Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

‘No!’ chirped in one of the regulars. ‘Nor turn their back to you after the back-stabbing you just did on TV!’

Torquil clicked off the TV just as the Flotsam & Jetsam programme signature tune came on.

‘Calum has really done it this time,’ he said, taking a sip of his pre-dinner whisky. ‘You would think he would have some sense of loyalty, wouldn’t you, Uncle?’

Lachlan McKinnon had leaned forward to tug at the rubber bone that Crusoe had been gnawing away at by his feet.

‘Och, you know Calum, Torquil. He won’t have given it a moment’s thought. He’s so keen to sell stories he won’t have thought that he could be dropping his friends in the mire.’

‘It is Ewan and Morag that I am worried about. They are both sensitive in their own ways.’

‘I take it there is nothing to be worried about? He was safe to be discharged?’

‘I would back Morag’s opinion every time. And the Drummonds agreed with her.’

‘So what now? What is likely to happen?’

Torquil drained his glass and stood up. ‘Right now, I think it is time to eat. Tomorrow I will have to see how I can take the sting out of the story. Calum seems to have precipitated things by getting the TV involved. It will hit the nationals as well, I expect.’ He sighed. ‘And, ultimately, it is all my responsibility. They were my officers acting on my behalf. I have a feeling it could get rather heavy going.’

Lachlan rose too and grinned as Crusoe jumped up, his tail wagging furiously as he held the rubber bone in his jaws as if trying to tease him.

‘Aye, heavy is the head that wears the crown. It is the trouble with being in charge of anything.’ He smiled and patted Torquil’s shoulder. ‘But at least you have Lorna’s visit to look forward to soon.’

Torquil’s mobile went off.

‘Ah, I expect that is her,’ he said with a grin. ‘She said she would phone this evening.’

But, as he answered it, his face dropped and he grimaced at his uncle.

‘Good evening, Superintendent Lumsden,’ he said, in answer to the curt voice on the other end. ‘Yes, I saw it.’

‘And why was that the first I heard about it?’ Superintendent Lumsden snapped.

‘Because there was no immediate need for you to know, Superintendent.’

Torquil winced at the roar from the phone.

‘Of course you should have bloody well told me, McKinnon! What is the matter with you? Why do I always have to hear about your cock-ups on Scottish TV news programmes?’

‘If you will let me—’ Torquil began.

‘Ah, now you want to tell me something, do you? Well, I want to tell you something, McKinnon. I am not happy. Not happy at all. That reporter chap seems to be on the button, which is more than I can say for you. Negligence, that is what he was inferring, you realize that, don’t you?’

‘There has been no negligence, Superintendent. I said—’

Superintendent Lumsden roared again. ‘No negligence? Are you mad? A respected entomologist is found dead with a hammer by the side of his head. A hammer thrown by that buffoon of a constable of yours, and you say there is no negligence?’

‘That is what I said, Superintendent.’

‘And there was nothing negligent about letting him out of police custody just hours before he met his death?’

‘Categorically not, Superintendent Lumsden. I take full responsibility for my officers.’

‘That’s what I wanted to hear you say, McKinnon. It is all your responsibility and if there was no negligence then there was incompetence. And that particular buck stops on your desk. Do I make myself clear?’

‘As crystal, Superintendent.’

‘Your desk, McKinnon. And that means it is your neck that is on the block.’

‘Yes, sir, thank you for your support, sir.’

There was a momentary pause as if Torquil’s superior officer was searching for a response.

‘Well, that is all for now, McKinnon. I am glad that we had this little chat to clear the matter up. You know where we both stand. I want this story squashed as soon as possible otherwise you may be looking at a disciplinary.’

Torquil was about to reply, but the phone went dead in his hand.

Lachlan had diplomatically left the room to squat in the hall and stroke Crusoe. He straightened as Torquil came out of the sitting-room.

‘Lumsden isn’t pleased with me,’ Torquil explained. ‘He as good as said that if I put a foot wrong over this he’ll have my guts for garters. You know how much he’d like to get rid of me.’

Lachlan shoved his hands deep in his pockets and frowned. ‘I take it that means the responsibility does not go all the way up the chain of command?’

‘No, I am the last link.’

‘Did you ask him about Lorna?’

Torquil gave a rueful smile. ‘It didn’t seem an appropriate moment, Lachlan.’

Fergie was in a bad mood after the show that evening. After giving Geordie Innes and the crew a roasting for the way it had all gone, he grabbed Chrissie by the arm and flounced out.

‘Where are we going, Fergie?’ Chrissie asked.

‘For a drink. Maybe four or five.’

‘That’s not a good idea, lover. You know it just makes black moods blacker.’

‘Good. Then maybe I’ll get into a proper dark mood and go and sort somebody out.’

Chrissie pulled him up and spun him round. She grabbed both his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Just what do you mean? Sort who out?’

Fergie’s eyes seemed to be smouldering, as if he was full of rage. He stared back at her defiantly, and then in his best show biz manner he shrugged, smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Just a manner of speech, darling. I’m just peeved at that old fool Guthrie Lovat. He screwed my plans up tonight. That show was like filming a jumble sale at the Wee Free. It wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs.’

Chrissie eyed him askance. ‘You don’t plan on getting drunk though, do you? You know I hate it when you get drunk.’

Fergie laughed. ‘Why, because I get too boisterous?’ Then he winked. ‘Or is it because I don’t get boisterous enough?’

She cuffed him playfully. ‘Come on then. But let’s just make it two drinks, and then go back for an early night.’

Fergie clicked his tongue. ‘Agreed. Just enough alcohol to make me mildly frisky.’

They emerged on to Harbour Street and made their way towards the Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern.

‘I just hope that wee busybody of a journalist isn’t there tonight,’ Fergie whispered, as they approached.

‘Calum Steele? Why, I thought you liked him?’

‘He can give us publicity, Chrissie. I pretend to like him. He has his uses.’

Chrissie frowned. ‘That’s typical of you, isn’t it, lover?’ she said with just the trace of an edge in her voice. ‘You have a talent for finding out how to use people.’

If he detected the edge he didn’t show it. He grinned as he reached out to open the door of the Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern. ‘I do indeed, my darling. And it is that talent that keeps you in the style that you are used to.’

Calum Steele was seething with fury as he and Cora pushed open the door of the Commercial Hotel public bar.

‘Can you believe it, Cora! Mollie McFadden asked me to leave! Me! The editor of the West Uist Chronicle.’

‘And me, Calum. She asked us both to leave. I’ve never been thrown out of anything before. I don’t know what Great-aunt Bella will say.’

At the mention of Miss Melville’s name Calum felt a prickle at the back of his neck. ‘Oh aye, that’s a thought. What do you think she’ll say?’