Bruce McNab was in an ill humour as he paced back and forth by the berth of The Mermaid, his thirty-foot fishing cruiser. As far as he recalled, the arrangements for the day had been firmly agreed. He had given his party the choice of sea-fishing in the waters out towards Iona, or snipe shooting up on the Hoolish Moor. The discussion about which they should do had been interesting and amusing, for a short time. Then it had turned into a right old drinking session.
‘Damn the whisky!’ he grumbled to himself as he felt a fresh stab of pain in his head. ‘It clouds the brain, makes folk argue and – forget everything!’
He massaged his now throbbing temples, which reminded him that he had gone well past his usual limit during the session. All of them seemed to have, except, he dimly recollected, Sandy King. The professional footballer had taken just a couple of drams then gone on to shandies.
‘Sensible lad!’ Bruce remarked to himself. Then he frowned with irritation. ‘But if he didn’t drink, why is he not here?’
It had all started after they watched that Dent idiot making a fool of himself on TV. Dan Farquarson had ordered a round of Glen Corlans to celebrate. Then Bruce had reciprocated, followed by Wee Hughie. Soon after that his memory of the night failed.
Doubt then started to creep into his mind. Was he the one who had got it wrong? Were they waiting for him up on the moor?
‘Pah! Why don’t any of them answer their mobiles? Damn it!’
After another ten minutes he concluded that they were definitely not coming, so he stowed the sea-rods back in their cupboard and locked up The Mermaid before heading back home.
‘Why worry, Bruce, you fool,’ he told himself. ‘They have paid already, so it is no skin off my nose if they have missed their sport.’
He climbed into his old jeep and drove towards home.
His two chocolate Labrador gundogs were barking their heads off as he came up the drive.
What is up with them? he mused as he drew up before his log-cabin. It is not like them to be going daft like this.
Then he saw the cabin door standing ajar.
‘Bloody hell! It has been forced!’ He cursed as he picked up a piece of timber and stealthily approached, grateful that the dogs did not stop their barking in case that could alert anyone still inside.
There was no one there, but the inside looked as if a tornado had wrecked the place.
Bruce McNab had the trained eye of a hunter. He recognized false trails when he saw them. The chaos around him was contrived, he had no doubt.
Whoever had broken into his cabin and thrown things hither and thither had done so with a definite purpose in mind.
He felt his heart speed up, since he had a pretty good idea what they were looking for.
Fergie and Chrissie had started the day as they usually did, with passionate love-making. Like so many people in show-biz they often found it hard to come back to bland real life after the buzz of performing. Yet, while so many celebrities turned to drugs or alcohol, they turned to sex. Lots of it. It suited them perfectly, for they were both blessed with a high libido. All of their TV crew knew and accepted this as the norm and treated their impromptu absences for the odd hour as a bit of a joke. ‘Bonk breaks,’ they called them, behind their backs. Yet the thing that everyone found most curious was the fact that they never directed their libidos at anyone else. All of their flirting was just an act; for the truth was they were still just as deeply in love as when they had first met.
‘I love looking at you first thing in the morning,’ Fergie cooed, as he lay stroking Chrissie’s hair.
‘And I do, too,’ Chrissie replied with a mischievous smile as she leaned towards him to plant a kiss on the smooth dome of his forehead, which was only ever seen by her, it usually being covered by the hairpiece that lay on the bedside cabinet.
‘It’s going to be an exciting day, Chrissie. I can feel it in my bones. Getting Guthrie Lovat on the show should make up for the fiasco we had with Digby Dent last night.’
Chrissie giggled. ‘But it was so funny when you think about it, lover. I mean, he made an idiot of himself and folk would have laughed, but all publicity is good. All of Scotland will be talking about it this morning.’
There was a rustle outside the door then the rattle of a tray of crockery being laid on the floor. A tap on the door was followed by a cough then the announcementf, ‘Your breakfast and paper, Mr Ferguson.’
Chrissie popped out of bed and pulled on a flimsy dressing-gown before unlocking the door to bring in the tray.
Fergie took the Chronicle from the tray and smoothed it out on his knees. A large photograph of a drunken Dr Digby Dent lurching towards a startled Chrissie while Fergie looked on in shocked horror, was emblazoned with the headline:
FLOTSAM & DRUNKSUM! THE MIDGE MAN GETS A FLEA IN HIS EAR!
Fergie laughed. ‘You are right as ever, Chrissie. Even bad publicity should help the ratings. Everyone is bound to watch tonight.’ He scanned the article then shook his head. ‘What an idiot that Dent lad is. And I thought he was a respectable scientist.’
‘Even scientists can be drunks, darling. Come on now, let’s have breakfast, then we—’
The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor was followed by a staccato rapping on the door.
‘Fergie! It’s me, Geordie! Let me in will you?’
‘Geordie? We’re having breakfast,’ Fergie called back irritably.
‘It’s urgent. Let me in!’
Fergie snatched up his hairpiece and deftly put it on. Once Chrissie gave him a nod of approval he climbed out of bed, dragging a sheet with him to wrap toga-style about him. He strode across the room and imperiously pulled the door open, as if he actually was an emperor of Rome.
Geordie Innes slid past him, his face the epitome of bad news. ‘I just had a phone call from Guthrie Lovat. He’s changed his mind. He won’t come on the show tonight.’
‘Wh … Wh … Why not?’ Fergie spluttered.
‘It was a done deal,’ Chrissie added.
Geordie Innes glanced over at Chrissie, sitting by the dressing–table, her dressing-gown doing little to conceal her feminine charms. He unconsciously licked his lips before turning back to Fergie.
‘He saw the show last night, didn’t he? He said he hadn’t realized the sort of programme it was.’ Geordie swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously. ‘He said we could stick our show!’
Fergie’s cheeks reddened.
Then Chrissie voiced the thought that had been bubbling up in her mind.
‘Look’s like we were wrong, Fergie, my love. Sometimes bad publicity is just bad publicity.’
Torquil was sitting behind his desk stroking Crusoe as he listened to Morag’s account of Cora Melville’s visit. The Drummond twins stood leaning on either side of a filing cabinet, while Ewan was standing by the door so that he could hear if anyone came into the station.
‘I could cheerfully throttle Calum Steele sometimes,’ she said. ‘Fancy him sending that young girl to do his dirty work.’
‘Aye, but we shouldn’t shoot the messenger,’ said Wallace.
‘Especially not such a bonnie one, at any rate,’ agreed his brother.
Ewan clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘You two need to take things a bit more seriously.’
‘I am serious,’ Douglas protested. ‘She is really bonnie.’
Torquil gave Crusoe a final pat then drew his chair up to the desk. ‘Ewan is right, lads. There is a serious issue here. A man that we had taken into custody has been found dead just a few hours after we released him.’