‘Is it a heart attack, then?’
He nodded. ‘Her third. She’s going to have to take it steady from now on.’
‘Not easy when you work a croft in the Wee Kingdom.’
‘Not easy when your name is Rhona McIvor, you mean.’
‘It sounds as if the new laird of Dunshiffin Castle is causing quite a stir in the Wee Kingdom. There are a lot of rumours going around.’
They moved aside as a stream of walking passengers disembarked from the ferry, fully expecting that Torquil would be among the motor cyclists that were usually permitted off ahead of the heavier vehicles. Half-a-dozen motorcyclists rode down the gangway with much gunning of engines, but there was no Torquil. Instead, a large container lorry edged off.
‘I wonder if he isn’t coming after all,’ mused the Padre.
Morag bit her lip. ‘I hope he comes soon, Padre, or I’m in a fix. There’s only me and the Drummond twins to run the show, and they’re only special constables.’
‘Aye, and they have their fishing business to run,’ the Padre agreed.
The container lorry stopped and the driver wound his window down. ‘Excuse me, darling,’ he called to Morag. ‘Are you with the police?’
Morag smiled up at the man, a large fairly good-looking man with a pony-tail and tattoos on hefty forearms. She understood his question since the West Uist division of the Hebridean constabulary had a fairly liberal attitude towards uniform. She was dressed in jeans and trainers, the only indication that she was in the force being the blue Arran pullover with three small white stripes on the right sleeve. ‘Right this minute I am the police. What can I do for you?’
The man nodded at a swarthy, surly-looking youth wearing a red baseball cap sitting in the cab beside him. ‘Me and the young un here need to find a place called the Wee Kingdom. We’ve got a consignment for the Laird of Dunshiffin.’ He grinned and winked at her, adding, ‘It’s the first of many. I’ll be coming here fairly regularly you ken.’
Morag was a pretty, thirty-something, single mother of three. She recognized the man’s unsubtle meaning and treated it with the contempt she thought it deserved. ‘Follow the road past Loch Hynish, then turn left at the big T junction. The Wee Kingdom is signposted from there. Watch out for the sheep by the roadsides and don’t exceed the speed limit at any time. My colleagues are out with the mobile speed cameras today and we always prosecute.’
His charm having failed to impress her, the smile vanished from his face. He muttered a remark to the silent youth beside him then looked back at Morag, tapped his forehead and started off again.
‘That was a wee bit harsh, was it not, Sergeant Driscoll,’ said Lachlan with mock severity. Then before she could reply he pointed to the side of the lorry as it passed. It bore a large picture depicting a row of windmills linked by lightning bolts. Underneath in red lettering were the words: NATURE’S OWN ENERGY.
‘So it’s really going to happen, is it?’ Morag asked. ‘The new laird is going to build a wind farm.’
A stream of cars followed the lorry off, drowning out the Padre’s reply. Then the all too familiar noise of Torquil McKinnon’s Royal Enfield Bullet was gunning its way down the ramp towards them. He was wearing his usual goggles and Cromwell helmet and looked tanned and healthy, despite several days’ growth of stubble. He swung the classic motor bike up onto the harbour road and dismounted. He swept Morag off her feet in a warm hug and then pumped his uncle’s hand.
‘I’m so glad that you two are here to meet me.’
‘Torquil, we need to—’ began Morag.
‘I’ve been with the Tartan Army in Belgium,’ Torquil went on. ‘There were about a dozen of us with our pipes,’ he said, pointing to the pannier on the Bullet, from whence his travel sticker-covered bagpipe case was protruding. ‘The football wasn’t up to much, but that Roi Baudouin stadium in Brussels is something else. And the Belgians just love the kilts and the pipes. It was just the break that I needed.’
‘Torquil, Morag has—’
‘And then I caught the ferry from Zeebrugge back to Rosyth and just tootled up the East coast. I even managed to take in a couple of Highland Games Days.’
He clapped his uncle on the shoulder. ‘I won a pibroch cup at Strathpeffer and a Strathspey at Dornoch. I’ve had lots of time to think things over and I’ve made a decision: I’m leaving the force.’
Morag and the Padre stared at each other in astonishment.
‘But you can’t leave, Torquil!’ Morag exclaimed.
But her inspector put an arm about her shoulder. ‘I know, we’ve been through a lot together, Morag. But it will all be for the best. After Fiona’s death I need to move on. I want you to be happy for me. And I—’
The Padre grabbed his nephew’s wrist and held it firm. ‘Torquil, hold your breath for a minute and listen to Morag.’
Torquil turned to his sergeant and raised an eyebrow quizzically. Then he realized how pained she looked. He felt a shiver of anticipation run up and down his spine.
‘Torquil you can’t leave,’ said Morag, her voice quaking. ‘Ewan is missing! He’s gone!’
Torquil stared from one to the other, his dark, handsome features registering bewilderment. ‘Gone? Gone where?’
The Padre put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This is the fourth day since he disappeared.’ He took a deep breath; then, ‘We think he’s drowned.’
Ten minutes later in his office in the Kyleshiffin Police Station off Kirk Wynd, with a mug of hot, sweet tea in front of him, Torquil listened in shocked amazement as Morag recounted all that they knew about Ewan’s disappearance.
‘He was on the morning round of the islands and due back at ten o’clock, but he never showed up. The Drummond twins were out fishing and found the Seaspray catamaran drifting beyond the Cruadalach isles at about two in the afternoon.’
‘And Ewan?’
Morag shook her head. ‘There was no sign of him. The boat was just drifting and had run out of fuel.’ Her normally unflappable visage was showing signs of strain. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘We think that he must have tumbled overboard.’
Torquil rubbed his eyes and sighed. ‘It’s not possible, Morag. Ewan McPhee, the Western Isles hammer-throwing champion, who’s been a strong swimmer since he was a lad – there’s no way that he could have just fallen overboard. And even if he had, he would have pulled himself back on board, no bother.’
‘We’ve agonized over all that ourselves, Torquil,’ the Padre pointed out. ‘But if the boat had been moving fast—’
‘And he may not have been well, Torquil,’ said Morag. ‘There was blood on the side of the catamaran.’
Torquil eyed her quizzically. ‘You think he may have banged his head and fallen overboard?’
‘No I think he may have had one of his nose-bleeds. You know how prone he is to them when he’s stressed.’
‘And how squeamish he is,’ the Padre added.
Morag went on, ‘The Drummonds notified me immediately and they tried to retrace the route of the Seaspray, but they could only guess at the direction he had taken. I called out the coastguard helicopter from Benbecula and the RAF at Macrahanish despatched two Sea Kings – they spent two days looking for his body. They combed the whole area but found no trace of him. And you know full well that’s what usually happens. We are waiting day by day to hear about the body washing up somewhere along the coast or on one of the islands.’
Torquil picked up his mug of tea and began pacing the room. He sipped it, thinking of the many gallons of stewed tea that Ewan had made him over the years. ‘I just can’t believe it. He was my friend.’