Torquil took a last mouthful of tea and glanced at his watch. ‘First, I’m going to the cave for a practice on the pipes to blow off a bit of steam, then I have to get down to the ferry to meet my new DC.’
‘Of course, I had forgotten you have a newbie starting. It will increase your detective force by one hundred per cent, won’t it?’
Torquil hummed. ‘It will, which will be a help to me, as we will have responsibility for both West Uist, Barra, Eriskey and Benbecula. It’ll be a challenge for her and no mistake.’
The Padre raised his eyebrows.
His nephew frowned. ‘Now don’t you jump on Lorna’s bandwagon, Uncle. I merely meant it could challenge her because she’s English. She’s transferring straight here from Leeds. Do you think you could look after Crusoe?’
‘With pleasure. I’ll give him a run across the links to church. I think he likes the challenge of finding balls in the rough.’
Torquil gave a rueful smile. ‘He’s lucky that life is so uncomplicated. I would welcome a few less challenges in mine.’
CHAPTER TWO
PC Ewan McPhee had ridden ‘Nippy,’ his mother’s old Morris 50 cc moped through the early Monday morning mist on his way up to the Hoolish Stones, passing by Dunshiffin Castle on the way. As he climbed higher the mist became fog and the moisture-laden atmosphere made myriads of spiderwebs stand out on the heather by the side of the gravel road whenever the headlight shone on them.
Every morning that he could, before going on duty and weather permitting, he liked to either go to the beach for a run along the sands and the machair, or head to the moor to practice his hammer throwing technique. The Western Isles champion at both wrestling and with the heavy hammer five times in a row, he worked hard to maintain his strength and his fitness. While he often moaned to his superior officers about not having official police transport, he secretly enjoyed riding the moped, especially since the machine was of the vintage where the pedals were actually functional, so he was able to give the machine a wee hand by using them on hills.
The vapours swirled, presenting variable visibility, sometimes closing in so that the moped’s beam cut a mere fifteen feet or so into it, or it dissipated eerily to give reasonable views of the surrounding terrain. The road continued to rise gently through woodland and then opened out again into an undulating landscape of boulders and heather-covered moors with great swathes of bracken. Further over towards the coast there were a series of crofts with cottages both large and small, some of which had peat- or woodsmoke billowing from their chimneys, while others were unoccupied and some were falling into decay and dereliction. Others were such ancient ruins that no-one remembered who had once lived in them, or indeed, whether they had even been used for human habitation. Nettles and gorse swallowed them up or sheep and rabbits took up temporary residence.
During one of the more lucid breaks in the misty veil a glint of light from a nearby patch of bracken caught Ewan’s eye and he realised that there was a figure crouched down. He automatically slowed down and stopped.
‘Madainn mhath,’ he called out. ‘A good morning to you.’
Slowly, a figure rose from the heather. It was a man in a camouflage waterproof jacket and hat. In his hands he was holding a pair of binoculars. Ewan recognised Cameron Beamish, one half of the Kyleshiffin law practice. He was in his early forties, a stocky man of average height with a slightly round face. Large, round, black-framed spectacles rested on a small hooked nose and gave him a slightly owlish look.
‘Hello there, Constable McPhee,’ Cameron said, wading towards Ewan through the bracken. ‘Are you on police business out on the moor at this hour?’
Ewan grinned and pointed to the pannier behind him from which protruded the stick of his hammer. ‘No, just a spot of training. I’m headed further in where the ground is flat. I’ll maybe frighten a few sheep or rabbits, I dare say. How about yourself?’
The solicitor raised his binoculars and laughed. ‘Och, I’m just out doing a spot of birdwatching.’
‘Birdwatching? I didn’t know that was your thing.’
Cameron Beamish tapped the side of his nose. ‘I keep it quiet, Ewan. I don’t like folk to think of the local legal eagle as being a secret twitcher!’
Ewan gave a hearty laugh. ‘I can see that might give the lads in the pub a laugh.’
‘So, not a word, eh?’
Ewan patted Nippy’s handlebars. ‘Mum’s the word, Cameron. I’d better get going if I want to get my practice in before work.’ He grinned then added, jokingly: ‘Happy twitching.’
Twenty minutes later Ewan was well into his practising.
‘Oh, son of the devil!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Ewan McPhee, you have little chance of lifting a sixth title this year when you throw like an auld fish wife.’ He strode over the heather to retrieve his hammer after his third throw.
Once again he wound himself up, whirling four times and then hurling for all he was worth. His curse came out of his mouth as soon as he turned to see the hammer sail through the air, forty-five degrees off target.
The Royal Mail van seemed to appear from nowhere. It came past a thicket of rowan trees and gorse bushes that had screened the road.
‘No!’ cried Ewan as the hammer began its descent and bounced on the road mere feet in front of the van.
Behind the wheel the driver slammed on the brake, causing the van to skid on the light gravel of the moor road and slew across it, coming to a halt inches in front of a ditch.
The driver opened the door as Ewan charged towards him through the heather.
‘Were you actually trying to take out the Royal Mail, Constable McPhee, or did you just throw that hammer thingie of yours too far?’
Ewan jogged up to him, realising immediately that Stan Wilkinson, the relatively new rural postie, was joking. Ewan ran his fingers through his red hair and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I hadn’t heard your van coming, Stan. The truth is that distance-wise it wasn’t a half bad throw, but the direction was all to pot. I’m right sorry I made you stop.’
‘No damage and no harm, Ewan,’ Stan replied, dropping the official police title and grinning. He was a small wiry fellow with mousy brown hair and a full beard. Of a cheery disposition, he nodded at the hammer, which had bounced and rolled to the verge of the ditch, having left a small crater in the road surface. ‘Well, no damage done, except you created a new pothole there.’
Ewan bit his lip. ‘It’s not exactly a pothole, Stan. More a dint, that’s all.’
Stan winked. ‘I was only kidding.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened if I had my proper shoes with me,’ Ewan explained. He raised a foot and pointed to his sodden trainer. ‘See this, it’s useless. I cannot get any purchase with these things, so I’ve been trying to anchor myself in the heather. I broke one of the blades on my old murder shoes, you see.’
‘Murder shoes?’ Stan repeated, doubtfully. ‘Did I hear you right, Ewan?’
Ewan suddenly laughed. ‘Forgive me, Stan. I sometimes get too keen when talking about my sport. I assume folk know the lingo. When we throw the highland hammer we wear special footwear that we call murder shoes.’
‘I’m still in the dark, Ewan. I’ve seen them tossing the hammer in athletics on the telly — not kicking them, so I don’t see why you would need murder shoes?’
Ewan’s eyes twinkled with merriment. ‘Of course, you’re English so you’ll not have seen the proper hammer being thrown.’ He picked up the hammer by the cane. ‘The Olympic hammer thrower is allowed to rotate and spin like a discus thrower, but the highland hammer is thrown from a standing position. You need to be anchored, you see, so we wear boots or shoes with blades coming out the fronts. We dig them into the ground. They look like the shoes Olga Kleg wore in that James Bond story. Maybe you saw the film?’