Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

The Reverend Kenneth Canfield returned Lachlan’s questioning gaze with a look of steely defiance. But in a moment the look disappeared and he let out a sigh of resignation.

‘I cannot help it, Lachlan. I just cannot forgive the man.’

The Padre tamped the tobacco down in his pipe, but desisted from lighting it. It sounded as if Kenneth was on the point of unburdening himself.

‘You cannot forgive him for what, Kenneth?’

‘For the death of a beautiful young woman,’ Kenneth said, quickly picking up his tea and taking a good sip. He sucked air between his teeth and gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t suppose you have a decent whisky in the manse, have you, Lachlan?’

Lachlan beamed and heaved himself out of his chair. ‘Funny you should ask that, Kenneth. It just so happens I have a fine bottle of twenty-five year old Glen Corlan.’

Torquil was sifting through papers while Crusoe lay by his feet, slumbering contentedly after having eaten the better part of a large tin of dog food and lapped up a bowl of water. A commotion had been going on in the outer office and he was listening to it with half an ear.

‘It is a disgrace!’ a man’s voice cried out, despite Morag’s calm remonstrations.

‘I want to see the organ grinder, not his monkey!’

Torquil looked up and sucked air in between his lips. That would be bound to make Morag’s hackles rise. That was never a good thing to do, for she could take good care of herself. He smiled and returned his attention to the reports in front of him.

He was surprised to hear Morag’s tap on the door a few moments later.

‘Sorry to bother you with this, Torquil,’ she said, slipping into his office and closing the door behind her. He could not help but notice the broad grin on her face. ‘This will amuse you,’ she whispered. ‘It is that Doctor Digby Dent and he’s seething.’ She put a hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh that threatened to erupt.

‘The entomologist? What’s the problem?’

‘Someone has broken his midge net.’ This time she could not contain a snigger.

Torquil raised his shoulders. ‘Why is that funny?’

‘He says it was done by a gang. And one of them was Sandy King.’ She took a deep breath and repeated emphatically, ‘ the Sandy King!’

‘The footballer?’

Morag nodded enthusiastically. ‘Aye, himself! Now do you see why it’s so funny? You know his nickname, don’t you? He’s called The Net-breaker on account of his left foot.’

Torquil grinned. ‘You and your football, eh, Morag.’

His sergeant’s eyes widened. ‘Come on, Torquil. Sandy King isn’t just any footballer. He’s played in Europe and also for Motherwell and Hamilton Academicals. There’s talk of him maybe moving to play for The Picts. He’s a certainty for the next international.’

Torquil nodded, wary of getting Morag going on about football. ‘So what is he doing breaking our noted entomologist’s insect net here on West Uist?’

Morag shrugged. ‘Search me, but I thought maybe you should have a word with the midge man. Maybe say that we will investigate it. It would sound good coming from you.’ She looked at her nails, then said casually, ‘Then maybe send me to interview Sandy King.’

Crusoe whimpered in his sleep then rolled over and started snoring gently. Torquil grinned at him, then at Morag. He got up and came round his desk.

‘OK, so now I see the ulterior motive. Lead the way.’

Digby Dent was a handsome man with olive skin and dark hair. His only marring feature was a surly turn of his mouth. Standing in his waders and full protective clothing, with his insect visor hanging down his back he presented a slightly comedic figure holding the two halves of his broken insect net.

‘It was a deliberate act of vandalism,’ he said, without waiting for pleasantries. ‘That ruffian McNab and his cronies did this. One of them was some sort of footballer, I think. King, or something like that. Do you have any idea how much these things cost? The net is as thin as gossamer, it’s the finest netting you can get, which is what I need to catch a swarm of insects.’

Torquil listened as he described the whole encounter while Morag took notes.

‘And you want us to investigate this?’ Torquil asked.

‘I do, and I want to press charges.’

Torquil looked doubtful. ‘It may just end up as your word against theirs. And you say that there were three of them?’

Dent looked taken aback. ‘But I don’t care how many of them there were. I am telling you how it was. I am an academic at the University of the Highlands. Damn it, Inspector McKinnon, you know me.’

Torquil forced a genial smile to his lips. ‘Aye, I know you, Doctor Dent,’ he replied affably. ‘And I am going to put Sergeant Driscoll here on to the case straight away. We shall see what her investigation turns up, shall we?’

Dr Dent looked unimpressed. ‘Justice! That’s all I want. Justice.’

Morag smiled at him. ‘We’ll see what we can do, Doctor Dent.’

After delivering the dog food and a new leash at the station, Ewan had retraced his way to the moor above Kyleshiffin. Ever vigilant, a maxim that Torquil, his inspector and friend, was forever drumming into him, he had noticed a near bald tyre on a canary-yellow camper-van that was parked just off the road out of town, just before the bend where the track leading up to the moor started.

Although he had lived on the island all his life he never tired of the smell of the moor, with its heather, moss and the unmistakable fragrance of the peat. As he approached it he took a great gulp of air and broke into a jog.

He had a good idea of where his hammer had landed and he had been bitten by the midges. Fortunately, now that it was mid-morning there would be none around and so it would be safe to have a good poke about. He blinked as he saw a sparkle, like the glint of sun off glass in the heather in the direction that he was running. It disappeared as quickly as it had come and he jogged on.

‘Oh please, Lord, don’t let my hammer sink into the bog,’ he mused to himself. ‘It would be like losing my best friend.’

Then he saw the glint again, but this time he realized that there were actually two glints, like the reflection off a pair of binoculars.

‘Hello!’ he called out. ‘If there is anyone there, have you seen a hammer?’

His question had the desired effect, albeit not immediately. A head popped up from the heather. Then another rose beside it. Then two figures climbed to their feet as he jogged up to them.

‘What the heck do you think you are doing?’ demanded one of the men.

Ewan jogged to a stop in front of them. They were both wearing bobble hats, camouflage gear and green Wellington boots. He did not like the sullen look of the man who had just spoken. He was a swarthy, stocky man of about thirty with a gold ear-ring in one ear.

‘West Uist Police,’ Ewan said. ‘PC McPhee here.’

Both men seemed to stiffen slightly. Then they glanced shiftily at each other.

‘Police? What’s the problem, Officer?’ said the other man, a lean, unshaven fellow in his mid-twenties. ‘We’re just bird-watching.’

His companion was not so affable. ‘And do you realize that you’ve probably trodden on that nest. You’ve probably killed all three of those red-crested moorhammer chicks.’

‘I don’t think I trod on any nest,’ Ewan replied, maintaining his natural friendliness. ‘But as I asked, have either of you seen a hammer near here? A highland throwing hammer.’

The lean man smiled and reached down into the heather. ‘You must mean this. I thought it was an old cannon ball tied to a post.’