Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

‘You will have to excuse my brother. He is a bit heavy-handed,’ explained Douglas, sweeping off his fisherman’s bobble hat at the same time as he plucked off his twin’s. ‘Whoever would think that two gowks like us could be special police constables!’

Morag slapped the counter to gain attention and the trio looked round at her.

‘If you two would let go of Miss Melville’s great-niece, then she will be able to get back to her new job as Calum Steele’s cub reporter.’

Cora blushed then nodded at them before hastily dodging between them to let herself out.

Wallace stood looking bemused. ‘Sorry, Morag, did we miss something there? It seemed that you and that lassie were having some sort of a tiff. And did you say that she was Miss Melville’s something-or-other?’

Morag raised the counter-flap and beckoned them through. ‘Three rights! Yes, you did miss something. Yes, I am in a mood with her. And yes, she is Miss Melville’s great-niece.’

Douglas gave a short laugh. ‘Well whoever would have thought that the old girl could have such a beautiful looking relative! Cora, did you say her name was?’

Morag scowled at him. ‘It is not funny, Douglas. She is working for the Chronicle and Calum sent her over to ask about why I released Dr Dent last night.’

Then to the twins’ surprise she slumped forward, slapping her elbows on the counter and burying her face in her hands. ‘Oh God!’ she cried.

The twins reacted in unison as they often did. They both put an arm about her shoulders.

‘What is wrong, Morag Driscoll?’

‘Aye, tell us.’

Morag sighed and shoved herself to her feet. She patted both their hands. ‘It looks as if it was a bad mistake. Ewan found him this morning up on the moor, lying in a bog pool with blood everywhere. When he phoned in he thought he must have bashed his brains out with his hammer.’

Both Wallace and Douglas stared back at her, their faces draining of colour.

‘Torquil phoned me a bit later,’ she went on. ‘Ralph Mclelland had examined the body. He was pretty sure that he was dead already, and he had doubts about whether the hammer had actually touched him. It might just have landed in the pool near him.’

Douglas let out a soft whistle. ‘Thank goodness for that.’

‘But what is Calum Steele on about?’ Wallace asked.

‘He is implying police negligence. If I had kept him in custody last night he would still be alive.’

Wallace punched one hand against the other. ‘Let me go round and see the wee scunner, Sergeant. I’ll point out the error of his ways.’

Morag gave him a wan smile. ‘I don’t think that would help very much at the moment, my wee darling.’

‘No, but it might make us feel better,’ said Douglas, through gritted teeth.

The Reverend Kenneth Canfield woke to find himself in a world of pain. His head felt as if it was about to explode, his eyes felt as if they had been sand-blasted, and as he opened them the morning sun seemed to sear them causing him to shut them tightly again. Then a wave of nausea hit him like a battering ram and he struggled to roll over so that he could vomit on the floor and not in his bed.

His stomach jettisoned its contents and he lay retching for several minutes before he felt able to lie back and piece together his fragmented memories of the night before. He began by slowly prising his eyes open to confirm that he was back in his room at the Commercial Hotel.

‘Oh Lord, what have I done?’ he groaned. ‘The whisky will be the death of me one of these days.’

The image of him having a large whisky with Lachlan McKinnon flooded back.

‘Ah, that was the first of them, you fool. You should have stuck to drinking tea. Now Lachlan may suspect my weakness.’

Then he saw himself striding towards Dr Digby Dent’s cottage later on – being admitted – offered whisky – then arguing.

‘Oh man! I should not have drunk whisky with him. What was I thinking of when I went there to confront him?’

Then the memory became more blurred. There was more whisky – good whisky, he remembered – the two of them arguing and then coming to some agreement, before arguing again. And finally, just a blur until he made it back to the Commercial Hotel.

‘My word! The hotel folk will have seen me as drunk as a skunk. Me! A man of the cloth who should know better, who should behave himself.’

There was a knock on the door then a concerned voice.

‘Are you all right in there, Minister? I thought I heard you being sick. Are you needing a doctor?’

‘No doctor, thank you,’ he called out, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘I think I may have a bit of a tummy bug. I will be OK.’

With some relief he heard footsteps receding down the corridor.

But would he be OK? It would help, he thought, if he could just remember what had happened.

The worrying thing was all the guilt that he felt. He had a nagging fear that it was not just because he had got drunk with Dr Dent.

Bruce McNab was in an ill humour as he paced back and forth by the berth of The Mermaid, his thirty-foot fishing cruiser. As far as he recalled, the arrangements for the day had been firmly agreed. He had given his party the choice of sea-fishing in the waters out towards Iona, or snipe shooting up on the Hoolish Moor. The discussion about which they should do had been interesting and amusing, for a short time. Then it had turned into a right old drinking session.

‘Damn the whisky!’ he grumbled to himself as he felt a fresh stab of pain in his head. ‘It clouds the brain, makes folk argue and – forget everything!’

He massaged his now throbbing temples, which reminded him that he had gone well past his usual limit during the session. All of them seemed to have, except, he dimly recollected, Sandy King. The professional footballer had taken just a couple of drams then gone on to shandies.

‘Sensible lad!’ Bruce remarked to himself. Then he frowned with irritation. ‘But if he didn’t drink, why is he not here?’

It had all started after they watched that Dent idiot making a fool of himself on TV. Dan Farquarson had ordered a round of Glen Corlans to celebrate. Then Bruce had reciprocated, followed by Wee Hughie. Soon after that his memory of the night failed.

Doubt then started to creep into his mind. Was he the one who had got it wrong? Were they waiting for him up on the moor?

‘Pah! Why don’t any of them answer their mobiles? Damn it!’

After another ten minutes he concluded that they were definitely not coming, so he stowed the sea-rods back in their cupboard and locked up The Mermaid before heading back home.

‘Why worry, Bruce, you fool,’ he told himself. ‘They have paid already, so it is no skin off my nose if they have missed their sport.’

He climbed into his old jeep and drove towards home.

His two chocolate Labrador gundogs were barking their heads off as he came up the drive.

What is up with them? he mused as he drew up before his log-cabin. It is not like them to be going daft like this.

Then he saw the cabin door standing ajar.

‘Bloody hell! It has been forced!’ He cursed as he picked up a piece of timber and stealthily approached, grateful that the dogs did not stop their barking in case that could alert anyone still inside.

There was no one there, but the inside looked as if a tornado had wrecked the place.

Bruce McNab had the trained eye of a hunter. He recognized false trails when he saw them. The chaos around him was contrived, he had no doubt.

Whoever had broken into his cabin and thrown things hither and thither had done so with a definite purpose in mind.