‘He could,’ Morag replied coldly. ‘And you can just thank your lucky stars that he isn’t. Ewan McPhee is one of my best friends.’
Douglas Drummond pulled up outside the Morrisons’ cottage just in time to see the family transporting bags from a huge wheelbarrow into the house.
‘Ah, the police!’ said Geordie, a well-built fellow with long hair and a full unkempt beard. ‘I have a complaint to make. Someone has been into my house and made an almighty mess. Someone is going to have to pay!’
Douglas could hardly believe his ears, but rather than cause a scene with the youngsters about, he smiled and got out of the car. ‘I was actually trying to find Nial Urquart, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone left on the Wee Kingdom except yourselves. Maybe it would be as well if I took you down to the station to have a chat with my boss, Torquil McKinnon.’
‘A good idea,’ replied Geordie. ‘I am not in a mood for shilly-shallying.’
‘No, I can see that,’ said Douglas. ‘Neither will my boss.’
Megan Munro stood at the door of Katrina Tulloch’s flat with the holdall and rucksack containing Nial Urquart’s clothes. She had rehearsed the speech she was going to make, but when Nial answered the door with contrition written across his face she merely dropped them on the mat.
‘Megan, I’m an idiot!’
‘You are.’
‘I have made an awful mistake.’
‘Me too.’
‘Do you think we could—?’
In answer she flung her arms about his neck and he hugged her as if he would never let her go again.
‘Of course we can!’
A week later, after an emotional rollercoaster trip things started to settle down. The whole story about Jock McArdle came out and was duly written up by Calum Steele in the West Uist Chronicle and in tele-interviews on Scottish TV with Kirstie Macroon. Giuseppe Cardini was transferred to a holding prison pending his trial, the windmills were taken down and the island saw a spate of funerals. Vincent Gilfillan was buried in the St Ninian’s cemetery next to Rhona McIvor, nearby the grave of Kenneth McKinley.
Ewan McPhee slowly pulled through and was discharged from hospital into the doting care of his mother, Jessie McPhee. The entire division of the West Uist branch of the Hebridean Constabulary as well as the full staff of the West Uist Chronicle, and the Padre descended on them and stayed far longer than they had intended, all eventually being ejected by Dr McLelland who gave them a lecture about over-tiring the patient.
Outside, Morag asked Torquil, ‘So now that the big one is back safe and sound, have you given any more thought about leaving the Force?’
Torquil grinned. ‘Of course I have. I am staying right where I am needed. With my friends.’
Calum Steele was still nibbling one of Jessie McPhee’s scones. ‘About that roving commission we talked about, Piper? You know, me being a special sort of police assistant. I have been thinking and there could be mutual benefits—’
Torquil groaned and put an arm about the local editor’s shoulder. ‘Let’s finish this at the Bonnie Prince Charlie, Calum. I’ll even let you buy me a pint of Heather Ale.’
The Padre followed suit and put an arm about Morag’s shoulders. ‘Does Heather Ale sound good to you, Morag?’ he asked.
‘It does actually, Padre. And I think that we should drink to Superintendent Lumsden’s fortune.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Wallace Drummond.
‘Didn’t you know?’ Morag replied. ‘He’s been suspended, pending investigation of his association with McArdle.’
‘Well, it couldn’t happen to a nicer man, could it?’ said Douglas Drummond.
‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Torquil with a laugh. Then, turning to Calum with a mock scowl, ‘But don’t quote me!’
Copyright
© Keith Moray 2007
First published in Great Britain 2007
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7198 0561 5 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0562 2 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0563 9 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 8299 6 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Keith Moray to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988