Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

Agnes tittered. ‘Oh mercy me, there I go being a Nosy Parker. Sorry, miss. Is it a small box or a big box you want?’

‘Your largest. You have no idea how much tea—’ She stopped herself just in time, for she had been about to mention Calum’s name. She grinned, then added, ‘That I drink while I’m doodling.’

She couldn’t wait to tell Calum about the nuggets she had collected. And, as she walked back to the Chronicle offices, she realized that there was something very exciting about being an investigative journalist. She could quite see why it all gave Calum a buzz.

Yet her image of Calum Steele, editor-in-chief and investigative journalist par excellence took a sudden dip as she bounced up the stairs with her supplies.

The toilet door was open and Calum, dressed in underpants and a string vest, was kneeling over the toilet retching into the bowl.

He pushed himself up and looked round at the sound of her footsteps. His hair was lank and his face was as pale as the porcelain of the toilet bowl that he was clutching.

‘Ah, Cora, I wondered where you were. We had better sit down and plan our next move.’ He hiccupped. ‘I’m not feeling so great today. I think I might have eaten a few too many nuts at the pub last night. My tummy is a wee bit upset.’

Cora refrained from making any comment about the whisky that he had taken to bed. Instead she offered to make him tea with a butter roll and honey.

She winced as he shook his head and sank his head in the toilet to retch again. A moment later he heaved himself up and looked round with a pleading grin.

‘Do you think you could pop round to Anderson’s Emporium and ask them for some paracetamol?’

‘Oh really, Calum!’ Cora cried in exasperation.

Ewan had been for his early morning run and a spot of hammer practice before opening up the station. He was busily working his way through the backlog of cases when Morag came in. One look at her and he lifted the counter flap and took her arm.

‘Morag, what’s wrong? You look like death warmed up. Shall I get you something?’

‘A paracetamol and a cup of your strong tea would be wonderful,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘And anything you have for guilt.’

‘Och, Morag!’ Ewan exclaimed. ‘You have nothing to be guilty about. Everyone has told you that. It was me who wasn’t looking where I was throwing my hammer.’

‘Oh you are a wee darling, Ewan. But it isn’t just that I feel guilty about. I drank too much last night. I was on my own after I had put the kids to bed. It is something I have never done before.’ She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. ‘It was so irresponsible of me.’

Ewan patted her shoulder. ‘No one will think the worse of you for that, Morag. Now go and have a seat in the rest room and I’ll bring tea and a paracetamol through to you.’

No sooner had he performed that duty than the station bell tinkled and the first client of the day came in. It was Rab McNeish.

‘Ah, Mr McNeish,’ Ewan greeted him warmly, belying his real feeling of dread as he expected another tirade of invective amid the inevitable complaints about cats and dogs.

But it never came. Instead, the undertaker looked somewhat sheepish.

‘I – er – I need to report something.’

Ewan picked up his pencil and licked the tip. ‘Fire away then, Mr McNeish. I am all ears. What is the complaint?’

‘It’s not a complaint, it’s a report I am making. About a theft. I have been robbed, sort of.’

‘At your house, you mean? You live out on Sharkey’s Boot, don’t you?’

‘Aye. Well, really all I need is a crime number for my insurance company.’

‘I just need some details first Mr McNeish. Then I can call round on Nippy sometime this morning.’

‘There’s no need for that, it’s just a number they say.’

‘Well, what’s been stolen?’

‘Oh just a few bits of antiques. Nothing grand.’

‘Funny that. I’ve got a few cases of burglary on the books at the moment. Antique clocks, old knick-knacks, that sort of thing. You must be the—’

The bell tinkled again and the door opened to the sound of several dog barks. This was immediately followed by the entrance of Annie McConville in her usual panama hat, cheesecloth dress and a pack of assorted dogs on leads.

‘Ah PC Ewan McPhee, the very man,’ she said, advancing to the counter. Then she saw Rab McNeish, standing rigidly in front of her, both hands clutching the edge of the counter. ‘Ah, and as for you, Rab McNeish, I want a word with you! You’ve been spreading rumours and making complaints about me, I hear.’

It was as if the dogs all noticed him for the first time as well, and two of them bared their teeth, barked and made a lunge at him. Annie immediately tugged their leads and Zimba, her German shepherd put himself between the two small dogs and the joiner.

‘Wheesht, boys!’ she called and they instantly quietened, but stood glaring menacingly at the now stricken Rab McNeish.

Ewan sensed the possibility of conflict and tried to intervene. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Mrs McConville. I was just dealing with Mr McNeish.’ He turned to the joiner-cum-undertaker. ‘So would you like to give me the details of these antiques?’

‘Er – no! I’ve changed my mind. They’re not worth claiming. Not now. Not yet. I’ll – er – I’ll maybe come back.’

He edged round the dogs.

‘I won’t take kindly to hearing any more tittle-tattle, you know,’ Annie went on. ‘If you have something to say to me, say it instead of going scuttling about behind my back.’

Rab McNeish bobbed his head up and down and made a dash for the door.

‘But, Mr McNeish,’ Ewan began.

‘Oh don’t bother your head about him, Ewan McPhee. He’s just a scunner and a troublemaker.’ She slapped her hand on the counter. ‘Now, I have a clue for you.’

‘A clue, Mrs McConville?’

‘Yes, about the case of the abandoned cats and dogs that you are investigating.’

‘Er – are we?’

‘Of course you are! Miss Melville reported it all to Sergeant Morag Driscoll. Don’t tell me that you don’t know.’

Ewan considered that discretion would be the best option. ‘So what is this clue, Mrs McConville?’

‘They don’t like the sound of a saw. I have four of them that just cower away.’

‘I don’t understand you, I am afraid.’

‘I get spare shanks from Mathieson, the butcher. I saw them up for my doggies so that they all get good marrow and plenty of calcium. Well, they all start howling and then they just cower away into corners as if there’s a thunderstorm going on.’ She stared at Ewan who was uncertainly chewing the end of his pencil. ‘Well, write it down then, it could be crucial to the case. Tell Sergeant Morag. Good day to you.’

And without more ado she flounced out with her pack of animals leaving a bemused Ewan to add her information to the day record. He would marry it up with the case which he was sure would be in the backlog.

He was still writing when the bell tinkled again and Sandy King came in, dressed in a plain black track suit.

‘Are – are you—?’

‘Sandy King, that’s right. I just wondered if I could have a quick word with Sergeant Driscoll.’

‘I’ll see if I can find her,’ Ewan said, and turned to find Morag coming in.

‘Did I hear my name mentioned,’ she asked. Then she saw the footballer and colour appeared in her cheeks.

‘It’s a personal matter, actually,’ he said, looking meaningfully at Ewan.

‘Oh, I’ll just put the kettle on, Sergeant Driscoll,’ Ewan said, leaving diplomatically.