Deathly Wind (9 page)

‘About Kenneth McKinley’s cause of death?’ Torquil asked.

‘No, it’s clear enough that he died as a result of the injuries he sustained in the fall. He had multiple contusions and
fractures
of his skull, spine, pelvis and all four limbs. His rib cage was smashed to pieces and he had a ruptured liver and spleen and a torn right kidney. No, he died instantaneously, there is no doubt.’

‘Is it those marks on his face?’ Torquil asked. ‘Those scratches?’

‘Aye, partly that. There were three ugly gashes on his face.’

Morag swallowed a mouthful of Tea. ‘Do you think someone scratched him, Ralph?’

‘Something, I think. They were vicious raking wounds, like a claw of some sort.’

‘Or a talon,’ Torquil suggested. And he told them of his conversation with Annie McConville when she found his body.

‘Aye, well, that would fit right enough. But eagles don’t attack people do they?’

Morag interjected. ‘There have been reports about the Corlin eagles attacking animals. Megan Munro telephoned in a complaint about them. She said they’ve been killing
hedgehogs
in her sanctuary.’

Torquil eyed her with amusement. ‘And what does she want us to do about it? Arrest them?’

‘Och, you know what some of the folk say about eagles attacking small animals. It’s possible, I suppose.’ said Morag.

‘But not a man,’ returned Ralph, pushing his mug across the table and smiling benignly, in the expectation that it would be refilled.

Torquil blew out a puff of air between pursed lips. ‘What about if an eagle thought it was being attacked. If he’d been out there with a rifle, for example?’

Ralph and Morag considered the suggestion for a moment. ‘That would be possible, I think,’ said Ralph. ‘But I’m no expert on birds. Maybe you need to ask someone who knows.’

‘Nial Urquart might know,’ Morag suggested, pulling out her notebook and jotting a reminder to herself.

‘But he had no gun with him, did he?’ went on Torquil. ‘And I went back later and didn’t find anything either at the foot of the cliffs, or up on the ledge that he looks to have fallen from. There were a few scuffs, but no sign of anyone else being there.’ He shook his head and reached into his pocket. ‘But strangely, this morning when the twins and I were out checking the Cruadalach isles, I found this.’ He held out his hand to reveal the plastic bag with the empty cartridge. He laid it on the desk and opened his drawer, from which he took out another plastic bag containing a live bullet. ‘This was the .308 that we found beside his body. The question is, if they were from a rifle owned by Kenneth McKinley, what was he doing out there on the Cruadalach isles?’

‘Maybe we’d better be asking Alistair McKinley a few questions,’ Morag said. ‘But we’ll have to be easy with him. He’ll be in a pretty fragile shape.’

‘He said he felt guilty about letting Kenneth go off on his own,’ Torquil said. ‘And he told me that he had taken a rifle with him. The thing is – where is it now?’

Ralph McLelland clicked his tongue and drew the file towards him. He turned a page and tapped it with his middle finger. ‘I said there were a couple of things. One was the
presence
of those wounds. The other was the contents of his stomach. It was full of a strange goo, half digested of course. I had a look with the microscope and I’m pretty sure his last meal consisted of worms, slugs and a few snails. All raw!’

He waited as Morag curled up her nose and covered her mouth to indicate her revulsion at the idea. Then said, ‘Washed down with a few drams of whisky, judging by his blood alcohol level.’

‘All in all, not normal behaviour,’ said Torquil. He nodded
at Morag. ‘You’re right, we need to ask Alistair a few
questions
. I’ll go over and see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

After Ralph left, Torquil spent the following half-hour writing up his report for Superintendent Lumsden. He duly faxed it through and was just preparing to head off to the Corlins for another look around near the eagle nest and the point where Kenneth McKinley had met his death, when the telephone rang and Morag informed him that the superintendent was on the line.

‘Good afternoon, Superintendent Lumsden, did you get my—’

‘What the hell is it with you, McKinnon? Do you have to be antagonistic?’

‘Antagonistic to whom, Superintendent?’

‘To your superiors!’

Torquil’s hackles rose immediately. ‘Are you suggesting that I have been antagonistic to a superior officer, Superintendent Lumsden?’

‘Christ, McKinnon, you’re at it again right now! But no, that wasn’t what I was meaning. I meant being antagonistic to your social superiors. This is the second laird who has come up against you and—’

‘Hold on a minute, Superintendent Lumsden. For one thing I have no idea what you are talking about. I have had no
dealings
at all with the present laird of Dunshiffin. And as for him being a social superior, that is balderdash! I have not even met the man, but I do know that he has simply bought an estate on West Uist. That gives him no rights over anyone. He is a landowner, pure and simple.’

‘Well I’ve just had him on the phone for ten minutes ranting about the attitude of the people of some place called the Wee Kingdom, and the antagonism of the people in general and the uselessness of the local constabulary!’

‘I repeat,’ said Torquil as civilly as he could, ‘I have had no dealings with him at all.’

‘He says one of his dogs has been poisoned and he wants action. I want you to give it to him, McKinnon. We have to maintain a good rapport with important people like him.’

Torquil took a deep breath and forced himself not to lose his cool any more than he was doing. ‘We will investigate his claims, sir.’

‘Good. And what about that report I wanted faxing through.’

‘It should be with you already, Superintendent.’

‘Well it hasn’t arrived. Send it again!’

There was a click, as of the receiver being slammed down on a telephone in Bara, and Torquil once again found himself staring at his dead receiver.

After sharing his frustration with Morag, Torquil telephoned Dunshiffin Castle and spoke to Jesmond.

‘The laird is not available, Inspector McKinnon. He has left instructions not to be disturbed. He is upset about the death of one of his Rottweilers. He is very unhappy.’

Torquil thought he detected a slight tone of irreverence as the butler mentioned the breed of dog. ‘Well tell the
laird
when he is available, that if he wishes to make a report about his dog’s death he can jolly well come into the station and file a report – personally. Goodbye, Jesmond.’

‘I shall tell him exactly that, Inspector. Goodbye.’ Torquil thought he detected a note of glee in the crusty old butler’s voice.

When Torquil arrived home that evening he opened the front door of the manse and was immediately assailed by the aroma of devilled rabbit, one of Lachlan’s specialities and by the sight of the Padre himself on his hands and knees in the hall, leaning over the carburettor of the classic Excelsior Talisman that the two of them had been gradually restoring over the past umpteen years. Bits and pieces of the said bike lay on
oil-soaked
newspapers along the side of the long hall.

‘Have you a problem, Uncle?’ Torquil asked, knowing all
too well that when the Padre had something he needed to work out, he either went and hit golf balls or started tinkering with the Excelsior Talisman.

The Padre raised his eyes heavenwards and exhaled
forcefully
. Then he gave a wan smile, wiped his hands on an old rag and stood up. ‘You might say that, laddie. But I’ll solve it one day.’ And giving the carburettor a mock kick he pointed to the sitting-room with his chin. ‘You look as if you’ve had a tough day. Why don’t you pour a couple of drams while I check on the supper?’

And five minutes later, with a whisky in their hands they sat on each side of the old fireplace and exchanged news of the day. Lachlan listened with a deepening frown as he heard about the superintendent’s attitude over the telephone.

‘That man is nothing but a boor, Torquil! An obsequious boor at that. I think he kow-tows to the gentry.’

Torquil sipped his whisky. ‘I haven’t met this McArdle yet, but I don’t like the way he’s taking on the mantle of “the laird,” as if it gives him rights over the island.’

‘But he has land ownership rights. The Dunshiffin estate is pretty big, and, of course, he has substantial rights apparently over the Wee Kingdom.’

‘Well, I am thinking that I will be locking horns with him before too long.’

The Padre nodded sympathetically, then, ‘I saw Jessie McPhee this afternoon. She was visiting her husband’s grave.’ He omitted to tell his nephew that at the time he had been paying his own respects at Torquil’s parents’ graveside. ‘She’s making peace with herself over Ewan, the poor darling.’

He pulled out his pipe and was reaching into his pocket for his tobacco pouch when his hand touched the little black notebook that Jessie had given him. ‘Oh, you’d better have a look at this. It’s Ewan’s. Jessie said that he’d taken to making lots of wee notes. She particularly wanted you as his friend and senior officer to have a look.’

Torquil laid down his whisky glass and reached out for the
notebook. He skimmed it, immediately recognizing the big constable’s untidy handwriting. It seemed to be quite
shambolic
, having no set order; quite typical of Ewan, Torquil thought. There were bits and pieces of observations, things he’d highlighted to do, to say to various people, including Torquil. But interspersed among it there were personal thoughts.

The Padre noticed his nephew’s change of posture, his expression of studied concentration. Slowly Torquil’s head came up, his eyes sharp. ‘He had a lot on his mind, Uncle. It looks like Ewan was feeling pretty desperate!’

Morag was looking bleary-eyed next morning after spending half the night looking after her youngest daughter Ailsa, who was subject to the croup. Sitting on the other side of Torquil’s desk she read his summary of Ewan’s notebook, which he had divided into three brief sections, respectively dealing with his feelings about Katrina Tulloch, his suspicions about
something
he suspected Kenneth McKinley of being up to, but which he hadn’t been altogether clear about, and things that he was planning to discuss with Torquil and others.

‘He seemed to have lost his heart to Katrina,’ Morag said with a sigh. ‘She’s a bonnie girl, but—’ She shook her head and stopped in mid sentence.

‘But what, Morag?’ Torquil queried. ‘Is this something to do with your famous woman’s intuition?’

Morag yawned as she thought. ‘I don’t suppose it is fair of me to say it, but she’s a bonnie girl and she knows it. There’s something … sensual about her. I think she would not be a one-man woman.’

‘But I understand that she’s been upset since he
disappeared
. Lachlan told me about Gordon MacDonald’s wake.’

‘Oh yes. Just as we all have been upset. And she’s been spotted wandering around the coast roads and the skerries. The Drummonds have seen her van parked overlooking St Ninian’s Bay and Calum Steele says she burst into tears when he saw her in the Bonnie Prince Charlie the other lunchtime.’

Torquil nodded and pushed the latest edition of the
West Uist Chronicle
across the desk for her to see. ‘Speaking of our esteemed journalist, I think he’s well and truly peeved.’

Morag read the headline:

There followed a piece of Calum’s most purple prose describing his encounter with the Laird of Dunshiffin, the dead dog, the Glaswegian bodyguards and the hurling of his digital camera into Loch Hynish. Morag smiled as she read it.

‘So he’s considering a claim for damages,’ she mused, as she read that Calum had been forced to buy a very expensive substitute so that the
Chronicle
photographer would still be able to illustrate the articles in the paper. ‘He’s not planning to make friends with the new laird then?’

Torquil frowned. ‘And he’s in danger of losing credibility as well. Look at the next page. He’s written a piece about Kenneth McKinley.’

Morag turned the page to find a photograph of a golden eagle in flight, with an insert photograph of Kenneth McKinley above a headline reading:

Morag stared at the article with wide eyed disbelief, and then slowly read it out loud:

Morag slapped the pages together. ‘That’s typical of the wee ferret. He’s wheedled gossip out of Annie McConville and speculated like crazy.’

‘Aye, just like he usually does. But I think he’s done it half on purpose. He knows that the golden eagles have caused mixed feelings on the island. There are the superstitious brigade and the bird lovers.’

‘And the bird lovers are all up in arms about the proposed windmills,’ agreed Morag. ‘Calum will be loving all this.’

Torquil sipped his tea. ‘Well, let’s get back to Ewan’s notebook. What do you make of the next section. What do you think he suspected Kenneth McKinley of? It is not clear from his notes.’

Morag looked at the notes then picked up Ewan’s actual notebook. ‘May I?’

Torquil nodded and watched her expression as she skimmed through it.

Suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes and she bit her lip. ‘Oh my God! This bit makes me feel so guilty.’ She read:
‘“Morag has her hands full, ask Torquil”.
He must mean that I was so preoccupied about Ailsa and her schoolwork. She’s missed so much school lately with this croup that she keeps getting. And Ewan didn’t feel he could burden me with his worries!’ And despite herself she sobbed anew.

In a trice Torquil was round the desk and slipping a comforting arm about her shoulder. ‘Now that is the last thing that you should be thinking, Morag. We don’t know whether
any of this is of the slightest relevance. Ewan was a good police officer. If he thought it was something you ought to know about then he would have asked. We mustn’t get ahead of ourselves here.’

And pulling a tissue from the box on his desk she quickly controlled herself and resumed her customary visage of solid professionalism. She returned to the diary and flicked through the pages with barely a sniff or two.

Eventually she said, ‘I think he’s got two trains of thought going. On the one hand it seems a bit personal, like he thinks Kenneth was watching him and Katrina. There’s a hint there that he doesn’t like the way that he caught him looking at Katrina and him one evening when they were out having dinner at Fauld’s Hotel. And the other thing seems to be a suspicion that Kenneth was up to something. Look, there are times and dates when he’s noted down when he saw him. And there are a few words in capital letters that he’s boxed round – GUNS and BOND and FAIR FANCIES HIMSELF. I don’t think he liked young Kenneth McKinley much. Maybe he saw him as a rival?’

Torquil clicked his tongue pensively. ‘Aye, possibly. He was always a tad insecure, for all his great size. And with the word GUNS we come back to the missing rifle again, don’t we.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘And what did he mean by BOND?’

‘Beats me, Torquil.’

‘Ok then, what do you think about those things he wanted to ask me about?’

The first was simply the name KATRINA, followed by a question mark.

‘That’s easy, Torquil,’ said Morag with a smile. ‘You know he’s always looked up to you as a friend, an older brother even, as well as his senior officer. He wanted to know your opinion about what he should do.’ She shook her head and added wistfully, ‘And the big darling thought I was too busy.’

Torquil frowned. ‘Me, with my track record?’ He shook his head, dismissively. ‘What about FAMILY?’

‘Could he have meant Geordie Morrison and his family?’

‘That’s what I was thinking, too. I guess time will tell when they show up again. And that leaves the last word, WIND?’

‘I think everyone on the island has that word on their mind at the moment,’ said Morag. ‘What with windmills and wind-farms.’

‘Aye, and the more I think about it, the more I think it’s an ill wind that’s being blowing lately,’ Torquil mused.

Sister Lizzie Lamb was busy, which was not at all unusual for her. No matter how many patients she had under her care, she was always busy. She could have six extremely ill patients in the cottage hospital and cope admirably, or just the one and be run off her feet. But patient care never suffered, or was in any way compromised. She just liked people to know that a nursing life was a busy life.

And with Rhona McIvor as the only patient her business extended to getting all of her administrative chores done, as well as overseeing a good spring-clean of the sluice, the supplies room and then an inventory of the mortuary
equipment
.

When the new laird presented himself at the reception desk, Maggie Crouch, the hospital clerk, scuttled off and found Sister Lamb in the supplies room. After a few words of exasperation Lizzie left Giselle Anderson, her irreplaceable nursing assistant, to carry on with the spring-clean while she went to attend on the visitor.

‘Rhona McIvor has had a heart attack and still must not be over-tired,’ she said, leading the way into the side room where they had moved Rhona. ‘Doctor McLelland was quite precise in his instructions.’

‘Don’t you worry, Sister,’ returned Jock McArdle. ‘I just want to pay my respects – I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

Sister Lamb was plump, forty-five, with an old-fashioned
neatly starched uniform and an over-developed sense of the romantic.

‘You sent her all those beautiful flowers, didn’t you, Mr McArdle?’ She smiled knowingly. ‘She’s a lucky lady.’

McArdle grinned affably, as he divined the real question that lay behind her remark. ‘Ah no, Sister! You think that we—’ He made a to-and-fro gesture with his hand. ‘Nah. Nothing like that.’

Sister Lamb turned the corner and stood outside Rhona’s room, her face betraying a slight disappointment that the romance she had speculated about was no such thing. She gave a little professional cough. ‘I wasn’t thinking anything, Mr McArdle. I was just looking out for Rhona, my patient. Mind what I said now, she’s not to be over-tired or overexcited.’

‘I’ll be two minutes with my friend, Sister. That’s all.’

Torquil had to wait at the end of the causeway over to the Wee Kingdom, as the large container lorry edged across. It had emblazoned on its sides a picture of a row of windmills linked by lightning bolts and the words
NATURE’S OWN ENERGY
underneath
it. The driver, a large man with a pony-tail and heavily tattooed arms gave him a thumbs-up sign as he inched past. His companion, a younger man in a red baseball cap was smoking a cigarette. Almost languidly, he flicked the dog-end out of the cab window so that it bounced off the front wheel of the Bullet. Immediately Torquil’s hackles rose and he held up a hand for the driver to stop.

‘Dropping litter is just as illegal on West Uist as it is on the mainland,’ he said, turning off the Bullet’s engine and hauling it up on its central stand. He ground the cigarette end under the heel of his heavy buckled Ashman boot then bent down and picked it up. ‘I am Inspector McKinnon of the Hebridean Constabulary, and I am willing to overlook this – just this once!’ He held up his hand to the open window. ‘Take your litter home please and dispose of it appropriately.’

The youth glowered at him, but at a dig in the ribs from the driver he took the dog-end from Torquil and deposited it in the ashtray in the cab.

‘Sorry about the boy here, Inspector,’ said the driver, leaning towards the window. ‘He’s from the city and he doesn’t know how tae handle himself at times.’

‘I ken fine how to handle myself,’ the youth returned sourly.

Torquil eyed him dispassionately. ‘That’s OK then. But just don’t overstep the letter of the law while you’re visiting this island, or you’ll find that we enforce the law pretty strictly here.’ And then ignoring the youth he pointed to the two wind towers that had been erected on either side of the Wind’s Eye croft cottage. Both of them were surrounded by scaffolding with ladders leading up to wooden platforms near the top. One had a slowly revolving three-bladed propeller and the other had a series of spinning anemometers at various heights above the platform.

‘You didn’t waste a lot of time putting them up. But they’re a bit smaller than I imagined they would be. What are they, about forty or fifty feet tall.’

‘That’s right, Inspector. They’re our standard fifty-foot towers. They are just basic ones to gather information. We measure wind speeds and directions with the anemometer one and the propeller has no turbine, it is just to record likely operating patterns. They’re all recording data which the boffins back at the head office will work out later. We’ve done our work for now and are just off to bring the next lot over.’

‘How many are you putting up?’ Torquil asked.

‘Ten more on this piece of land.’ He said, indicating the Wee Kingdom. ‘Then assuming everybody’s happy with the estimates they get, who knows. It maybe that we’ll be putting up the real McCoys, the big turbines.’ He grinned. ‘Then it’ll be proper wind farm here we come. And for that we’ll have a whole gang of workers, not just gangers like me and the lad here.’

He turned and looked at the youth beside him, as if he had
received a kick. The youth held up his watch and the driver pursed his lips. ‘Would you excuse us then, Inspector? We need to catch the ferry.’

Torquil nodded and waved them on. ‘Just watch your speed on these narrow West Uist roads,’ he instructed.

‘We’ll go easy, Inspector,’ returned the driver. He grinned as he nudged his companion. ‘And maybe your wee ticking off will do the lad a bit of good, eh? I keep telling him to give up these coffin nails of his.’

When they had gone Torquil started up the Bullet and made his way over the causeway towards the McKinley croft. As he rode past Wind’s Eye with its incongruous wind towers he found himself mentally recoiling from them. These flimsy looking windmills were bad enough, but a wind farm with giant turbines would change the whole face of the island.

Rhona blinked myopically at Jock McArdle with ill-concealed disdain. ‘What, no flowers for me today?’ she asked coldly.

‘No flowers,’ he replied casually. ‘Just a message.’ His lips twisted into a smile that was curiously devoid of warmth. ‘See, I’m here as a sort of postman.’ He made a theatrical adjustment to the knot of his paisley pattern tie then reached into the inside breast pocket of his Harris Tweed jacket, and drew out a long envelope. ‘Maybe I’m a wee bit over-dressed for the part, but I thought I’d deliver it myself. You’ll be
interested
to know that it is all entirely legitimate.’

‘Do you think I am remotely interested in anything you have to tell me, Mr McArdle?’

His mouth again curved into his mirthless smile and he smirked. ‘And do you really think that I don’t know who you are, or what you used to do for a living – Rhona McIvor? I’ve got the memory of an elephant, so I have. But you don’t, it seems.’ He tossed his head back and laughed, a cold sinister laugh. ‘Have I changed all that much.’