Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

Sandy King sat down on the settee and crossed his legs. ‘I am not so sure, pal. I think it is still about. In fact, for some people, honour is the guiding principle in their life.’

Leaving Morag and the twins to complete the further investigation of Dr Dent’s cottage, Torquil had put Crusoe in the side pannier of the Bullet then set off for home.

He found Lachlan and Kenneth Canfield coming along the road from the golf course.

‘We were chased away today,’ Lachlan said cheerfully as Torquil coasted to a halt beside them.

‘Midges?’ Torquil asked.

Kenneth Canfield laughed. ‘And not even Lachlan’s evil-smelling pipe could keep them off us.’

Lachlan ruffled the fur on Crusoe’s head. ‘You wouldn’t have liked the golf course today, boy. Those midges would have invaded your fur and made mincemeat out of you.’ He put his unlit pipe in his mouth and addressed his nephew. ‘What are you doing home at this time of the day, anyway?’

‘I came to have a word with you both actually. About Dr Dent.’

‘Ah, the midge man,’ said Kenneth. ‘I was so sorry to hear about his accident.’

‘It was no accident,’ Torquil said bluntly.

‘No accident?’ Lachlan repeated.

‘I believe it was murder, Uncle. We have started a murder investigation. Which is why I wanted to have a word with the Reverend Canfield. I understand that you knew him from the University of the Highlands?’

Kenneth sighed. ‘I wondered when you would get around to me, Inspector.’

‘Shall we go into the manse and talk in comfort?’ Lachlan suggested. ‘It will soon be time for lunch.’

Five minutes later they were all seated in the spacious sitting-room. Crusoe was as usual curled up at Torquil’s feet.

‘How long had you known Dr Dent?’ Torquil asked.

‘About seven years. He was already in post when I became the university chaplain.’

‘Did you like the man?’

‘That’s a direct question, Inspector. I suppose it deserves a direct answer. No! I did not like him and I did not respect him.’

‘And the reason being?’

Canfield licked his lips and his eyes unconsciously fell on the whisky decanter.

‘He had a reputation as a philanderer. I had been involved in two cases of students who had been hurt by him. Emotionally bruised, both of them.’

‘Do you mean that he had relationships with them? I thought that was a sackable offence.’

‘Potentially, it can be. Although in these days….!’ He shrugged. ‘Yet in both cases the lassies did not want to make an issue of it.’

‘So you disliked him because of his morals?’

‘That and the fact that he was a maverick, academically speaking. Some of his research was regarded as questionable, although it has to be said that some folk thought he was brilliant.’

He glanced again at the decanter and this time Lachlan caught his look and acted upon it. He rose and poured two large drams then held the decanter up and eyed Torquil questioningly.

‘None for me thanks, Lachlan,’ Torquil said. Then, turmng again to Kenneth, ‘Is there anything else that you can tell me about Dr Dent that might help?’

Lachlan handed Kenneth his drink and then cleared his throat meaningfully. Kenneth understood his prompt.

‘There might be something. Heather McQueen, the post graduate student who was drowned last summer. Well, she was his student. He was supposed to be looking after her.’

‘Was he having an affair with her?’

Kenneth took a large gulp of whisky and then pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘I honestly don’t know. But I suspect he was. At the very least I think that he should have shown more remorse than he did.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was his responsibility. He just didn’t seem to acknowledge anything about it. In my book that makes him seem a bit of a psychopath.’

Lachlan ran a finger round the rim of his glass. ‘I told Torquil about the grave, Kenneth.’

‘Did you put flowers on her grave?’ Torquil asked.

‘No.’

‘Any idea who did?’

‘I think it could have been Digby Dent. But I suppose we’ll never know now. It will remain a mystery.’

Torquil nodded and absently reached down and stroked Crusoe. He was rewarded by a lick on his hand.

Another mystery, he mused. Just like Crusoe here.

Torquil had barely sat down in his office after lunch when the phone went and Morag told him that there was a call on the line.

‘It’s Calum Steele and he sounds peeved,’ she said, unable to keep the mirth from her voice.

It was an understatement. ‘You are a traitor, Torquil McKinnon! How could you do that? You betrayed me – and to Kirstie Macroon. You know that I have feelings for her the same way that you do about Lorna.’

‘Calum!’

‘That makes me look a right fool. And I thought you were my friend.’

‘Calum, listen.’

‘That’s all I ever do is listen. That’s what journalism is all about.’

‘In that case have you ever heard the expression about glass houses and throwing stones?’

‘What are you on about?’

‘If you live in a glass house you shouldn’t throw stones.’

‘Are you going daft? I am talking about loyalty and you betrayed me. You went to the Scottish TV with a story when you should have come to me. I won’t forget this, Torquil.’

There was a click and Torquil found himself listening to the dialling tone.

‘Well, you are welcome, Calum,’ he said as he replaced the receiver. ‘For someone with skin so thick, you are remarkably sensitive.’

But Calum’s mention of Lorna’s name rankled him. He sat patting Crusoe for a few moments then picked up the phone and dialled Lorna’s mobile. She picked up after the third ring.

‘Hello, it’s the Scotch egg Carry-out here,’ he joked. ‘Any requests for lunch?’

Lorna laughed, then to his surprise said, ‘Torquil, gosh, this is not a good time. The boss is on the warpath. Got to go. I’ll ring you sometime. Don’t ring me.’

Once again the phone went dead and he found himself listening to the dialling tone. He sighed and replaced the receiver again. ‘No one loves me today,’ he grumbled.

The sound of Crusoe’s tail thumping the floor made him look down and feel better.

‘Well, let’s just hope that Lorna takes to you the way that you have taken to me, my lad. Now let’s get cracking. We have a murder case to crack.’

Ewan was just about to go through to the kitchen to make tea for the meeting when the station door opened and the bell tinkled. He looked round then gaped. It was Chrissie from the Flotsam & Jetsam TV show and a gaunt, young-looking chap with longish hair.

‘Ah, Officer,’ said Chrissie. ‘We’ve got a problem. I am Chrissie Ferguson from Flotsam & Jetsam and this is Geordie Innes, our producer.’

‘It’s a pleasure, Miss – er—’ Ewan began, his cheeks starting to glow in the presence of the famous hostess of the TV show.

‘We’ve lost Fergie Ferguson!’ Geordie Innes stated bluntly. ‘You need to find him.’

‘You’ve lost him. A missing person, you say?’

Chrissie stared at him as if she thought he was simple-witted. ‘My husband Fergie Ferguson. He’s famous. Everybody knows him, so he shouldn’t be hard to find on a wee island like this.’

‘Have you looked for him?’

‘Of course we’ve looked for him,’ replied Geordie tartly. ‘And we can’t find him, which is why we’ve come to you.’ He glanced irritably at his watch. ‘We have a show in a few hours.’