Flotsam and Jetsam (4 page)

He fetched a towel and, as gently as he could, he tried to give it a rub down.

Morag tapped on the door then let herself in. ‘Tea and a buttery is on its way, Torquil.’ Her eye fell on the puppy and she smiled. ‘What a bonny wee dog. Where did you find him? He looks as if he’s been swimming.’

Torquil told her of finding the animal tied to a piece of timber.

‘It was lucky for him that I came along. I reckon he would either have died between now and the next tide, or it would have taken him out again and then he would have been done for.’

‘So someone was trying to get rid of him?’ Morag asked in disbelief as she squatted down to stroke the dog. ‘How cruel can anyone get? Why he’s little more than a puppy.’

‘That’s what it looks like. And I just hate cruelty to animals.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘We’ll put a poster up and maybe ask Calum Steele to put something in the
West Uist Chronicle.
If someone claims him, and they can convince me that they didn’t try to drown him, then they can have him back.’

He opened the door in answer to Ewan McPhee’s gentle kick on the door frame. ‘Ah, a buttery. Thanks, Ewan.’ He took a roll and a mug of tea and sipped his tea. ‘But I suspect that no one will show up.’

Ewan bent and patted the dog. ‘I heard what you were saying, boss. So what are you going to do with him now? Should I phone Annie McConville and see if she’ll take him in?’

Morag sucked air between her lips. ‘Actually, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Miss Melville collared me in Staigs and told me that she’s inundated with strays. She wants us to do something about it.’

Torquil groaned. ‘Us? What does she expect us to do?’ He looked at his colleagues who both shrugged. ‘Then I guess we’ll have to just hold on to him for now. We’ll see if we can’t get him back on his paws.’ He nibbled his roll. ‘We’d better get some dog food in, Ewan.’

‘I’ll go and get some right away, boss. But would it be OK if
I popped up to the moor? I sort of left my hammer up there.’

Torquil grinned as the big constable explained. ‘Aye, go on, Ewan. And while you’re getting the dog food, see about a collar and a lead. You never know, before long you might be taking him up to the moor for a regular walk.’

The outside bell rang, indicating that the front door had opened. There was the sound of heavy boots outside. Ewan took a step towards the door, but stopped with his hand on the handle.

‘Does that mean we’ll be keeping him here, boss? A station dog?’

The office door opened and a peal of synchronous laughter rang out. Two tall men, both even taller than Ewan, dressed in fishermen’s oilskins and wearing bobble hats came in. It was the Drummond twins, Douglas and Wallace. They were as identical as identical twins can be.

‘A station dog!’ Douglas exclaimed.

‘Ah, our two special constables,’ said Ewan with a half smile, theatrically looking at his watch. ‘Good of you to drop in. How was your fishing?’

‘Good enough, thank you, PC McPhee,’ said Wallace.

‘But stop evading the question, Ewan McPhee,’ said Douglas. ‘Did you just say that this was the new station dog?’ He pursed his lips as he looked down at the forlorn looking animal. ‘Is it the runt of the litter?’

Torquil explained how he had found the dog. He scratched its head, eliciting another whimper, then a turn of the head and another feeble lick on the hand. ‘Since we do not know his name, until further notice to the contrary, I propose to call him Crusoe.’

‘After Robinson?’ Morag queried, with a smile. ‘You do that Inspector McKinnon, but could the station sergeant ask a
simple question – where is he going to stay at night? Here on his own at the station? I only ask because if you are thinking that we can share his care out between us, as we do the night duty, I can’t offer to take him home because of my Jim’s asthma. He reacts to dog fur.’

Ewan shuffled his size fourteen feet. ‘And I am afraid that my mother won’t have another dog in the house since our old Labrador died.’

‘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?’

‘I’ve got my mountain bike.’

Calum pointed to his spare helmet. ‘That’s not going to be fast enough. Have you ever ridden on the back of a Lambretta?’ ‘I’ve never even heard of one,’ Cora replied with a grin.

‘If that was a joke then we’ll get on fine,’ Calum replied.

‘Either way, you’re in for a treat. And a scoop! We’ll probably make the nationals with this – maybe even Scottish TV.’ And,
as he immediately thought of Kirstie Macroon, he smiled bashfully. ‘Come one, we’ve a story to cover.’

After golf Lachlan and Kenneth had popped into the church to say morning prayers together, then they had gone back to the manse for tea and toast. Kenneth had dutifully paid his debt of five pounds; much to his chagrin, but to Lachlan’s diplomatically concealed satisfaction.

‘Now tell me,’ Lachlan said, as he sat back and filled his briar pipe from his oilskin pouch. ‘Why did the mere mention of Doctor Digby Dent’s name make you lose the match? You pretty well had me against the ropes and you had a good chance of taking my money. I recognized the signs of pent-up fury, Kenneth.’

The Reverend Kenneth Canfield returned Lachlan’s questioning gaze with a look of steely defiance. But in a moment the look disappeared and he let out a sigh of resignation.

‘I cannot help it, Lachlan. I just cannot forgive the man.’

The Padre tamped the tobacco down in his pipe, but desisted from lighting it. It sounded as if Kenneth was on the point of unburdening himself.

‘You cannot forgive him for what, Kenneth?’

‘For the death of a beautiful young woman,’ Kenneth said, quickly picking up his tea and taking a good sip. He sucked air between his teeth and gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t suppose you have a decent whisky in the manse, have you, Lachlan?’

Lachlan beamed and heaved himself out of his chair. ‘Funny you should ask that, Kenneth. It just so happens I have a fine bottle of twenty-five year old Glen Corlan.’

Torquil was sifting through papers while Crusoe lay by his feet, slumbering contentedly after having eaten the better part of a large tin of dog food and lapped up a bowl of water. A commotion had been going on in the outer office and he was listening to it with half an ear.

‘It is a disgrace!’ a man’s voice cried out, despite Morag’s calm remonstrations.

‘I want to see the organ grinder, not his monkey!’

Torquil looked up and sucked air in between his lips. That would be bound to make Morag’s hackles rise. That was never a good thing to do, for she could take good care of herself. He smiled and returned his attention to the reports in front of him.