Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

To his surprise Cora Melville let out one of her effervescent giggles. ‘I have no idea, and to be honest, I don’t care. It’s all a bit of a laugh, isn’t it? I mean, they all think we are the bad guys.’ She tapped her chest with her thumb. ‘Me – a bad guy. It’s so exciting.’

Calum’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. ‘Oh, aye, I suppose it is quite. I mean, you get used to it.’

‘And I guess it can be useful at times for a journalist. Being a social pariah, I mean.’

‘A pariah? Actually, I wouldn’t go as far as that, Cora. But you are right, it can be useful. Then when you make your next scoop they all think you are the bee’s knees.’

‘So we just need a scoop, eh, boss?’

Calum stood looking across the bar, seemingly oblivious to her last words.

‘I said we just need a scoop—’

‘Sh! I heard you, lassie. And I think we might just have stumbled on one. Just act naturally and follow me to the bar, then when we get there take a look at the group of men in the corner. You’ll recognize one I am sure.’

They went to the bar and while Calum ordered drinks Cora casually looked around the bar, focusing as she did on the men drinking whiskies in the corner.

‘I see what you mean, Calum,’ Cora whispered, as she turned back to the bar to take the lemonade and lime that he pushed along the bar to her. ‘There could be a scoop there all right.’

‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’ He stroked his chin. ‘We need to find out what the up-and-coming striker Sandy King is doing on West Uist.’

‘Never heard of him, Calum. I thought you meant Dan Farquarson, the biggest crook in Dundee. Him and his minder, Wee Hughie.’

Calum Steele almost choked on the first swig he took of his pint of Heather Ale.

Guthrie Lovat’s mobile phone went off.

He had been expecting the call. He took a gulp of the whisky and soda that he had just poured then waited a couple of further rings before he picked up the phone and pressed the answer button.

‘Lovat here,’ he said languidly.

‘Christ! I thought you weren’t going to answer. I tried you earlier and you didn’t pick up.’

‘I was beachcombing on the islands,’ he replied. Then he said with a hint of sarcasm, ‘You could have left a message.’

A hostile edge crept into the voice on the other end. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid! You know I never leave messages.’

‘I know. So go on, talk to me.’

‘There will be one tomorrow. Passing the rendezvous at three a.m. GMT. Usual jetsam.’

‘And the usual payment?’

‘Of course.’

He gritted his teeth at that. The whole bloody thing was starting to frustrate him. For a moment he considered trying to draw the guy out.

‘Did you hear me?’ snapped the voice. ‘I said of course. The same payment and all the same arrangements.’

‘I understand.’

The edge was there again. ‘Just make sure you do. You know the penalty for non-compliance! It still applies.’

He swallowed hard. Part of him wanted to tell the voice to bugger off, but he knew that would be dangerous, suicidal perhaps. So instead he said, ‘I know. And I love you too.’

This brought a humourless laugh then the phone went dead.

He stood looking at the dead phone for a moment before hurling it at the settee.

‘One day, you bastard. One day!’

Morag heaved a sigh of relief when she finally got her three children to go to bed. Helping her youngest with homework had been an effort, for her mind had been preoccupied about the death of Digby Dent.

‘Oh Morag Driscoll, what have you done?’ she moaned to herself, as she slumped on the settee with a large gin and tonic in her hand. She took a sip then screwed up her face in disgust.

‘Ugh! Disgustingly bitter stuff that gin is,’ she cursed, leaning forward and depositing the glass on the coffee table. ‘Whatever was I thinking about trying to drown my guilty conscience in this filthy stuff that has been in a bottle for years? Sherry or fizzy white wine, that is your limit, you silly girl.’

She sat tapping the arm of the settee as she brought the previous evening’s events back into her mind and replayed them.

Dent was as drunk as a lord, there was no mistaking that. A proper spectacle he made of himself on the TV show. She shook her head. Why ever would he do that? Drinking himself silly when he knew he was going to be on the TV. It was just so stupid.

Her mind went back to him coming into the station the day before to complain about Bruce McNab and his party.

He was not a very pleasant fellow, even when he was sober, though.

Then she thought about Sandy King and a slight smile came to her lips.

Now he is a much pleasanter chap altogether. Good-looking, a talented footballer and polite as well.

She sighed at the recollection of the interview she had with him, Bruce McNab and that Dundee businessman and his employee.

I wouldn’t have minded having a drink with Sandy King on his own, she mused as her eye settled on the string of bubbles that rose from her unwanted gin and tonic. Her mind went off at a tangent and she leaned back and closed her eyes, imagining that she was reclining somewhere luxurious, with a glass of expensive champagne in her hand.

Maybe I could even grow to like—

The phone warbled in the corner and with a shrug of resignation she heaved herself to her feet.

‘Don’t worry girl,’ she joked to herself. ‘It is probably Sandy King ringing to ask you out for that drink.’

She was still smiling when she answered the phone.

‘Morag, thank goodness I have got hold of you. It’s me, Ralph McLelland.’

Morag suppressed a giggle and the urge to make a saucy joke. But Ralph McLelland was a doctor and sometimes he was just a tad old-fashioned, so she went straight into professional mode. ‘And what can I do for you, Doctor?’ she asked crisply.

‘Was Dr Dent a bit of a junkie?’

‘Afraid I have no idea. Any reason for asking?’

Ralph made a gruff noise as if he was irritated. ‘I think I had better talk this over with Torquil. The trouble is that I just get an engaged noise when I call him. That’s why I rang you.’

Morag sighed wistfully. ‘No one ever calls me unless it is business, Dr McLelland. And maybe the reason you can’t get hold of the inspector is because he is a man in love.’

‘In love? What are you talking about?’

‘Aye, he’s in love with Sergeant Golspie. You remember? She’s working at the station on Lewis. Superintendent Lumsden seconded her to work with the Customs. He’s often on the phone to her at all sorts of pre-arranged times.’

‘Ah! Stupid of me. I’ll try him again. Bye.’

Morag stood looking at the receiver as he rang off. Talking about love had suddenly made her feel empty. Torquil was in love, just as she had been in love with her husband until that fateful day when he had his heart attack and died eight years before. Since then she had been both a mother and a father to her three kids.

‘But right now I could do with a man in my life,’ she said dreamily, as she replaced the receiver. ‘Someone to help me out over this whole mess I have got myself into.’

The gin and tonic on the table started to look inviting.

She sat down and picked it up and then, closing her eyes, she took a hefty swallow.

Torquil had been so glad to hear Lorna’s voice after his conversation with Superintendent Lumsden. He was less happy to hear that the superintendent had just cancelled Lorna’s next leave.

‘The man is a miserable little piece of—’ he began.