‘Don’t look at us; we have enough trouble looking after ourselves,’ said Wallace.
‘To say nothing of our unwholesome habits,’ added Douglas.
Torquil grinned. ‘Then it looks as if he’ll be coming home to the manse to stay with the Padre and me.’
Morag raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Are you sure that Lachlan won’t mind? And what about Lorna? Will she be happy about you having a dog?’
Torquil was not sure how to answer either question. He and his uncle had always enjoyed a close and easy relationship together. They had so many shared interests; the bagpipes, fishing, golf and building and riding their classic motorcycles. He was pretty sure that he would be quite relaxed about Crusoe’s temporary residence at the St Ninian’s manse.
Lorna Golspie his girlfriend might not be so happy, of course. The problem was that he could not ask her right away since Superintendent Lumsden, his superior officer had quite deliberately seconded her to the office on Lewis as special liaison officer with the Customs. That meant that they were only able to communicate by mobiles and only saw each other one weekend in three. He knew that today she would be unavailable until the evening.
‘I’ll take a chance on them both,’ he said.
Curiously, as if he had understood the conversation that had been going on, Crusoe raised his head and gave a feeble bark. Then he wagged his tail against the floor.
‘Looks like it is a done deal, boss,’ said Wallace Drummond.
Then, almost immediately, Crusoe’s ears pricked up and he raised his head again to give three quick forceful barks. Then he wagged his tail again before lying down and closing his eyes.
‘Poor thing is shattered,’ Torquil mused. ‘Ewan, maybe you better go and get that food for Crusoe. And then go and find your hammer.’
Calum Steele had been in love with Kirstie Macroon, the anchor person of the Scottish TV early evening news and light entertainment programmes, ever since he first saw her. On many occasions he had provided her with news features and occasionally had been interviewed by her on the news slot. He had been devastated to learn that she had been engaged to a TV reporter by the name of Finbar Donleavy,[1] but had hoped that when Donleavy was offered a position with CNN in America that the relationship might falter. When he lifted the telephone and heard her voice he felt his heart start to race. And when she started telling him how much she cared for him he felt as though he was floating on cloud nine.
‘Calum!’ someone shouted. ‘Calum!’
Calum shot bolt upright in his camp-bed, instantly realizing with dismay that the voice that had called his name was not that of Kirstie Macroon. He looked desperately to right and left as if the act of looking would somehow conjure her up.
‘Och, it was just a dream!’ he sighed.
‘Calum! I mean, Mr Steele,’ came the voice again, but this time it was clearly coming from the archives room.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes blearily.
‘You are a genius,’ said Cora Melville, appearing in the doorway with a stack of old Chronicles in her arms. ‘I hadn’t realized what a brilliant newspaper you run here all by yourself. I had only seen it once or twice when I came over to West Uist to visit my Great-aunt Bella and, as a kid, I wasn’t really into papers, but now…?’ She sighed admiringly. ‘It is fantastic. I can’t get over how meticulously you have chronicled everything in the Chronicle.’ Then, finding what she had said to be hilarious, she jack-knifed forward and let out a belly-laugh that ended in an effervescent giggle. ‘Chronicled in the Chronicle, that’s hilarious.’
Calum eyed her suspiciously. ‘Are you on something, lassie?’
Cora pulled herself together. ‘Just enthusiasm, Mr Steele. And I do think you are a genius.’
‘A genius, eh?’ he repeated, permitting himself a little smile of pride. ‘Why is that, lassie?’
‘I just love your rustic style of writing. It is very simple so that anyone would understand what you are saying. But your versatility and your enthusiasm show through all the time.’ She slapped a hand on the pile of old papers. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you are talking about the price of herring roe, covering a murder, or writing about finding a body in the loch, you make it sound the most important thing in the world.’
‘A journalist has to be passionate – er – Cora, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘But I would just like to see some of the stories finished off. I have been reading back over the past year and it has been like reading a soap, a bit like “The Archers” on the radio. I feel I know so many of the West Uist folk now.’
Calum swung his feet over the side, yawned and drew himself up to his full five foot six inches. ‘What time is it? And what do you mean by finishing the stories off?’
‘It’s eleven o’clock, Mr Steele. And I mean that some of the stories seem headline news for an issue or two and then just disappear when I wanted to know what happened.’
‘You can call me Calum, Cora. Everybody does.’ He grunted. ‘Or most people do unless I rub them up the wrong way. Then they either call me Steele, or worse!’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘And that is the way of the news. Stories do just peter out. The art of journalism is to have something else to write about, and to be just as passionate about.’
Cora was staring at him with, large, brown doe-eyes. ‘I just know that I am going to learn so much from you, Calum. So where shall I start? Can I have a big story to cover, like this?’
She held up the top paper with the headline THE BLONDE IN THE LAKE. ‘You see, this is one of the stories I was talking about. It is so interesting. This woman found naked, floating face down in Loch Hynish. You covered it for several issues, then nothing.’
Calum stroked his chin. ‘Ah yes, that was almost exactly a year ago. McQueen was her name. She was a PhD student working with Doctor Dent, the midge man. It looks as if she had just gone for a midnight swim in the loch, or something, and got into trouble and drowned. They found alcohol and drugs in her system, you see. She probably just swam out of her depth and got into trouble. Death by Misadventure the Fatal Accident Inquiry concluded.’
‘But what happened to her? Where was she buried?’
‘Here on West Uist. In the St Ninian’s cemetery. Apparently she was alone in the world and loved the island. Strange though, no one except Doctor Dent showed up for her funeral.’
Cora stared at him in horror. ‘But that’s awful. How could people be so callous?’
‘Rule one of journalism, Cora: only be judgmental if it will sell newspapers.’ He yawned again and scratched his ample belly, as he was wont to do regardless of company. ‘As for what sort of thing we’ll have you doing, well, we’ll just have to see what comes in. In the meanwhile, a good cub reporter has to know how to make good tea. I like mine fawn coloured and with four sugars.’
Cora was busy making the tea when the telephone rang and Calum answered it. She heard him talking into the receiver and scratching away on a scribbling block.
‘Fascinating! Aye, of course I’ll come. In fact, I’ll be bringing my assistant to show her the ropes. Righto then, see you in ten minutes.’
Cora entered with a mug of tea in each hand, in time to see Calum pull on shoes and reach for a grubby yellow anorak that hung behind the door.
‘There is serendipity for you,’ he said, grabbing a motorcycle helmet. ‘No rest for the wicked and certainly no time for tea. There’s a whale beached at Largo Head. We’ll need to scoot. Have you got transport?’