Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

He looked at everyone. ‘OK, are things clear? Let’s reconvene at lunchtime.’

Twenty minutes later Torquil was sitting at his desk staring down at the cord and the strange knots that had been used to lash Crusoe to the timber. There was something about them that he couldn’t seem to fathom.

His mobile went off and Lachlan’s name flashed on the little screen.

‘Torquil, I am with Kenneth Canfield. He has remembered something and he wondered if he ought to tell you.’

‘Put him on, Lachlan.’

‘Inspector McKinnon, I am sorry, but this has been niggling me. I know that I should have told you before. It is about Dr Dent and me.’

‘I am listening.’

‘I went to see him that afternoon. The afternoon before he went on the Flotsam & Jetsam show. I had gone to confront him about Heather McQueen. Well, we drank whisky. A lot of whisky.’

‘That would account for him being so drunk on the TV show. And what about this discussion? What did you talk about?’

‘That’s just it, Inspector. I cannot remember anything about it.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing, until I woke up in my hotel, vomiting my insides out. I had the hell of a headache.’

‘Is that unusual for you?’

There was a guilty silence for a few moments. ‘I have a problem with whisky, Inspector, but I can usually hold a lot without any problem. I am so sorry that I didn’t tell you before. I just felt so guilty and a bit frightened.’

‘Thank you for this information, Reverend. You do realize that it makes you a suspect in his death?’

Again there was a pause. Then, ‘Yes.’

‘Right, I will need to talk to you in more detail later. Don’t even think of trying to leave the island. I have already taken measures to stop all ferries from Kyleshiffin.’

Torquil sat for a moment after pocketing his mobile. Then he got up and grabbed his helmet. ‘Come on, Crusoe, we’re going to go for a ride.’

Morag was deep in conversation on the front phone when he went through.

‘I am going off to Half Moon Cove,’ he said softly.

‘Why?’ Morag mouthed.

‘It is all to do with bees. Ewan said that Fergie Ferguson had a bee in his bonnet about Guthrie Lovat. Well I have a bee in my own bonnet that I can’t get rid of. Maybe it will lead me to a hive. See you later.’

Morag waved then shook her head once the door had closed behind him. She had no idea what he was talking about.

Cora had come to work early and found that Calum had once again spent the night on his camp-bed. But to her relief she found that on this occasion there was no odour of stale whisky on his breath. Instead, he seemed to have a sparkle in his eye.

‘I have been having a good think, Cora. I find that I think best in the Chronicle offices. Being close to all the stories that I have written over the years seems to energize me.’

Cora giggled. ‘It sounds a bit mystical to me.’

‘Aye, well, journalism is a bit like a mystical journey, Cora. There is nothing like it when you get a story between your teeth.’

She sat down beside him. ‘I think I’m starting to get that feeling, boss.’

‘Hey, let’s drop the boss bit, shall we? It’s just plain Calum.’

She beamed at him. ‘I think your sixth sense might be starting to rub off on me. I sort of think I might have the essence of a story.’

‘Excellent! Go on, lassie. Spring it on me.’

‘Well, I think I know – I mean I think that maybe – Sandy King is here with Dan Farquarson because Farquarson is trying to buy him. You know, nobble him. Get him to throw matches and that. I was reading up about match-fixing on the internet. It is big business. Wee Hughie is Farquarson’s muscle.’

Calum suddenly threw his arms about her and kissed her hard on the cheek. ‘That’s it! That’s it! You’ve got the sense.’

He released her and they both beamed at each other. Then their proximity dawned on them.

‘Oh!’ said Cora.

‘Ah!’ said Calum.

‘So … so what do we do now – er – Calum?’

‘About what, Cora?’

‘A-About Sandy King and Farquarson?’ She averted her eyes and looked down at her feet. ‘Or about us?’ she whispered.

Calum swallowed hard. ‘I think we need to have a drink, Cora.’

She nodded absently. ‘You would like a whisky? Shall I get it?’

He patted the back of her hand affectionately. ‘No whisky, Cora. We have a story to chase. We need a cup of tea and some brain food. A mutton pie would be good.’ He winked at her. ‘Keep it professional, that’s what I say. At least while we have a story to close down.’ He smiled at her. ‘And then we can talk about us.’

She brightened and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Afterwards it is, Calum.’

Ewan coaxed Nippy along the road towards Sharkey’s Boot. It was hot and muggy and the midges were out in great swarms ready to ambush the unwary traveller. Considering the machine’s age, the speedometer needle never came within five miles of its maximum thirty miles per hour, which made him an ideal target for the swarms.

‘Blasted midges!’ he exclaimed, swiping at them with one hand and swerving about the road as a result. ‘I wonder if Dr Dent was getting closer to finding a solution for these wee nuisances?’

As he rode further into the huge haze of biting insects he scratched his neck, aware that already he had developed multiple tell-tale wounds. ‘I can see why somebody could get obsessed with the wee scunners. They must spread all kinds of disease.’

And, as he said it, he thought of Rab McNeish, who certainly seemed to have some sort of phobia about dogs. ‘Hmm! He sounded a bit subdued when I phoned him from the station. He didn’t even swear once, which isn’t like him. Still, we’ll soon see. And it will be interesting to hear if he has anything to add about this Heather McQueen case. All a bit of a mystery.’

He cleared the swarm and heaved a sigh of relief. He was tempted to stop for a moment to pull up his collar to protect his neck as best he could against further midge attacks, but he did not want Nippy to lose speed, especially as there was a slight rise to negotiate before the road dropped down to the peninsula-shaped spit of land whose shape had given its name to Sharkey’s Boot.

Towards the top of the rise he heard the noise of a vehicle coming in the other direction at speed. Then suddenly a canary yellow camper-van shot over the crest and zoomed towards him.

‘You fools!’ he yelled, as he swerved to avoid it.

He looked round immediately and saw it speeding off without stopping.

‘Huh! It is those bird-watching lads again. I will be having words with them if I catch hold of them again. I already told them about speeding on West Uist.’

Then he cursed as Nippy’s engine spluttered and threatened to stall. He began pedalling as hard as he could towards the crest of the rise.

Torquil opened up the throttle and let the Bullet have its head, conscious of Crusoe in the pannier.

‘Ha! You actually like that, don’t you, boy?’ he yelled into the wind and was answered by a bark of pleasure. ‘Now hold on, the road’s a bit like a chicane for half a mile.’

And so saying he entered the series of snake bends that characterized the stretch of road as he headed towards Half Moon Cove.

He slowed as he saw Alec Anderson’s mobile shop-cum Royal Mail van coming towards him.

He was about to wave as they approached one another but suddenly the haze of a midge cloud rose from the side of the road and, uncharacteristically, he faltered and the machine wobbled. It was all that he could do to maintain his balance.