Deathly Wind (16 page)

Ralph McLelland got out of the ambulance and came towards them with a pile of plastic bags and a folded-up body bag. ‘Morning, Calum,’ he said as he passed. ‘I am sorry that I could not stop earlier, but I had urgent work to be doing. Excuse me.’ And he passed back along the designated access path. Once inside the burned ruin he carefully put plastic bags on the head, hands and feet of the body to ensure that no important pieces of evidence were lost, before he and a very green-looking Wallace Drummond lifted the body and placed it in a plastic body bag before gingerly moving it into the ambulance.

Torquil jotted down in his notebook, ‘Unidentified body of
man, badly burned, removed from the crime scene at 06.25 hours. Doctor McLelland, police surgeon will perform
post-mortem
as soon as possible.’

Douglas Drummond was looking over his superior officer’s shoulder as he wrote. He prodded Torquil in the back. ‘Is that official jargon, meaning, after the doctor has had his breakfast?’

His brother joined them as Ralph McLelland drove off in the converted ambulance. He was still looking green about the gills. ‘Which is more than I can say for me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat anything again.’

Calum Steele grinned at them. ‘What’s that? Two strapping big hulks like you feeling a bit squeamish. What is the island coming to?’

And before they could retort, as they usually did, Calum had left them with a wave as he ran over to his Lambretta.

‘Is that what they mean about journalists following
ambulances
?’ Wallace asked.

Jesmond the Kyleshiffin Castle butler tapped on Jock McArdle’s door at seven o’clock and received a firm and colourful rebuke for disturbing his employer’s repose. Nevertheless, he persisted with a further knock, adding the words, ‘An emergency call from the local constabulary, sir.’

There was a rustling noise from the other side of the door, the tread of bare feet then the bedroom door was hauled open.

Jesmond held out the cordless phone. ‘Inspector McKinnon would like to talk to you, sir. He says it is urgent.’

Jock McArdle frowned and grabbed the phone. He snapped his name into the mouthpiece, then stood listening, his
expression
growing grimmer by the second. ‘I’m on my way!’

‘A problem, sir?’ Jesmond queried, as dexterously he caught the phone again.

‘You could say that! This could be the start of the next bloody war!’

And, as Jesmond caught the murderous look into his
employer’s eyes before the door was slammed shut, he knew that if there was a war involving Jock McArdle, no prisoners would be taken!

The Padre had been roused from a fitful sleep by the
telephone
at his bedside. Groggily, he reached for the receiver and mechanically answered, ‘St Ninian’s Manse.’

He heard harsh breathing on the other end of the line.

‘Hello, St Ninian’s Manse,’ he repeated. ‘This is Lachlan McKinnon here. Can I help you?’

No one said anything. All he could hear was the harsh breathing. Then there was a rasping laugh and the line went dead.

‘Now who on earth could that be?’ he asked himself, reaching for his horn-rimmed spectacles in the dark so that he could see the luminous hands on the clock.

It was just after seven. He sighed, then threw back the
blankets
and got up. As he pulled on his dressing-gown and prepared to go over to his little praying stool he couldn’t but help feeling that the phone call held some significance.

Torquil led McArdle through to the mortuary suite and tapped on the outer door. Through the frosted glass panels they saw the dim green-gowned shape of Dr Ralph McLelland approach and unlock the door.

‘This way please, gentlemen,’ said Ralph, leading the way through a swing door to the white tiled mortuary where a plastic sheet covered a body.

‘We have reason to believe that this could be the body of a Daniel Reid, lately from Bearsden in Glasgow and currently residing at Kyleshiffin Castle.’ Torquil stated. ‘I am afraid that the body has been very badly burned, almost incinerated. Do you feel that you would be able to identify the body?’

McArdle’s face was pale and there was a noticeable patina of perspiration on his brow, but he nodded. ‘If it is Danny, I’ll know him.’

Torquil nodded to Ralph who slowly pulled back the sheet to reveal the head and neck of the corpse.

McArdle looked shocked, colour draining even more than before. He swallowed hard, his expression pained. ‘Yes. I am pretty sure that is my boy.’ Then he spotted the chain around the neck and the ends disappearing into the clenched mouth. ‘That’s his medallion, right enough! Where was he? How did it happen?’

While Ralph pulled the sheet back Torquil gestured for McArdle to follow him. ‘I think we should go up to the station and have a talk, Mr McArdle. There are a number of questions that you will want to ask and also a whole lot that I need to ask you.’

‘You’re bloody well right there! And I’m going to have someone’s head for this!’

Torquil eyed the new laird dispassionately. ‘As I said, we’ll have a talk. But just so long as you know, Mr McArdle, this is police business now. We will deal with this and there will be no head-taking of any sort on my island.’

Jock McArdle pulled out his car keys and stomped down the corridor. ‘We’ll see, Inspector. I’ll meet you at your station.’

Ralph McLelland came out of the mortuary suite, bundling up his green gown. He deposited it in the wicker basket outside and reached for his jacket which was hanging on the peg above. ‘I’m just away for a spot of breakfast, Torquil, and then I’ll get on with the post-mortem. Is that OK?’

Torquil nodded assent. ‘You must have a cast-iron stomach, Ralph.’

‘Aye,’ was the police surgeon’s only reply.

‘What do you mean, girlie?’ Jock McArdle demanded of Morag. ‘There are no ferries?’

Torquil heard the question as he came in the Kyleshiffin police station front door, in time to see Jock McArdle slam a fist down on the counter.

‘I have just told you, Mr McArdle,’ Morag returned, looking completely unflustered. ‘All ferries to and from the island have been cancelled until further notice. The island has been sealed off pending investigations.’

‘But I need to get some of my boys up here from Glasgow.’

Torquil intervened. ‘As my sergeant just told you, Mr McArdle, there will be no comings and goings until our
investigations
have been completed. And remember what I said at the hospital: this is a police matter, not a personal one.’

‘Whoever killed my boys made it personal.’

‘And we will find whoever did it,’ Torquil said, and lifting the counter flap he held it open. ‘We’ll continue this in my office, I think.’

Ralph McLelland had gone straight to Fingal’s Cave, the café on Harbour Street that boasted the fastest, biggest and cheapest breakfast in town. He was in a hurry and felt in need of a good fry-up before he began his forensic work. He was sitting down enjoying a mug of sweet tea when the tinkly bell at the back of the café door heralded another customer.

‘Ah, Dr McLelland,’ said Calum Steele, picking up a menu. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Ah, Calum,’ Ralph returned with a long suffering smile. ‘Of course not. Grab a seat.’

Morag glanced at her watch and rubbed her eyes. She could hardly believe that it was still only eight o’clock. So much had happened since she received the call from Torquil and there had been so much to do. Before Torquil had put a call through to Dunshiffin Castle they had taken a few minutes in the Incident Room to add a new box with the name Danny Reid, followed by a question mark. The other information that Morag had obtained from her questioning of Megan Munro had been added and they had agreed that they needed to follow up about Nial Urquart’s involvement in the animal rights movement, and about Jock McArdle’s interests in a
company that supplied animals to laboratories involved in research. Now that Torquil was busy interviewing Jock McArdle, she switched on her computer and logged onto the internet.

After half an hour she had printed out several sheets of paper. Then rising she went through to make tea. A few minutes later, as she sat down to read the printed sheets, her eyes opened wider as she read through them.

‘Torquil will certainly be interested in these,’ she mused.

Torquil eyed the laird of Dunshiffin with interest. The man was rattled, he could see that. He seemed genuinely shocked and upset, but anger lurked close to the surface.

‘How long will this post-mortem be?’ Jock McArdle demanded.

Torquil shrugged his shoulders. ‘An hour maybe and then there will be all the other tests. I would be hoping for a
preliminary
result some time this morning.’

‘What is it with this place, McKinnon? My two dogs and my two boys. All dead. All murdered. What are you doing about it?’

‘I am interviewing you for a start, Mr McArdle,’ Torquil replied evenly. ‘For one thing, we are not sure if Danny Reid was murdered. His death is just suspicious.’

‘Suspicious!’ McArdle snapped, showing his temper for the first time in the interview. ‘You saw the frazzled state he was in. Of course he was murdered.’

‘What was he doing at the Wee Kingdom last night?’ Torquil persisted.

‘How should I know?’

‘He is your employee – I mean he was your employee. I would have thought you might have known, especially after your other employee’s death.’

Jock McArdle sucked air noisily through his lips. ‘My boys are not in my employ twenty-four hours a day. I don’t know
what he was doing last night. I expect he’d been for a few drinks. My boys liked a drink. And they were very close. I expect he went up there because he wanted to investigate Liam’s death.’ He leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him. ‘You lot don’t seem to have got very far. And that’s why I take grave exception to this cock-eyed ban on the ferries. I want some of my boys to come over here.’

‘The ban is necessary, Mr McArdle. We are investigating a murder, possibly two. There will be no movement on or off the island, neither by sea nor air. And there will be no
exceptions
.’

‘I don’t like your tone, lad! I’ve had whipper-snappers like you for breakfast.’

Torquil stared him hard in the eye. ‘You would find me most indigestible, Mr McArdle. Now tell me, what were you doing last night?’

McArdle’s cheek muscles twitched. ‘I was at home, in my castle, working on papers. Ask my butler Jesmond.’

‘I will be doing so, of course. But do you think it is possible that he could have been trying to start a fire in the croft cottage and been overcome by the flames and the smoke?’ He paused and rested his chin on his fist. ‘Perhaps he had been drinking as you suggested, and maybe drank too much?’

‘Naw!’ Jock McArdle replied emphatically. ‘My boys could both handle their drink. And there is no way that Danny would have played with fire.’

‘But that isn’t so, is it, Mr McArdle?’ said Torquil, reaching into a wire basket beside his left elbow. ‘We ran a check on your employees.’ He smoothed the paper in front of him. ‘They both had records. Liam Sartori for burglary and
possession
of drugs and Danny Reid for … arson!’

Jock McArdle leaned back and shrugged. ‘So what!’

‘So it is suggestive, isn’t it? A man with a criminal record for arson is found dead in a burning building.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, McKinnon. Danny wouldn’t have torched my property.’

‘That’s
Inspector
McKinnon, by the way,’ he corrected calmly. ‘In that case, do you have any idea why anyone would want to set fire to your property? Especially with one of your employees in it?’

The new owner of Dunshiffin Castle clenched his teeth. ‘I am a businessman. A bloody successful businessman. I have had enemies in the past and I seem to have enemies now.’

‘Why is that, Mr McArdle? Could it be because of the way that you do business?’

‘Now you are beginning to get my goat. I am a successful businessman. Say anything else and I’ll have your guts for garters – I’ll sue you and your tuppence ha’penny police outfit for defamation.’

Torquil stared back with his best poker face. ‘There is no defamation in my questioning, Mr McArdle. But since you are so sensitive, let me rephrase the question. You have a
robust
way of conducting your affairs. People on West Uist have called it bullying. Take those wind towers of yours, for example.’

‘All perfectly legal.’

‘I understand that the legality is under question,’ replied Torquil. ‘And then there were those letters you sent to the Wee Kingdom crofters. And the one that you delivered yourself to Rhona McIvor – who collapsed and died immediately
afterwards
.’

Jock McArdle frowned. ‘I regret her death, of course, but I hope you are not suggesting a connection between my letter and the McIvor woman’s death?’

‘It has been suggested that there may be a connection,’ Torquil returned, casually.

‘Who suggested it?’ McArdle snapped.

‘Doctor McLelland, our local GP and police surgeon.’

Jock McArdle shrugged dismissively. ‘A country quack!’

‘Dr Ralph McLelland is a highly respected doctor, and my friend.’

The new laird of Dunshiffin smirked. ‘I rest my case. Can I go now?’

Torquil eyed him coldly for a moment then glanced at the notes on the desk in front of him. ‘Yes, I’ll be in touch when I have more news, or if I have more questions for you.’

Jock McArdle nodded curtly, stood up and crossed to the door.

‘Oh yes,’ Torquil said, as the laird put his hand on the door handle. ‘You always referred to your employees as your
boys
. Were you actually related to either of them?’

McArdle shook his head. ‘Neither of them had any family. It’s just an expression. Glasgow talk. I’ve always looked out for my boys.’

‘Is that so?’ Torquil asked, innocently.

McArdle’s eyes smouldered. ‘I should have looked after them better, maybe. But I’ll be looking after their memory, you mark my words –
Inspector
McKinnon.’

He tugged the door handle and stomped out, almost knocking Lachlan McKinnon over as he did so.

‘Excuse me, Padre,’ he snapped, then left.

Lachlan came in and stood in front of Torquil’s desk. ‘Our new laird seems in a hurry to leave,’ he remarked.

‘I wish people wouldn’t call him the new laird,’ Torquil replied, with a hint of irritation. Then, noticing his uncle’s look of surprise, ‘Sorry, Uncle. It was just a difficult interview. He was not in a good mood, understandably, after he had to identify his employee’s body.’

Lachlan winced. ‘I heard from Morag that it wasn’t a pretty sight. Was he—’ Torquil’s telephone interrupted him and Torquil picked it up straight away. ‘Yes, Ralph,’ he said, into the receiver. He nodded as he listened. Then said eventually, ‘Aye, it would help if you could confirm it with the other tests. Half an hour, that would be great.’ He replaced the receiver just as Morag tapped on the door and came in.

‘I’m sorry, Uncle, what was your question?’

The Padre had plucked his pipe from his breast pocket and
was in the process of charging it with tobacco. ‘I was wondering if he was murdered?’

Torquil sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. Ralph says it is definite. He looked up at Morag and explained: ‘That was Ralph just now with the preliminary findings. He thought that there were a couple of things that I ought to be aware of. Firstly, that there was enough alcohol in his system to sink a battleship.’

‘And secondly?’ Morag queried.

‘His trachea was crushed and his neck was broken at the fifth cervical vertebra. It was murder all right. Someone
throttled
him and then snapped his neck like a chicken’s.’

In the Incident room half an hour later, Torquil stood by the white board with the Padre beside him, while Morag, the Drummond twins and Ralph McLelland sat around the
table-tennis
table that had been converted into the operations desk.

‘I know it is irregular, but has anyone any objection to my Uncle Lachlan sitting in with us? We’re depleted in numbers and I think he could prove useful in our investigations.’

There was a chorus of approval, and Lachlan sat down, immediately laying his unlit pipe down on the table in front of him.

‘We’ll start with Ralph’s preliminary report,’ Torquil said.

‘As the police surgeon gave a brief synopsis of his
post-mortem
examination Torquil added the name Danny Reid to the whiteboard. He drew a square around the name and added relevant notes underneath:

‘Thanks, Ralph,’ Torquil said, as the local doctor finished his report and sat down. ‘So we have two definite murders here.’
He tapped the boxed names on the whiteboard and went on, ‘And a missing police officer – presumed dead, an entire family missing, an accidental death in a rock-climbing accident and a sudden death from a heart attack.’

‘A tangled skein, right enough,’ mused Wallace Drummond. ‘And don’t forget the two dead dogs, Piper.’

The Padre picked up his pipe and tapped the mouthpiece against his teeth. ‘And it all seems to revolve around Jock McArdle.’

‘Who can hardly be a suspect though, can he?’ said Douglas Drummond. ‘He wouldn’t be killing his own boys, would he?’

Torquil nodded. ‘Ah yes, his
boys
. Well, while I was
interviewing
him earlier this morning Morag was busy on the internet doing some research and liaising with her contacts on the Glasgow force. She has made some interesting discoveries about the “laird of Dunshiffin”. He isn’t quite who he seems.’ He nodded to his sergeant, and then sat down.

‘He certainly isn’t,’ went on Morag. ‘Mr Jock McArdle died ten years ago.’

There was a chorus of surprised murmurings.

‘Do you mean identity theft?’ Lachlan asked.

‘Not exactly. There was a Jock McArdle in Glasgow, but he had nothing to do with our supposed laird. No, he quite
legitimately
changed his name by deed-poll ten years ago from Giuseppe Cardini.’

‘The plot thickens,’ said Wallace Drummond.

‘But why did he change his name?’ Douglas asked.

Morag stared back at him with raised eyebrows. ‘Presumably it was because he had just come out of prison after five years – for culpable homicide!’

The first thing that Jock McArdle did when he arrived back at Dunshiffin Castle was to pour himself a large malt whisky, which he gulped down in one. Then he poured another and carried it through to the library which he used as an office. He sat down behind the leather-topped desk, cluttered with
papers and gadgets, and unlocked the desk drawer. He stared inside for a moment then smiled and reached for the
telephone
.

Superintendent Lumsden answered almost immediately and the two men talked animatedly for a few minutes.

‘McKinnon is a bit of a maverick, I know,’ Superintendent Lumsden said eventually. ‘But I’ll make sure that he plays ball.’

‘I appreciate it, Kenneth. We Glasgow boys have to stick together, especially in a situation like this.’ And after a few pleasantries he replaced his phone on the hook.

He took another sip of whisky and smiled to himself. He was still grinning when there was a tap on the door and he looked up.

‘May I offer you my most sincere condolences, Mr McArdle,’ said his butler.

Jock McArdle leaned back and gestured for him to come in. He smiled wistfully. ‘Thank you, Jesmond. Take a seat. Let’s not be so formal. That’s not my way, you see.’

‘Thank you, sir. I realize that you like informality, sir,’ he said, gingerly taking a seat on the other side of the desk from his employer.

‘So from now on, I’m going to call you Norman. That’s OK, isn’t it?’

Norman Jesmond smiled uncertainly. ‘That’s good of you, sir. It is a privilege, sir.’

Jock McArdle smiled. ‘Well, Norman, there’s something that I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. Something I found in the pantry.’

The butler swallowed hard, conscious that little beads of perspiration had begun to form on his brow. ‘In … in the pantry, sir?’

‘Aye, in the pantry, sir!’ Jock McArdle repeated abruptly; then leaning forward his hand dipped into the open drawer and came out again with a tin that he placed on the desk. ‘And I wanted to talk about my dogs, Dallas and Tulsa – and this tin of – arsenic, I think!’

‘I – er – don’t understand, sir.’

The butler’s eyes widened as Jock McArdle’s hand again dipped into the drawer and came out again, but this time with a short-barrelled revolver. He laid it carefully on the desk beside the tin.

‘Aye, let’s talk about my dogs and how they may have had some of this … arsenic,’ he said in an unnervingly quiet and calm voice.

Torquil groaned when Morag told him that Superintendent Lumsden was on the telephone again.

‘Your laird is mightily displeased with your attitude, McKinnon, and I have to admit that I think he’s got a point. He is thinking of lodging an official complaint. He feels that you were heavy-handed with him this morning when he identified his employee.’

Torquil had felt his temper rise as his superior officer used the word ‘laird’ again.

‘We have information about McArdle, sir. He isn’t what—’

‘Inspector McKinnon,’ Superintendent Lumsden
interrupted
, ‘you seem to have a problem with Jock McArdle, I realize that. But just let me tell you, he is an influential man.’

‘You mean he has a lot of money, Superintendent?’

The voice on the other end of the line sounded as if it now came through gritted teeth. ‘I mean that he has powerful friends. You would do well to realize that, Inspector. Two of his employees have been killed and he wants police
protection
.’

Torquil gasped. ‘Protection?’

‘That’s right. And I said you would see to it. So see to it and keep me informed about the case.’

There was a click and Torquil found himself staring at a dead line again.