Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

But it had been the break-in that had really got to him. It had been made to look like a common burglary, but he knew better. Whoever had done it was looking for something – and they had found it. It had made him doubt his sanity for a while, since he was sure that he had hidden it away where no one could find it. It had been taken right enough, even though he had checked over his whole cottage at least six times, just in case he had moved it in a drunken haze one night.

He stared at the whisky glass in his hand, hesitating to drink it. Then he bent his head back and poured it down his throat, wincing as the liquid fire hit his stomach.

‘You are a fool, McNab,’ he growled at himself. ‘Just like you were last summer. And now some bastard is coming for you.’

Out in their kennels his two chocolate Labradors started to bark.

‘So you are about, are you? Well, come on, you bastard. If you want me, here I am!’

He ran a finger along the barrel of the gun and his face broke into a cynical sneer.

A trained hunter, he was normally aware of the slightest noise, but the whisky had dulled his senses. He hadn’t heard the step behind him; hadn’t even considered the possibility of someone getting into his house from the other side.

A hand shot over his shoulder and grabbed the shotgun.

‘What the—?’ he began, as he tried to turn.

He yelled as the butt of the shotgun fell with great force on his right shoulder.

‘Don’t get up on my account, Bruce,’ said Sandy King, walking round his chair into view. He was dressed in a black track suit and trainers. ‘You were expecting me, I see. How nice.’ He smiled as he broke the shotgun open and removed the cartridges. ‘Let’s just get rid of these. We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt, would we?’

Then the smile vanished as he pocketed the cartridges. ‘I think it is time that we had a chat, don’t you?’

Ewan had been relieved that he didn’t have to run the gauntlet of any more midges on the road along Sharkey’s Boot towards the row of crofts and outhouses where Rab McNeish lived and did the bulk of his carpentry and built his coffins.

He dismounted and stretched, then rubbed his neck where he seemed to have been bitten by hundreds of midges.

‘Let’s see if we can learn anything here then,’ he said to himself, as he crunched over the gravel to the front door. He noted the repair work that had been done.

‘I think his door must have taken a kicking,’ he said. ‘And it looks as if he has mended it himself. It is a great skill he must have with the hammer.’ And he grinned to himself as he compared it to his skill with the Highland hammer.

He knocked on the door and stood waiting for a moment, fully expecting Rab McNeish to throw it open any moment. But there was no answer.

‘Strange, he knew I was on my way,’ he mused, as he knocked again.

Then he tried the door and found that it opened straight away into a neat and ordered little hall, with closed doors to the right and left.

‘Mr McNeish? It’s me, PC Ewan McPhee. Hello.’

There was no reply. He tapped on each door before opening them and popping his head round.

‘What the dickens?’ he said, as he stopped and strained his ears. ‘Is that someone crying, I am hearing?’ Then he shook his head. ‘And now it sounds like an animal whining. More than one maybe.’ And following the sound he retraced his steps outside and went round the back of the cottages to a row of outhouses. By the timber stacked up against the walls and the sawdust that covered the ground outside it looked as if these were Rab McNeish’s workshops.

The noises were definitely getting louder.

He pushed open a door and stared in disbelief. There were about a dozen cages each with a cowering ill-kept dog whimpering and shivering away. They seemed like mongrels mostly and most of them were skinny with corrugated rib cages showing.

‘Goodness me! What’s going on here?’ he asked.

Then he saw the long bench with saws, various hunks of wood and something that looked like a cattle-prod lying on a bench.

The crying noise started again. A definite sobbing from behind the door. He took a step in and looked round.

Rab McNeish was curled up on the stone floor, almost in a foetal position, crying like a baby.

‘F-Forgive me!’ he moaned between sobs. ‘It’s the germs! The germs! They’re going to kill me. They’ll kill us all!’

Ewan felt a wave of nausea come over him. Rab McNeish was clearly in need of help that he couldn’t give him. He pulled out his mobile and called Dr Ralph McLelland.

Morag drove up to Bruce McNab’s cottage and quickly got out of the Escort. His dogs were barking furiously in their cages and she guessed that they had been barking away for some time, since by their eyes they seemed to be both distressed and angry. They were hurling themselves at the fronts of the cages in attempts to get out.

She didn’t wait, but went straight for the door that stood ajar.

And then she heard Sandy’s raised voice, cursing. And there was the sound of splashing water.

‘Police!’ she called, as she ran through the kitchen, noting the broken-open shotgun.

‘Bastard! Is this how you did it?’ she heard Sandy shout.

Along the hall she ran and burst into the bathroom.

Sandy King was staring wild eyed, as he pushed Bruce McNab’s bloodied face and head into the overflowing bath.

Morag stared in disbelief for a moment as she took in the scene. Bruce McNab was flailing about, but was being easily overpowered by Sandy. He held his head under the water and bubbles were streaming upwards.

‘Sandy, for God’s sake! You’ll kill him!’ she cried, dashing forward and grabbing his hands.

Sandy stared at her and snarled angrily. ‘Back off!’ Then he swung an elbow at her viciously and caught her on the side of the head. She tumbled sidewards and struck her head on the sink.

She slumped to the floor.

Torquil rode up the old track towards Half Moon Cove. The sand had been compacted by numerous tyre marks, leaving two continuous ruts with machair plants growing between.

‘Hello? What’s this?’ he wondered, as a set of tracks suddenly left the track and disappeared into sand dunes.

He stopped the Bullet and pulled up his goggles to see better. ‘Looks like a car went in but hasn’t come out again.’ He set off and turned into the dunes and found a Mercedes parked on its own. A fine patina of sand had already settled over the windscreen and bodywork.

‘Looks as if it has been here a while, Crusoe,’ he said to the dog in the pannier. ‘Registration FNJ 1. I am thinking that has to stand for Flotsam and Jetsam. So it looks as if Mr Fergie Ferguson has been paying a visit on old Guthrie.’

He switched off the engine and dismounted. ‘Come on then, Crusoe, we’ll take a look.’ He was about to set off when he noticed the footprints leading from the car. ‘Curious and curiouser. Let’s follow our TV man, since it looks as if he didn’t go up the main track.’

And sure enough, although the winds from the sea had almost covered the prints, there was enough for Torquil to see that he had taken a circuitous route around the high fenced enclosure.

‘Looks like he climbed over here, Crusoe. Which means I am going this way too.’ He held out a stern hand. ‘I want you to stay put. No noise. I won’t be long.’

Crusoe whimpered, wagged his tail a couple of times, then settled down on his haunches and laid his head on the ground.

Torquil grinned then started shinning over the fence. He landed on the other side beside a couple of indentations where Fergie Ferguson seemed to have landed. Then he followed the tracks across more dunes until they came to the back door of the beachcomber’s sprawling house.