‘So this is how you heated it up, from the smokery. You clever sod, running a still in Kyleshiffin itself and disguising the smell of the distilling with the smell of smoking kippers.’
He pulled out a full bottle from the topmost crate and pulled out the cork.
It smelled good in one way, yet disgusted him at the same time, almost enough to make him retch.
But then he heard footsteps outside and immediately secreted himself in the shadows behind the door. He heard a curse and the door opened.
‘Cò th’ann? Who’s there —?’ the man said.
He said no more as the handle of a hammer descended on the back of his head and he tumbled to the floor, knocked senseless.
Torquil was shown into the manager’s office at the Old Hydropathic Residential Home by Millie and asked to wait while she went to fetch Nora. Looking around the office that had been Robbie Ochterlonie’s place of work he noted that it was perhaps not as tidy as it could be. There were three large filing cabinets, presumably containing the resident’s records. An archaic looking safe stood in a corner, with the name Cartwright & Sons of West Bromwich embossed on a circular brass plate beside a large keyhole. A large pinboard was covered in resident’s dietary requirements and medication lists. Beside that was a board covered in hooks with keys hanging from them. One very large antique key hung from a piece of string at the side, which Torquil had no doubt fitted the safe, clearly a relic from the days when it actually was a hydropathic hotel in the nineteenth century. However, it begged questions about the Old Hydro’s approach to security. He made a mental note to tell Morag.
‘Inspector McKinnon, I’m sorry, I was in the west wing. What can I do for you? Is it about the girls, or about Robbie? I saw the West Uist email and I’m shocked and heartbroken.’
‘It’s about Robbie, Norma. You told me he was always writing.’
‘That’s what he said and what he seemed to be doing. He told me he had several short stories in the pipeline and he was writing a thriller. He was always tapping away here on his laptop in odd moments.’
‘What make of laptop was it, do you know?’
Norma pursed her lips. ‘A Samsung, I think.’
‘Did he leave it here?’ Torquil asked, looking round. ‘I can’t see any technology other than the PC on your desk.’
‘No, he always kept it with him. It’s definitely not here.’
‘I know it’s not easy for you, but was it in his cabin when you found him?’
Norma shook her head with grimace of sadness. ‘Honestly, I was too shocked to notice.’
‘I understand. Did he save his work directly onto the laptop, do you remember?’
‘Oh, he used memory sticks. That I definitely know.’
‘Any idea where he would have kept them?’
This time she shrugged her shoulders apologetically. ‘I … I didn’t know him well enough to know things like that.’
‘Did anyone else here see him writing, Norma?’
‘You might ask Doreen. I’ll go and get her, shall I?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind?’
Doreen was looking pale and nervous when she came in a few minutes later. ‘Norma told me to come in and see you, Inspector.’
Torquil gestured for her to sit down, which she did almost demurely. It was obvious to him that she was decidedly nervous and was avoiding eye contact more than she usually did. Her natural inquisitiveness had gone and she was not probing him for news, instead she was clearly guarded.
He leaned slightly forward and eyed her seriously. ‘Doreen, I want to know about the secret lover.’
To his surprise she suddenly leaned forward and almost whispered. ‘How … how did you find out? He’ll be angry with me.’
Torquil raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Who will be angry with you, Doreen?’
‘Hamish McNab. Him in his position, using me to spy for him on Charlie McDonald’s daughter.’
Creideamh! Torquil thought. Now there I’ve uncovered a hornet’s nest. ‘Hamish McNab is your secret lover and he’s had you spying on Catriona?’
She looked on the verge of tears, but somehow suppressed them. ‘He wanted to know anything at all about her father. Catriona liked to chat and I got quite good at probing, about his council work. I’m not sure she ever told me anything important, but Hamish liked to know. We weren’t doing anything wicked. He was divorced and I — well, I’ve been bored.’ Then she suddenly looked worried again. ‘You don’t need to make this public, do you? I … I’ll need to talk to Hamish and to Peter, my husband. I need to prepare before it all hits the fan.’
Torquil had decided to keep up his poker face. ‘I can’t promise anything, Doreen. This information does not need to be made public — at least not yet. But I’m going to need you to make a statement at the station. But right now I also need to know about Robbie Ochterlonie’s laptop. Did you see him writing with it?’
Doreen’s eyes opened wide in surprise at the sudden change in questioning. ‘Yes, lots of time. He was always on about his writing. He said he expected to become a bestselling thriller writer one day. But I think it was just fantasy.’
Torquil drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Did you see where he kept his memory sticks?’
She stared blankly at him. ‘No, I’m not that great on technology. Robbie used to take the micky out of me that way. I used to just trot his own saying back to him. A word to the wise.’
Now where did I hear someone else saying that, Torquil thought. And then he remembered. ‘I’d like to speak to Stuart Robertson now. Is he at the Captain’s table?’
Doreen frowned. ‘He’s having one of his siesta days. When he has those he stays in his room and just drinks and sleeps.’
‘Then show me to his room, please.’
Wallace and Douglas drove out to Lochiel’s Copse and parked up beside the trailer with Robbie’s boat and the pile of empty lobster pots.
‘It’s hard to believe that poor old Robbie was murdered in his own cabin.’
‘Poor devil. It’s all bizarre. Piper seems convinced he was killed by a secret lover, but I can’t see that happening to someone like him.’
They ducked under the police tape and, pulling on latex gloves, entered the cabin and began a thorough search, careful to avoid the chalked outline where Robbie Ochterlonie’s body had been, with the blood stains on the floor and the circled chalk marks where the glass and the whisky bottle had been found. After half an hour of thorough searching they found nothing amiss. No sign of concealed doors, cupboards or safe. No loose floorboards or hidden attic compartment.
‘Nothing! No laptop. No peatreek,’ said Douglas.
‘So let’s scout around outside.’
Back outside, they did a search of the area all round the cabin, again finding nothing. A look inside the old boat drew another blank. It was only a chance lifting of the topmost lobster pot that revealed the bottle of amber liquid inside the one behind it.
Gingerly, Wallace pulled the cork and sniffed. ‘Wow! Whatever it is, it has a powerful nose.’
‘Aye, but the thing is this looks like his post box, where he received his peatreek and where he kept it.’
‘The question is, who was his postman?’
Stuart Robertson was in a doleful mood. He was sitting by the window of his room staring out into the fog, a mug of tea in his horny hand. Torquil could smell the fumes and had no doubt that there was more than a teaspoon of whisky in the tea.