Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

He felt his heart speed up, since he had a pretty good idea what they were looking for.

Fergie and Chrissie had started the day as they usually did, with passionate love-making. Like so many people in show-biz they often found it hard to come back to bland real life after the buzz of performing. Yet, while so many celebrities turned to drugs or alcohol, they turned to sex. Lots of it. It suited them perfectly, for they were both blessed with a high libido. All of their TV crew knew and accepted this as the norm and treated their impromptu absences for the odd hour as a bit of a joke. ‘Bonk breaks,’ they called them, behind their backs. Yet the thing that everyone found most curious was the fact that they never directed their libidos at anyone else. All of their flirting was just an act; for the truth was they were still just as deeply in love as when they had first met.

‘I love looking at you first thing in the morning,’ Fergie cooed, as he lay stroking Chrissie’s hair.

‘And I do, too,’ Chrissie replied with a mischievous smile as she leaned towards him to plant a kiss on the smooth dome of his forehead, which was only ever seen by her, it usually being covered by the hairpiece that lay on the bedside cabinet.

‘It’s going to be an exciting day, Chrissie. I can feel it in my bones. Getting Guthrie Lovat on the show should make up for the fiasco we had with Digby Dent last night.’

Chrissie giggled. ‘But it was so funny when you think about it, lover. I mean, he made an idiot of himself and folk would have laughed, but all publicity is good. All of Scotland will be talking about it this morning.’

There was a rustle outside the door then the rattle of a tray of crockery being laid on the floor. A tap on the door was followed by a cough then the announcementf, ‘Your breakfast and paper, Mr Ferguson.’

Chrissie popped out of bed and pulled on a flimsy dressing-gown before unlocking the door to bring in the tray.

Fergie took the Chronicle from the tray and smoothed it out on his knees. A large photograph of a drunken Dr Digby Dent lurching towards a startled Chrissie while Fergie looked on in shocked horror, was emblazoned with the headline:

FLOTSAM & DRUNKSUM! THE MIDGE MAN GETS A FLEA IN HIS EAR!

Fergie laughed. ‘You are right as ever, Chrissie. Even bad publicity should help the ratings. Everyone is bound to watch tonight.’ He scanned the article then shook his head. ‘What an idiot that Dent lad is. And I thought he was a respectable scientist.’

‘Even scientists can be drunks, darling. Come on now, let’s have breakfast, then we—’

The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor was followed by a staccato rapping on the door.

‘Fergie! It’s me, Geordie! Let me in will you?’

‘Geordie? We’re having breakfast,’ Fergie called back irritably.

‘It’s urgent. Let me in!’

Fergie snatched up his hairpiece and deftly put it on. Once Chrissie gave him a nod of approval he climbed out of bed, dragging a sheet with him to wrap toga-style about him. He strode across the room and imperiously pulled the door open, as if he actually was an emperor of Rome.

Geordie Innes slid past him, his face the epitome of bad news. ‘I just had a phone call from Guthrie Lovat. He’s changed his mind. He won’t come on the show tonight.’

‘Wh … Wh … Why not?’ Fergie spluttered.

‘It was a done deal,’ Chrissie added.

Geordie Innes glanced over at Chrissie, sitting by the dressing–table, her dressing-gown doing little to conceal her feminine charms. He unconsciously licked his lips before turning back to Fergie.

‘He saw the show last night, didn’t he? He said he hadn’t realized the sort of programme it was.’ Geordie swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously. ‘He said we could stick our show!’

Fergie’s cheeks reddened.

Then Chrissie voiced the thought that had been bubbling up in her mind.

‘Look’s like we were wrong, Fergie, my love. Sometimes bad publicity is just bad publicity.’

Torquil was sitting behind his desk stroking Crusoe as he listened to Morag’s account of Cora Melville’s visit. The Drummond twins stood leaning on either side of a filing cabinet, while Ewan was standing by the door so that he could hear if anyone came into the station.

‘I could cheerfully throttle Calum Steele sometimes,’ she said. ‘Fancy him sending that young girl to do his dirty work.’

‘Aye, but we shouldn’t shoot the messenger,’ said Wallace.

‘Especially not such a bonnie one, at any rate,’ agreed his brother.

Ewan clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘You two need to take things a bit more seriously.’

‘I am serious,’ Douglas protested. ‘She is really bonnie.’

Torquil gave Crusoe a final pat then drew his chair up to the desk. ‘Ewan is right, lads. There is a serious issue here. A man that we had taken into custody has been found dead just a few hours after we released him.’

‘After I released him,’ Morag corrected. ‘It is my responsibility.’

‘Ours too,’ Wallace promptly put in. ‘We saw him and we agreed with you. He was sober enough to get home on his own.’

‘Absolutely,’ Douglas agreed. ‘Solidarity, that is what we have in West Uist. All for one and one for all, and all that.’

Morag gave them a weary smile. ‘I appreciate that, boys, but, as I said, it was my responsibility. I made the decision.’

Torquil shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, Morag, as the officer in charge, the responsibility is all mine. Yet before we all start self-flagellating, let us be clear about the whole thing: was it your honest opinion that it was safe to let Dr Dent go home?’

‘With my hand on my heart, Torquil, I thought he was sober enough, yes.’

‘And you lads?’

The Drummonds looked at each other and curtly nodded. ‘Us too,’ Wallace declared for them.

‘In that case I would be quite happy to make a statement backing my officers.’

Morag’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean that you are going to talk to that wee gutter-snipe, Calum Steele?’

Torquil grinned. ‘I didn’t say that. I said that I would be happy to make a statement, but only to a responsible journalist. Calum Steel no longer fits that bill and from now on is persona non grata in this station.’

Ewan’s face lit up. ‘Is that official, boss? Can I show him the door if he sneaks in?’

‘If I am here I will talk to him, or rather, I’ll give him a talking to. If I’m not in, then it is official and he can be shown the door.’

Then he turned to the twins. ‘And the same thing goes for any other representatives of the West Uist Chronicle . If in doubt, refer them to me. Do you understand, lads?’

Wallace and Douglas looked crestfallen.

‘It’s understood, Torquil,’ said Wallace.

Douglas sighed and flicked his eyes ceilingwards. ‘Aye, like I said, solidarity.’

Calum was in his element. He had rung Scottish TV and eventually managed to get through to Kirstie Macroon. He had given her the outline story about Dr Digby Dent’s death and the finding of the body on the moor by the hammer-throwing PC Ewan McPhee. As he expected she just about bit his hand off for the story and so set up an impromptu telephone interview with him. It was something that he had done several times in the past. When the News programme went out they would show the stock photograph that they held of Calum, showing him posing in front of his Remington typewriter wearing a bow tie, braces and with his hair slicked down. Then they would play the interview with a little crackling in the background to illustrate both the remoteness of the affair and Scottish TV’s vigilance and diligence in bringing the news from places as remote as West Uist.