Кит Мори - Deadly Still

‘Why not take a few pictures?’ Cora snapped her fingers. ‘We could maybe start a regular slot in the Chronicle of pictures of the island in the mist. I’m thinking of a catchy title, like Dreich Sketches, or Magical Mist-ery Tours. You know, a play on the Beatles.’

Calum laughed and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re getting the hang of this, my wee darling. Also, you never know, there might just be someone interesting coming over on the ferry.’

After washing and putting the breakfast things away and then dealing with a couple of parish matters over the phone the Padre picked up his golf bag and let himself out of the back door of the manse. He went down the drive, crossed the road and mounted the old style that led onto the ten-acre plot of undulating dunes and machair that he and several other local worthies had years before transformed into the St Ninian’s Golf Course.

Using the natural lie of the land they had constructed six holes with billiard smooth greens surrounded by barbed wire square fences to keep the sheep off, in contrast to the coarse grass fairways where they were allowed to graze freely. Each hole had three separate tee positions, each one giving its route to the hole a special name in both English and Gaelic, thereby allowing players the choice of following the conventional eighteen holes or any combination. The Padre was proud of telling people that while it was not exactly St Andrews, it was a good test of golf.

It was his habit to play three random holes on his way to St Ninian’s church and he was relieved that the fog had lifted enough to make golf possible, at least for a while. He stood for a few moments by the honesty box, where players could deposit their green fee and stuffed tobacco from his old yellow oilskin pouch into an equally old cracked briar pipe. Then, lighting it, he picked up his bag and strode over the hillock to the first hole.

A man was standing on the tee, about to drive off.

‘Ah, Padre, you are just in time to join me, if you have a mind for some company?’

‘George, latha math . This is a surprise, but it would be a pleasure. I’m just playing three holes on my way to the kirk. You are out early. Does that distillery of yours not need you any longer?’

George Corlin-MacLeod, the co-owner with his wife of the Glen Corlin estate and its famous whisky distillery, grinned, showing perfect, Hollywood-white teeth, quite in keeping with the local celebrity image that he enjoyed and cultivated. He was a handsome fifty-something, who looked far younger, thanks to the wonders of cosmetic surgery, which both he and his wife, Esther Corlin-MacLeod could afford to indulge in.

‘Lachlan, you know very well that the distillery has little need of me, at least not for the whisky production. Esther does far more of the running than I do. I’m more use in advertising, promotion and overseas sales.’

‘Have you brought a sample in a hipflask then?’ the Padre asked with a grin.

George shook his head and smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not, Lachlan. Although I promote our products, I don’t imbibe very often. Esther’s parents and her late cousin, from whom we inherited the business, put me off drinking.’

The Padre nodded sagely. ‘I understand, George. I was only teasing.’

‘I’m already teed up, so are you all right with ready golf?’

The Padre nodded. ‘Away you go.’

George took a couple of practice swings before launching himself into his drive. There was a resounding click and the ball shot away on a slight left to right trajectory to land two hundred and eighty yards or so in the light rough on the right, just within the limits of visibility in the mist.

‘Good drive, George,’ said the Padre, pulling his three wood from his old canvas golf pencil bag.

‘Still using the wooden headed clubs, Lachlan? You must be one of the last golfers to do so.’

‘Aye, I cannot abide that hollow, tin can sound these modern affairs make. I’m an unashamed traditionalist, you see.’ He teed his ball up, took a single practice swing and then drove the ball with his usual controlled draw two hundred and sixty yards into the middle of the fairway.

‘Bravo, Lachlan. Effortless efficiency.’

They walked down the fairway together until they came to Lachlan’s ball. He gauged the remaining distance and with an easy swing lobbed the ball onto the green to roll up to ten feet from the hole. A few moments later George took out a pitching wedge and matched the Padre’s shot. On the green they each two putted and halved the hole in pars.

Lachlan patted George on the shoulder. ‘That’s good enough, for a gimme. Now would you like to tell me why you really came out to the course today? I know when I’ve been ambushed.’

George Corlin-MacLeod grimaced. ‘Actually, you are right, I have a problem that I’d like your advice on. The thing is — it’s really a wee bit difficult. Awkward, even!’

Lachlan pointed to the whitewashed church. ‘Why don’t we adjourn to my place of work, then, George? The pews will all be empty this morning and my boss up above likes to test me with things difficult and awkward.’

For the second time that morning Stan Wilkinson was shocked to look out the side window of his van and see someone charging at him. This time it was a woman, waving her arms like windmills as she ran through the heather covered slopes from the pillbox on Harpoon Hill. He recognised her as Morag Driscoll, the local police sergeant.

He stopped and pressed the button to lower the window. ‘Sergeant Driscoll, what can I —?’ he began.

‘Ah, Stan Wilkinson, if ever I needed someone, it’s certainly yourself. I have an emergency on my hands and I have no phone.’

The postman climbed quickly out of his van and pulled his phone from his pocket. He unlocked it and handed it to her and listened in awe as she briefly explained the situation while she coded in Doctor Ralph McLelland’s number.

‘Teenagers. Three of them have been drinking all night up in the old pillbox. One’s dead, I’m sorry to say, and one’s got visual trouble and can’t see.’

‘Christ Almighty!’ Stan exclaimed, his jaw dropping and his face paling instantly. ‘I saw Constable McPhee earlier on my round. Should I drive back and see if I can find him. Maybe he —’

Morag raised a hand to silence him while she spoke to Ralph McLelland. Then once she had finished: ‘There is no point. Ewan McPhee will have been practising his hammer throwing, I am thinking. He’s probably back at the police station by now. I’m going to need you to take Catriona McDonald up to Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital. Doctor McLelland said he’ll meet you in the accident and emergency room.’

She next called the station and was relieved when Ewan answered immediately. She dispensed with niceties and quickly issued instructions to him before turning to Stan. ‘Right, now let’s get Catriona,’ she ordered in her no-nonsense professional manner, as she led the way up the slope.

A few moments later Catriona McDonald, no longer sobbing or screaming, but clearly in shock, was strapped into the passenger seat of the Royal Mail van. Morag told her to stop rubbing her eyes and to just keep them closed with her hands over them, to rest them until the doctor saw her.

‘You said there were three, so what about the third one?’ Stan asked, circling the van to get into the driver’s seat.

‘That’s just what I need to find out. I had a look to make sure she hadn’t fallen over the cliff in this fog and thank god she hasn’t. I’ll get our special constables, the Drummond lads, up here to help.’ As Stan held his hand out for his phone she shrugged her shoulders apologetically. ‘I’m afraid that as it’s such an emergency I’m going to have to ask you to leave your phone with me.’