Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

Cora had not been keen on meeting Wee Hughie at the Bonnie Prince Charlie, but she reconciled it in her mind as being good investigative journalism experience.

Just as long as he doesn’t suggest anything creepy, she thought as she walked along Harbour Street towards the bar.

I just don’t know why he seemed so keen on meeting me? He’s not my type with all those big muscles. Why should he think I would go for that?

She was still puzzling the question when she entered the lunchtime throng. A shrill whistle immediately rang out and she looked round, as did all of the other customers.

‘Cora! Over here! I have got us a table,’ Wee Hughie called, as he stood to tower over a group of men who had clearly just disembarked from one of the yachts in the harbour.

Cora suppressed the impulse to turn tail. Instead she brazened the looks of amusement and disdain as she sidled through the crowd towards him. It was clear that some people remembered her last visit to the Bonnie Prince Charlie, when she and Calum had been asked to leave.

Come on, Cora, she chided herself. You want to be a journalist, don’t you? Just get used to being a pariah like Calum. And with that resolve she reached Wee Hughie and forced a smile.

‘This is so good of you to come,’ he said enthusiastically, his cheeks looking quite rosy.

‘It’s – er – good of you to ask me.’

He crinkled his nose in a manner than made her picture a goofy boxer dog. ‘I just thought it would be – you know – nice.’

She let him relieve her of her jacket then sat while he went off to the bar to order drinks.

The large plasma screen TV was louder than she would have liked, considering the proximity of the table that Wee Hughie had obtained for them.

‘I’ve got us a menu,’ Wee Hughie said, a few moments later as he handed her a lemonade and lime. ‘Do you like that soft drink stuff?’ he asked, with a nod at her drink before taking a hefty swig of his pint of Heather Ale. He smacked his lips and licked the foam off his upper lip. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Cora. We don’t get anything like this in Dundee.’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t drink much alcohol, Mr – er—’

‘Hughie! Just call me Hughie.’

Cora smiled. ‘I like to be in control, you see. Alcohol does things to the mind.’

Wee Hughie winked at her and took another swig of beer. ‘I’ll drink to that any day.’ Then seeing what he perceived to be disapproval on her face he added rapidly, ‘But see, I hardly ever drink myself. It’s only if I’m on a bit of a holiday like this.’ He clapped his hands. ‘So, what would you like to eat? A steak? The fisherman’s pie? I hear that the seafood platter is good.’

Cora pursed her lips apologetically as she continued to scan the menu. ‘I don’t think there’s much here for me – er – Hughie. You see, I’m vegetarian.’

‘Really?’ he asked, his eyes opening so wide that his eyebrows rose a full inch. Then he smiled and leaned forward on his elbows. ‘You know, I’ve fancied being a veggie. Why don’t you choose what you want and I’ll have the same?’

Cora feigned delight and then looked over the menu again to see what was the most unappetizting meal available in the meagre list of vegetarian options. ‘Well how about macaroni and cheese?’

Wee Hughie excused himself and went to place their order at the bar. When he returned Cora asked him, ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Oh, a lot, Cora,’ he replied, with the slightest of leers.

Cora suppressed the urge to throw his beer into his lap. Ignoring his innuendo, she went on, ‘What brings you to West Uist?’

‘A sporting holiday. My boss, Dan Farquarson, loves his fishing and hunting.’

‘And what about your friend, Mr King, was it?’

‘He’s a business friend of my boss, Cora. Nothing to do with me. But I have to say that the boy is good fun. He’s a famous footballer, you know.’

Cora shook her head with a smile. ‘I didn’t know that. But he looks like a chap who likes a bit of fun.’

And she cringed as she said it lest Wee Hughie take this as an innuendo directed at him. In truth, she found the big man anything but fun. She quickly tried to deflect any response. ‘Do you think—?’

To her surprise he shushed her.

‘Sorry Cora, it’s the News. I am sort of expecting something. The boss told me to keep an eye on it for him.’

Cora nodded, sat back and listened to Kirstie Macroon’s dulcet voice reading the headlines from an auto-cue with professional ease.

‘We bring you the very latest news from West Uist.’

Cora’s ears pricked up and she sat forward again.

‘Inspector Torquil McKinnon of the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary has informed us this morning that there have been serious doubts cast over the sudden death of Dr Digby Dent, the noted entomologist who had been working on the island.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Cora muttered.

‘Inspector McKinnon was unable to go into details but informed us that the police are treating the death as a case of suspected murder. We shall be bringing you more news as and when it becomes available to us.’

Cora felt her mouth suddenly go dry. She took a sip of her drink then turned to Wee Hughie.

‘Listen, I’m afraid that I am going to have to cut and run. You see—’

Then she noticed how pale he had suddenly gone.

‘Oh – er – of course,’ he replied. ‘I think I had better be getting back as well.

‘Is anything wrong, Hughie?’

‘Wrong? No, nothing’s wrong, hen. I just – er – remembered something I need to pick up for the boss.’ He glanced at his watch then raised his pint and drained it quickly. ‘I’ll settle up and then I’ll shoot off. Maybe we could do this another time?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Yes, maybe,’ Cora replied.

His forced smile had failed to convince her.

Calum had turned on the TV in the Chronicle offices while he waited for Sandy King to arrive for the agreed interview. He stood staring in disbelief as Kirstie Macroon read out the headlines. His mouth gaped wider and wider.

‘… We shall be bringing you more news as and when it becomes available to us.’

‘Unbelievable!’ he howled at the TV. ‘Torquil McKinnon, you rotten swine!’ He stood staring at the mug in his hand for a moment and then dashed it against the wall where it shattered into a myriad of pieces and stained the wall, over an already aged and dried stain from a previous act of long-forgotten petulance.

‘You traitor!’ he yelled.

He only dimly heard the footsteps on the stairs behind him.

‘I hope you are not talking about me?’

Calum spun round to find Sandy King standing at the top of the stairs. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

Sandy King raised an eyebrow. ‘You seemed keener than that to get me here, Mr Steele. Is this a bad time?’

Calum recovered himself and leapt forward. ‘Not at all! Not at all! And please, call me Calum. It’s just that I’ve – er – had a spot of bad news.’ He sucked air through his teeth and held his hands out, palms upward as if seeking understanding from the divine.

‘I have been betrayed, Sandy.’

‘Are you talking about the News? I caught the tail end of it as I was coming up. It was about Dr Dent, wasn’t it? They think he’s been murdered.’

Calum nodded and grimaced as if he was in pain. ‘Aye, that’s what’s bothering me. He should have told me, not gone behind my back to Scottish TV.’

‘Who?’

‘Torquil McKinnon, the local inspector. He’s supposed to be my friend and there he’s gone and stabbed me in the back. There is no such thing as honour these days.’