‘She was a journalist, I believe,’ said Torquil. And crossing to the roll-top desk he looked at the piles of neatly stacked papers and the documents in the pigeon holes of the desk. ‘It looks as if she was still busy with writing.’
‘Aye, she hadn’t written anything for years, but she started again – just articles – a few months ago. Mainly about lifestyles and crofting.’
‘She seems to have been very methodical.’
‘Rhona was the administrator of all of the Wee Kingdom business outlets. She did all the paperwork for us.’ He shook his head. ‘God knows how we’ll cope now. I’m helpless at that sort of thing.’
‘And what about the wind towers that McArdle is having put up?’
Vincent snorted with derision. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for.’
‘It looks as if one of his men has already paid for him, with his life.’
‘Aye, maybe so.’
Calum Steele had been busy on the internet. In his own mind he was an investigative journalist par excellence. He felt born to the job, being by nature both curious about his fellow citizens, and having an almost pathological urge to gossip.
‘Calum Steele! You would spear the inside out of a clam with your questions!’ Miss Melville, his teacher at the local school used to say upon being barraged with his questioning. ‘You need to go and be a journalist.’
And indeed that was precisely what he had done, the only thing being that he had done it locally, ultimately becoming the sole staff member of the West Uist Chronicle. Being somewhat thick-skinned, it had never occurred to him that it had been Miss Melville’s hope that he would leave the island to seek his fortune.
Calum had grasped the new technology with both hands. Although he liked to cultivate the image of always having a spiral-bound notebook with him, he always carried a state of the art Dictaphone in his anorak as well as his latest love, his digital camera. He was still rankling at the criminal loss of his last one, which had forced him to shell out £500 on the new one at his elbow.
To his credit, he single-handedly produced enough copy to fill the eight pages that made up the local paper six days a week. Admittedly, four pages were taken up with advertising, but anything on the island that was remotely newsworthy, whether that was the purchase of a new tractor, the number of overdue library books, or the belief that eagles were attacking people, Calum would investigate and write it up. And a murder investigation to him was like manna from heaven.
Not being of a naturally sentimental nature, Calum had found himself in a strange place lately. The loss of PC Ewan McPhee had affected him more than he had thought it would. He had become maudlin and he found himself valuing his friends more than usual. Torquil McKinnon and the Drummond twins, who had all been at school at the same time, and Morag Driscoll, the police sergeant whom he had secretly adored for years, they all seemed vitally important in his life. He had become patriotic, territorial, and he taken a great dislike to the brazenness of the new laird, Jock McArdle and his bully-boy tactics. He had decided to take up a crusade against the wind towers that were being erected on the Wee Kingdom.
‘So, Mr McArdle, it’s not just the king of ice cream that you are, is it!’ he grinned to himself as he printed out his findings. ‘Let’s see what Kirstie Macroon at Scottish TV makes of this.’
And he reached for his mobile telephone.
Alistair McKinley lowered his shotgun.
‘Lachlan McKinnon, what in the blazes are you doing up here?’ He flicked his eyes at his shotgun. ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on a man with a shotgun. Accidents have been known to happen.’
The Padre waved a finger. ‘Alistair McKinley, I was not sneaking up on anyone. If you must know, I came up here for inspiration. I am having trouble writing sermons and eulogies lately and I was preparing one for Kenneth. I thought that if I came up here, where he had his accident, I might get a sense of how he died. I imagine that is pretty much the same reason that you are up here yourself.’
Then he pointed to the shotgun. ‘Or were you here in some misguided sense of revenge?’ He looked up at the misty Corlins. ‘Were you hoping to pot a golden eagle? That would be foolish, you know.’
‘Ach, maybe it would strike you as foolish, Padre, but you haven’t lost your son. And it is better than me taking my gun and doing away with the real villain of the piece. The man who caused Kenneth’s death and now Rhona’s – that bastard McArdle!’
Lachlan put an arm about the old crofter’s shoulder. ‘Alistair McKinley, you are an old fool. Look at you, up here in these conditions in your bare feet! Is that the action of a sober man? Come on now; let’s get you back safe and sound to your croft. I’ll come with you and we’ll have a dram.’
Despite himself Alistair gave a short laugh. ‘You are not the usual type of minister at all, are you, Lachlan McKinnon? Always encouraging me to have a dram. But I’ll come with you. Will you need a lift?’
‘I have my Red Hunter down below,’ replied the Padre. He looked at the cliff edge. ‘And if you will take my advice you will take the path down with me, and not make any more foolish attempts to climb in your bare feet.’
He waited while Alistair unloaded his shotgun and slid it into his shotgun bag.
As they made their way down the path Lachlan fancied that he heard the heavy flap of eagle wings overhead. He smiled to himself, for he had no doubt that he had at least saved one life that day.
Morag sent the Drummonds off and went back into Torquil’s office where she had left Megan Munro with a cup of tea.
‘I have sent my special constables onto the job,’ she said, sitting in Torquil’s chair opposite Megan.
‘He’s not safe, Sergeant. He says he’s off to start that hedgehog cull, but I don’t believe him. He said he was in a killing mood, and with that poor man falling and getting killed the other day I thought that I should report him to the police.’
‘Well, the Drummond twins will investigate and see if they can locate him. Just to be on the safe side.’ She produced her silver pen and her notebook and laid them on the desk in front of her. She had only met Megan Munro once or twice before, but she knew all about her and her hedgehog-rescue operation. A pretty girl, she thought. Pity that she has to cover up her hair in those beanie hats and wear those mannish dungarees. Could she be a lesbian, Morag wondered? But surely not. She was living with that bird protection officer, Nial Urquart.
‘I am afraid that I have to tell you, that death you just referred to – well, we are treating it as suspicious.’
Megan’s eyes opened wide. ‘Suicide, you mean?’
Morag shook her head. ‘Possibly murder.’
Megan let out a gasp and covered her mouth with both hands. ‘But it couldn’t be. I saw him myself yesterday afternoon. He was delivering those awful letters from the new laird, about the wind towers. I didn’t like him. He smelled of whisky and I had to stop Vincent from getting beaten up by him. I’m sure if I hadn’t been there he would have been violent.’
And as she recounted the meeting in Geordie Morrison’s cottage, Morag made notes.
‘Where is Geordie Morrison and his family?’ Morag asked.
‘We don’t know. I think with all the other tragedies that have been going on lately, we’re all a bit worried that something might have happened to them.’
‘What does your partner think of it all?’
At the question Megan suddenly burst into tears. Morag patted her hand and pushed a box of tissues across the desk to her. ‘I am sorry, Megan. Is there something upsetting you?’