‘We’ll start with Ralph’s preliminary report,’ Torquil said.
‘As the police surgeon gave a brief synopsis of his post-mortem examination Torquil added the name Danny Reid to the whiteboard. He drew a square around the name and added relevant notes underneath:
ALCOHOL. THREE TIMES LEGAL LIMIT
BODY BADLY BURNED
MEDALLION IN MOUTH
MULTIPLE BODY PIERCINGS
BROKEN NECK – FIFTH CERVICAL VERTEBRA
‘Thanks, Ralph,’ Torquil said, as the local doctor finished his report and sat down. ‘So we have two definite murders here.’ He tapped the boxed names on the whiteboard and went on, ‘And a missing police officer – presumed dead, an entire family missing, an accidental death in a rock-climbing accident and a sudden death from a heart attack.’
‘A tangled skein, right enough,’ mused Wallace Drummond. ‘And don’t forget the two dead dogs, Piper.’
The Padre picked up his pipe and tapped the mouthpiece against his teeth. ‘And it all seems to revolve around Jock McArdle.’
‘Who can hardly be a suspect though, can he?’ said Douglas Drummond. ‘He wouldn’t be killing his own boys, would he?’
Torquil nodded. ‘Ah yes, his boys. Well, while I was interviewing him earlier this morning Morag was busy on the internet doing some research and liaising with her contacts on the Glasgow force. She has made some interesting discoveries about the “laird of Dunshiffin”. He isn’t quite who he seems.’ He nodded to his sergeant, and then sat down.
‘He certainly isn’t,’ went on Morag. ‘Mr Jock McArdle died ten years ago.’
There was a chorus of surprised murmurings.
‘Do you mean identity theft?’ Lachlan asked.
‘Not exactly. There was a Jock McArdle in Glasgow, but he had nothing to do with our supposed laird. No, he quite legitimately changed his name by deed-poll ten years ago from Giuseppe Cardini.’
‘The plot thickens,’ said Wallace Drummond.
‘But why did he change his name?’ Douglas asked.
Morag stared back at him with raised eyebrows. ‘Presumably it was because he had just come out of prison after five years – for culpable homicide!’
The first thing that Jock McArdle did when he arrived back at Dunshiffin Castle was to pour himself a large malt whisky, which he gulped down in one. Then he poured another and carried it through to the library which he used as an office. He sat down behind the leather-topped desk, cluttered with papers and gadgets, and unlocked the desk drawer. He stared inside for a moment then smiled and reached for the telephone.
Superintendent Lumsden answered almost immediately and the two men talked animatedly for a few minutes.
‘McKinnon is a bit of a maverick, I know,’ Superintendent Lumsden said eventually. ‘But I’ll make sure that he plays ball.’
‘I appreciate it, Kenneth. We Glasgow boys have to stick together, especially in a situation like this.’ And after a few pleasantries he replaced his phone on the hook.
He took another sip of whisky and smiled to himself. He was still grinning when there was a tap on the door and he looked up.
‘May I offer you my most sincere condolences, Mr McArdle,’ said his butler.
Jock McArdle leaned back and gestured for him to come in. He smiled wistfully. ‘Thank you, Jesmond. Take a seat. Let’s not be so formal. That’s not my way, you see.’
‘Thank you, sir. I realize that you like informality, sir,’ he said, gingerly taking a seat on the other side of the desk from his employer.
‘So from now on, I’m going to call you Norman. That’s OK, isn’t it?’
Norman Jesmond smiled uncertainly. ‘That’s good of you, sir. It is a privilege, sir.’
Jock McArdle smiled. ‘Well, Norman, there’s something that I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. Something I found in the pantry.’
The butler swallowed hard, conscious that little beads of perspiration had begun to form on his brow. ‘In … in the pantry, sir?’
‘Aye, in the pantry, sir!’ Jock McArdle repeated abruptly; then leaning forward his hand dipped into the open drawer and came out again with a tin that he placed on the desk. ‘And I wanted to talk about my dogs, Dallas and Tulsa – and this tin of – arsenic, I think!’
‘I – er – don’t understand, sir.’
The butler’s eyes widened as Jock McArdle’s hand again dipped into the drawer and came out again, but this time with a short-barrelled revolver. He laid it carefully on the desk beside the tin.
‘Aye, let’s talk about my dogs and how they may have had some of this … arsenic,’ he said in an unnervingly quiet and calm voice.
Torquil groaned when Morag told him that Superintendent Lumsden was on the telephone again.
‘Your laird is mightily displeased with your attitude, McKinnon, and I have to admit that I think he’s got a point. He is thinking of lodging an official complaint. He feels that you were heavy-handed with him this morning when he identified his employee.’
Torquil had felt his temper rise as his superior officer used the word ‘laird’ again.
‘We have information about McArdle, sir. He isn’t what—’
‘Inspector McKinnon,’ Superintendent Lumsden interrupted, ‘you seem to have a problem with Jock McArdle, I realize that. But just let me tell you, he is an influential man.’
‘You mean he has a lot of money, Superintendent?’
The voice on the other end of the line sounded as if it now came through gritted teeth. ‘I mean that he has powerful friends. You would do well to realize that, Inspector. Two of his employees have been killed and he wants police protection.’
Torquil gasped. ‘Protection?’
‘That’s right. And I said you would see to it. So see to it and keep me informed about the case.’
There was a click and Torquil found himself staring at a dead line again.
Moments later he relayed the superintendent’s message to the Incident Room.
‘The man is a fool,’ said the Padre, voicing his disbelief.
‘Didn’t you tell him about Morag’s information, Torquil?’ Ralph McLelland asked.
Torquil shook his head. ‘I didn’t really have time. The superintendent rarely listens. Besides, I’m not sure that he needs to know just yet.’
‘Be careful, laddie. Remember that the superintendent had it in for you in the past,’ said his uncle.
Torquil nodded. ‘I’ll be careful, Uncle.’
He looked at Morag. ‘Go on now, Morag. Tell us about McArdle, or Cardini.’
‘Well, my contacts at Glasgow told me that Giuseppe Cardini served five years in Barlinnie Prison in Glasgow for culpable homicide. But apparently it was touch and go as to whether he went down for the murder of one Peter Mulholland, one of the twins who jointly ran one of the biggest gangs in the Glasgow area. They were into drugs, prostitution and extortion in the city. Giuseppe Cardini was thought to have murdered Peter Mulholland, although he claimed it was self-defence.’
Morag looked up at the assembled men in the room. ‘And now comes the interesting bit. The police had been put onto him by an investigative journalist who had infiltrated the gang that Cardini worked for. Her name was Rhona McIvor.’
Ralph gasped. ‘Well, I’m damned! I knew that she was a writer of sorts, but I didn’t know she was into that sort of writing.’
‘I thought I might be able to get a copy of her article off the internet, but I couldn’t access it,’ went on Morag. ‘But I did manage to get a copy faxed from the records department. I have a cousin who works there. It was her first job of the day.’ She opened a file and pushed a copy of the article across the desk for Torquil to see. ‘I’ve highlighted a few interesting bits,’ she pointed out. ‘Matthew Mulholland, the other twin, had also claimed to have been attacked by someone, and a bullet-riddled car was pulled out of the River Clyde.