wall beside a bridge camera. ‘Good morning to you all,’ he greeted in a smooth Surrey accent. ‘Wonderful foggy day, isn’t it?’

Cora wrinkled her nose. ‘I wouldn’t call it wonderful, exactly. It’s a bit dreich .’

Helen Beamish laughed. ‘That’s exactly what I was explaining to him. Its cheerless, dismal and to be expected in Scotland.’

Nathan shook his head with a broad smile. ‘But I don’t see it in those terms. Look at it, it’s wonderful stuff. It swirls, it scintillates and it makes everything so magical and mysterious. Look at the masts of the boats down there. Ghostly shapes, aren’t they? And the sight of the ferries coming in when it’s like this is a sight to behold. That’s why I photograph it and make sketches whenever it seems right to catch it. Mist, mizzle and fog, I love the way they all blur and soften what you see.’

‘Catching mist must be like capturing moonbeams,’ said Calum with a chuckle. He turned and pointed at Nathan’s gallery with his pie. ‘Yet you obviously do all right by painting it, judging by the Jaguar you have parked outside your gallery.’

Helen Beamish gave Calum a friendly tap on the arm. ‘Calum Steele, you shouldn’t say things like that. It’s not polite.’

‘I think what Calum meant to say was that he likes your car,’ Cora said to Nathan with one of the sweet apologetic smiles that she had learned to use when Calum had been bullish, over-zealous or just downright rude to someone.

The artist smiled. ‘I understand. I am fortunate to have people who like my work enough to keep buying it. And my antiques. The internet helps, of course.’

‘Exactly what I keep telling Calum,’ said Cora. ‘You have to have a digital presence.’

‘Everyone does these days,’ Helen agreed. ‘It’s a must in law practice.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Talking of which, I’ll need to go, too. I’ll catch you later about that watercolour commission for my office, Nathan.’

As Helen went, Nathan picked up his camera and sketchpad and smiled at the West Uist Chronicle duo. ‘Why don’t you drop into the gallery sometimes, Cora. I can show you some of my misty pictures and convince you that there is magic in dreich, as you called it.’ He nodded goodbye and sauntered across the street to leave the editor and his assistant to contemplate the mist over the harbour.

‘So what now, boss? I’m not ready to sleep yet. Shall we wander about looking for news or wait for an ambulance to chase?’

Calum laughed. ‘What did I tell you the other day about tempting providence. It’s a good thing we’re not superstitious. Let’s wait for the ferry to come in out of the mist and see if we can see the magic that Nathan says is around it.’