Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

Calum found that these exposures always boosted sales of the Chronicle , both on West Uist and on the other islands the day after.

He was still glowing with pleasure at the thought of his scoop, but even more so at having actually been talking to Kirstie Macroon, when Cora slowly mounted the stairs and slumped down on the settee.

‘That was awful, Calum,’ she groaned. ‘I hated that job.’

‘Did she give you a good statement?’ Calum asked with a grin.

‘She gave me a flea in my ear, more like. I have never been so embarrassed in my life.’

‘Well, you’ll need to toughen up, Cora. A journalist has to have a tough hide.’

‘Don’t you ever – well – er – feel disloyal to your friends?’

Calum pursed his lips for a moment. Then he shrugged and began typing a few notes on his laptop.

‘Never thought about it, lassie. My job is to tell the news, not make friends. Oh, and to sell newspapers, of course!’

Cora stared at him in disbelief for a moment. But it was only for a moment. She began to wonder.

Rab McNeish had been busy preparing a body all night.

It had been an unusual undertaking, as the deceased had lived on the island of Benbecula all of his life, only announcing on his death bed that he wanted to be buried on his native West Uist. Accordingly, after all the red tape had been dealt with Rab had gone out on the evening ferry and returned on the special fuel ferry with the body in a temporary coffin in the back of his carpenter’s van.

He had gone straight to his chapel of rest and set about preparing the body in the embalming-room in readiness for the relatives to view him at noon.

‘And tired out, is what I am,’ he sighed, as he left the chapel and made his way back to his home, a sprawling croft with outhouses and work sheds on Sharkey’s Boot, the curiously shaped peninsula beyond the star-shaped Wee Kingdom on the west of the island.

‘A wee sleep and a bath to revive me and then I’ll be presentable for the relatives at noon.’

But as he drove along the leg of the Boot towards his croft he suddenly felt his heart skip a beat.

The front door was standing open and a panel had been kicked in. ‘My Lord!’ he breathed, braking hard.

He reached over the passenger’s seat and grasped a claw hammer.

‘Please Lord don’t let anyone have found me out!’

Wee Hughie had never known when to stop once he got going. The night before had been such a time, the result being that he had so much alcohol in him that if he had been left to his own devices, he would have slept around the clock.

‘Get up, Wee Hughie,’ Dan Farquarson said sharply, as he shook him awake. ‘It’s after eleven and we should have gone shooting or fishing with McNab and Sandy.’

Wee Hughie clutched his head and blinked his way back to painful consciousness. ‘Crivens! We must have had a skinful last night, boss. Look at me; I didn’t even manage to get undressed.’

‘Me neither,’ replied a crumpled looking Dan Farquarson. ‘And the Lord only knows where Sandy is. It looks as if he’s gone off without us.’

‘Gone shooting?’

Despite himself, Dan Farquarson laughed. ‘Sandy King has gone shooting! That’s a good one, Wee Hughie. Very droll.’

Wee Hughie rose to his feet, pleased to think that his boss had thought he had deliberately made a joke.

Dan Farquarson shook his head. ‘But this is all going wrong. I rented this luxury cottage here in the back of beyond and booked this hunting and shooting trip with the Hebrides’ very own Crocodile Dundee so that we could get Sandy away from the limelight long enough for us to have a good meeting.’ He slumped down on the edge of Wee Hughie’s newly vacated bed and thumped the bedside table. ‘But nothing is going to plan.’

Neither of them heard the footsteps in the hall.

‘And just what plans would those be, Mr Farquarson?’ asked Sandy King. He stood in the doorway, dressed in a black track suit and trainers. ‘I think it is time that we put our cards on the table, don’t you?’ IX

Early that evening Calum and Cora stationed themselves at a table in the lounge bar of the Bonnie Prince Charlie right in front of the big plasma TV screen. As news of Dr Digby Dent’s sudden death had already travelled round the island by old-fashioned bush telegraph the bar was full, as people had flocked in to have a drink while they listened to the news. Mollie McFadden and her staff were doing a roaring trade.

The background chatter suddenly stopped when the Scottish TV news signature tune came on.

‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’ Cora whispered to Calum, when Kirstie Macroon appeared.

Calum grunted and beetled his brows to indicate that he wanted to listen. Cora sat back suitably rebuked.

And then Kirstie Macroon was reading out the headlines:

‘Another sporting star involved in nightclub brawl.’

‘Sudden death of respected insect expert on West Uist.’

The familiar inter-slot jingle sounded then:

‘First we shall go straight to West Uist where earlier today I talked to local news editor, Calum Steele.

The photograph of Calum with slicked-down hair, bow tie and braces flashed up. Almost immediately there were hoots and laughter from around the bar.

‘What have you done to your head, Calum? Stuck it in a vat of oil?’

‘What’s he wearing a ribbon around his neck for?’

‘Look, he’s wearing braces!’

Calum glared about him and waved his hands for silence as on the TV Kirstie asked him to give an account of the story. The audience quietened down and listened to the sombre tale.

‘And I believe that there is some question of police negligence, Calum?’ Kirstie asked pointedly.

‘It has been rumoured, I am afraid,’ came Calum’s voice. ‘The man was in police custody last night after being arrested for interrupting the TV show Flotsam & Jetsam.’

‘Do you think that there could have been negligence, Calum?’

There was the sound of breath being drawn in, as if Calum was thinking hard before he answered. ‘I would hate to think it. I know all of the local police on the island. The truth is that you have to keep an open mind. And then there was the question of the hammer.’

‘Ah yes,’ came Kirstie Macroon’s voice. ‘The hammer in question was a Highland hammer, for throwing that is?’

‘Aye, it was PC Ewan McPhee’s hammer. He is the champion hammer thrower of the Western Isles. His hammer was found in the blood-soaked pool just inches from Dr Dent’s head.’

Kirstie Macroon’s voice sounded pained. ‘It didn’t hit the poor man, did it?’

‘I am assured not,’ Calum replied.

‘But it still begs many questions.’

‘Indeed it does, Kirstie,’ Calum replied.

There was another inter-slot jingle then the shot turned to Kirstie Macroon in the studio.

‘And that was Calum Steele the West Uist Chronicle editor. We will be keeping in touch with Calum to keep you in touch with any developments on that story. And now for our next story we need to go over to Oban….’

The chatter in the bar started up again and Calum clapped his hands and turned to Cora. ‘Well, that went rather well, I think. Come on lassie, I’ll buy you a drink.’

But when he stood and turned towards the bar he was met by rows of frosty glowers and glares.

‘What’s the matter folks? Aren’t you going to congratulate me on another scoop? Who’ll have a drink with me?’

Mollie McFadden voiced the general mood of the bar. ‘I think you and your lassie will be better drinking somewhere else, Calum Steele. You will not find many folk here wanting to drink with you.’