‘No such luck,’ Morag returned with a down-turned mouth. ‘Just police business.’
‘No trouble, I hope?’ Mollie asked, a trace of anxiety flashing behind her spectacles.
Morag shook her head with a grin. ‘Nothing like that. I am trying to track down a fishing party who were out with Bruce McNab this morning.’
Mollie’s face brightened. ‘Oh they are in the Prince’s Suite at this very minute. They wanted a bit of privacy you see. One of them is a chap who doesn’t believe in wallets. He’s a tubby wee Dundonian chap I think. Some sort of big business chappie. He just pulled out a roll of twenties and peeled the notes off like he was tossing a lettuce salad. They all came in dribs and drabs.’ She eyed Morag suspiciously. ‘There is nothing dodgy about them, is there? I wouldn’t like to see them sucking Bruce McNab into anything illegal.’
‘Don’t worry, Mollie, I am sure it will all be fine. I just need to have a chat with them.’ She pursed her lips and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Did you notice if Sandy was one of them?’
‘Sandy who?’
‘Sandy King, the footballer!’
Mollie shrugged unconcernedly. ‘No idea. I don’t follow the football. I prefer my men to play a hardier game than that. Something like shinty.’ Her eyes seemed to grow misty behind the thick lenses. ‘Like Bruce McNab. Now he really was a shinty player to watch.’
Morag made her way past the portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the Prince’s Suite and noticed that the ‘Reserved, Do not Disturb’ sign was stuck to the glass panel of the door. She ignored the message, rapped twice on the wood and immediately entered.
‘Excuse the interruption, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I am Sergeant Morag Driscoll of the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary. I need a few minutes of your time.’
‘That’s a pity, darling, you see we’re a bit busy right now,’ said Dan Farquarson in an unmistakable Dundee accent.
This, Morag deduced from the quality of his clothes and Mollie’s description had to be the business chappie with the big bankroll.
‘Aye, maybe you could come back later, sweetheart,’ added a big man sitting beside him with a pint of beer halfway to his mouth. He had the audacity to wink at her.
‘I said my name is Sergeant Driscoll,’ Morag reiterated assertively in her best no-nonsense voice. ‘And this is official police business, so I am afraid that whether or not you are busy is of no consequence: I need to speak to you now.’
Bruce McNab had been sitting in shadows. He stood up swiftly and came forward, smiling placatingly. ‘Morag Driscoll … I mean, Sergeant Driscoll, sorry. Of course you must ask whatever you want. Please, come in and sit down and let me introduce you to my clients.’
Morag let him make introductions while she swiftly appraised the group. The little middle-aged Dundee businessman was Dan Farquarson. His associate, whose size and bulging muscles made it obvious that he was in fact a minder, was Hugh Thompson – ‘known to all as Wee Hughie’, Dan Farquarson corrected with a laugh. Morag smiled at them mirthlessly, for chauvinism was a moral crime as far as she was concerned, and she was still rankling at the manner in which they had greeted her.
Then he introduced her to the last of the group, Sandy King, and her gaze lingered for what she realized may seem a moment overlong. The truth was that he ticked all of the right boxes as far as she was concerned. He was less than ten years younger than her, which wasn’t an age apart, and with his long blond hair, square chin and china-blue eyes, she thought that he was quite the best-looking man she had seen in years. That and the fact that he was a football star whom she admired, brought a warmth to her cheeks.
‘Can I order you a drink, Sergeant Driscoll?’ he asked. Then, with a smile, ‘Morag, you said your name was, didn’t you?’
Morag shook her head and ignored his second question. ‘This is official, I am afraid. I am here to ask you questions about a complaint that has been made against all of you.’
‘A complaint!’ exclaimed Wee Hughie, the minder. ‘Who’s looking for a kicking then?’
Morag turned steady eyes on him. ‘We don’t tolerate violence on West Uist, Mr Thompson.’
‘Shush, Wee Hughie,’ said Dan Farquarson, scowling at his associate. Then to Morag, ‘What my friend meant to ask was what sort of complaint, Sergeant? And who made it?’
‘Doctor Digby Dent, an entomologist working on the island, claims that one or more of you deliberately damaged a piece of his scientific equipment.’ She produced a notebook and her silver pen. ‘Now, if I can take a statement from each of you.’
‘Ach, Morag Driscoll, is this really necessary?’ voiced Bruce McNab. ‘That Dent fellow is a nuisance. He puts everyone’s back up.’
‘A complaint has been made and I am duty bound to investigate it,’ Morag replied, quite unperturbed. ‘Now, you first, Mr McNab.’
Morag made neat entries as they each gave their account. She was not surprised to find that their versions were substantially the same as each other and that they were very different from Dr Dent’s. Wee Hughie admitted that he had trodden on the pole, but had not realized that the net had been torn.
‘It was an accident, Morag,’ said Sandy King.
And on that point the others were quick to agree.
‘You believe us, don’t you, Morag?’ Sandy King asked eagerly.
Morag felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, but she ignored them, just as she refused to be drawn into answering the question.
‘I have noted all of your answers and I thank you. You have all been most helpful.’
‘We would like to just draw a line under it,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘It was an accident and no hard feelings to Dr Dent.’
Sandy King smiled at Morag. ‘You can even say that I will be quite happy to reimburse the cost of his net, as a gesture of good will.’ He held her regard for a moment then added, ‘And maybe we’ll see you again in a less official capacity?’
Morag lowered her eyes and felt her cheeks colour. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘You all sound very reasonable.’
She snapped her notebook shut and was on the verge of asking Sandy King a casual question about the rumours over a transfer to the Picts, when she reconsidered and snapped back into professional mode.
‘Just one final thing: Mollie said that you all came in dribs and drabs. Had you been apart since you left the river?’
Dan Farquarson was quick to answer. ‘No, just visits to the toilet and that, you know. We’ve been together otherwise.’ He looked over at Bruce McNab. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, McNab?’
Bruce nodded with alacrity. ‘Absolutely Mr Farquarson. Together all morning.’
Torquil had taken Calum’s call and agreed to pop round to the Chronicle offices. But first he took Crusoe for a walk along by the Mosset Burn that ran down from the moor behind the station to eventually run over a stretch of rapids before dropping into the sea.
Crusoe didn’t seem to mind being put on a lead and walked alongside Torquil rather than straining at the lead.
‘You’ve had a lead on before, haven’t you, Crusoe? And that means that you have had a proper owner.’
As if responding to the question Crusoe turned his head and barked once.
‘Maybe I should just let you off the lead and see if you head off home.’
Crusoe turned his head again and barked twice.