‘It – it’s Nial. We had a row yesterday. Two actually, one in the morning and one when he got home last night. And he’s barely talked to me this morning. He was up and out before I woke.’
Morag made a note in her book. ‘Are you worried about him?’
Megan nodded. ‘Oh, I don’t think anything bad has happened to him. In fact, I think I know where he is. And who he’s with!’
Morag said nothing; experience having long since told her that people will often volunteer their information.
‘He will be with that vet, Katrina Tulloch. He drools over her. I know that now. He’s gone from my bed to hers.’
‘That isn’t something that I can do anything about, I am afraid.’
‘No, but perhaps you ought to know about him. He’s not exactly the harmless bird officer that everyone thinks. He’s opinionated and he gets a bee in his bonnet about things. When he does that he can be … tenacious.’
‘I don’t follow?’
‘We first met at an animal rights meeting.’
‘Go on,’ Morag urged.
‘He used to be an activist. He—’
‘Has he a record, Megan? Is that what you are saying?’
Megan bit her lip as if she was having an internal argument as to what she should divulge. Then, finally, ‘He told me that he once fire-bombed the warehouse of a factory that was involved in supplying a laboratory with animals for animal experimentation.’
Lachlan stood looking out of the window of Alistair McKinley’s cottage, a glass of whisky in his hand. ‘It is a magnificent view that you have here. I hadn’t realized that you had such a good sight of the old lighthouse.’
‘Aye, and from the other side of the house we’ll soon be able to see all these wind towers that fool of a laird is planning.’
‘Are you sure that it is all legal, though, Alistair? Have you had it checked out? I am no expert, but I would have thought he would have at least needed planning permission rather than just hoicking them up.’
Alistair sipped his whisky. ‘Rhona usually saw to all the business and legal side of the Wee Kingdom. I suppose one of us will have to see to it now.’
There was a knock on the open door and Wallace Drummond popped his head round the frame. ‘Ah Padre, we were not expecting to see you here.’
His brother Douglas appeared beside him. ‘It is Alistair McKinley that we are needing to see.’
‘Come away in lads,’ the old crofter urged. ‘We were having a dram. Will you have one too? In memory of my lad.’
Wallace shook his head with a pained expression. ‘I am sorry. We would have loved to join you, but we are here on duty. Our sergeant sent us on an errand. It’s a bit tricky.’
‘Out with it then,’ said Alistair.
Douglas pointed to the shotgun bag leaning against the wall. ‘We have been told that we are to confiscate your guns. Until further notice, the West Uist Police have put a ban on any hedgehog cull on the island.’
Jock McArdle and Danny Reid were watching the evening Scottish TV news in the large sitting-room at Dunshiffin Castle while they waited for Jesmond to call them to dinner.
‘See that Kirstie Macroon, boss,’ Danny said with a slightly lascivious tone as he handed his employer a whisky and lemonade. ‘Liam fair fancied her.’
The redheaded newsreader went through the headlines while they sat and drank. Then the backdrop behind her changed to a picture of Dunshiffin Castle.
‘Here that’s us!’ exclaimed Danny Reid. ‘We’re on the news!’
Jock McArdle waved his hand irritably and sat upright. ‘Let’s listen then.’
‘And now to West Uist and the revelation by the editor of the West Uist Chronicle that the death yesterday of Liam Sartori, one of the employees of the new owner of the Dunshiffin Castle estate was not due to an eagle attack, as we previously reported, but was in fact due to – murder!
‘The local editor, Calum Steele is on the phone now.
Jock McArdle swallowed the rest of his whisky and lemonade and held the glass out to Danny Reid for a refill.
Then Calum Steele’s voice came over the television:
‘The new owner of Dunshffin Castle is himself causing quite a stir on the island. He has embarked upon a programme of windmill erection, which is of questionable legality.’
Jock McArdle cursed. ‘Careful you wee bastard!’ he said to the screen, which showed Kirstie Macroon nodding her head as she listened to Calum.
And our investigations have revealed that Mr McArdle has a cavalier approach to business. Today it can be revealed that whereas he is publicly proclaimed to be an ice cream and confectionary mogul, in fact he has many investments, most notably in a string of companies involved in animal research. He has previously been the target—’
Jock McArdle shot to his feet. ‘Get the Porsche. It’s time that wee busybody learned not to meddle in my business.’
Nial Urquart had just walked into the sitting-room of Katrina’s flat with a cup of coffee in his hand. He switched on the television and caught Calum Steele’s piece on the news.
‘Bastard!’ he exclaimed.
‘Who is a bastard?’ Katrina called through from the kitchen.
Nial flicked the channel control to the BBC. ‘Oh no one. Sorry for my language. It’s just my team. They lost in the league.’
Then he switched the television off.
The Bonnie Prince Charlie was busy as usual and Mollie McFadden and her staff were occupied with pulling pints of Heather Ale and dispensing whiskies. At the centre of the bar Calum Steele was holding court, clearly enjoying his newfound celebrity status on Scottish TV.
He was just telling an eager group of listeners for the third time how he had winkled out the information from the internet, when he felt a tap on his shoulder and then felt himself being whirled round.
‘I don’t allow anyone to broadcast my business affairs!’ Jock McArdle snapped.
‘And I’ve warned you once before, chubby,’ said Danny Reid, running a finger up and down the zip of Calum’s anorak. He looked aside at his employer who nodded his head.
Calum swallowed hard and held his chin up. ‘The press have a perfect right to keep the public informed.’
‘Is that so?’ Jock McArdle said, as Danny Reid grasping the zip fastener of Calum’s greasy yellow anorak. ‘Well, let me give you a friendly warning, Mr Calum Steele. In future you will keep your nose out of my affairs and you will be … respectful of my position.’ He leaned forward and took the fastener out of Danny Reid’s hand. ‘In other words – zip up!’
And he yanked the fastener all the way up and caught a tiny fold of Calum’s double chin in the zip.
Calum howled in pain.
‘Just a warning!’ McArdle said. ‘Good night everyone.’
As he and Danny Reid reached the door, Mollie McFadden’s voice rang out. ‘Aye, that’s the door Mr McArdle. Laird or no laird, you and your bodyguard are herewith banned! You are not welcome here again!’
Jock McArdle turned and sneered. ‘See, darling, that’s OK. Why would anyone want to drink in this hovel anyway? Good night and God bless.’
It was ten o’clock by the old grandmother clock in her sitting-room and Megan Munro had cried all evening. She had sent three texts to Nial Urquart and tried to phone him half-a-dozen times, but without success. So desperate had she felt that she had even contemplated trying to drink a glass of wine, but the thought alone revolted her. But music usually helped her, loud music to try to lift her mood. Yet not even Queen nor the Red Hot Chili Peppers could help. She turned off the CD player and went to switch off the lights. It was then that she thought she heard the sound of crackling, and smelled smoke.