Deathly Wind (17 page)

Moments later he relayed the superintendent’s message to the Incident Room.

‘The man is a fool,’ said the Padre, voicing his disbelief.

‘Didn’t you tell him about Morag’s information, Torquil?’ Ralph McLelland asked.

Torquil shook his head. ‘I didn’t really have time. The superintendent rarely listens. Besides, I’m not sure that he needs to know just yet.’

‘Be careful, laddie. Remember that the superintendent had it in for you in the past,’ said his uncle.

Torquil nodded. ‘I’ll be careful, Uncle.’

He looked at Morag. ‘Go on now, Morag. Tell us about McArdle, or Cardini.’

‘Well, my contacts at Glasgow told me that Giuseppe Cardini served five years in Barlinnie Prison in Glasgow for culpable homicide. But apparently it was touch and go as to whether he went down for the murder of one Peter Mulholland, one of the twins who jointly ran one of the biggest gangs in the Glasgow area. They were into drugs, prostitution and extortion in the city. Giuseppe Cardini was thought to have murdered Peter Mulholland, although he claimed it was self-defence.’

Morag looked up at the assembled men in the room. ‘And now comes the interesting bit. The police had been put onto him by an investigative journalist who had infiltrated the gang that Cardini worked for. Her name was Rhona McIvor.’

Ralph gasped. ‘Well, I’m damned! I knew that she was a writer of sorts, but I didn’t know she was into that sort of writing.’

‘I thought I might be able to get a copy of her article off the internet, but I couldn’t access it,’ went on Morag. ‘But I did manage to get a copy faxed from the records department. I have a cousin who works there. It was her first job of the day.’ She opened a file and pushed a copy of the article across the desk for Torquil to see. ‘I’ve highlighted a few interesting bits,’ she pointed out. ‘Matthew Mulholland, the other twin, had also claimed to have been attacked by someone, and a
bullet-riddled
car was pulled out of the River Clyde.

‘So Cardini went to prison and while he was inside Luigi
Dragonetti, the head of the gang, died of a heart attack. When Cardini was finally released, he just disappeared for a few months. It was then that he changed his name by deed-poll to Jock McArdle. And somehow he seemed to have been able to finance himself in the confectionary business, although the Glasgow police believe, and still believe but have been unable to prove, that he made his money through vice and extortion.’

‘But what about the other gang?’ Torquil asked, as he scanned Rhona’s article.

‘Mathew Mulholland, the surviving twin, died of a stroke on his way home from a Celtic match a week after Cardini reinvented himself as McArdle. Apparently he ran his Mercedes into a wall. Somehow the gang just disappeared – or rather a lot of the gang “went straight” and ended up on the new Jock McArdle’s payroll. He just went from strength to strength, invested in several companies and became a
millionaire
.’

‘And what about this animal rights thing?’ the Padre asked.

‘Ah yes, that was one of his companies. They bred mice, rats and guinea pigs and supplied them to several university and government laboratories. Highly lucrative, until they attracted the attention of animal rights activists. Unluckily for them!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Torquil, raising his head from the article.

‘There is nothing concrete to go on here, but apparently there was an active cell of animal rights activists operating in the south of Scotland. There were a couple of attacks on the homes of some of the McArdle company workers, and even a fire-bomb attack on Jock McArdle’s house. A few weeks later a couple of bodies turned up in the river. They were identified as being members of the animal rights cell.’

The Padre whistled softly. ‘Not a nice chap, it seems. And now he says he wants police protection.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Well, I should let him wait a while if I were you. What about Sartori and Reid? Where do they fit in?’

Torquil tapped the article in front of him. ‘I am thinking that they were what Rhona called enforcers or punishers. That is how she described Cardini when he was a young man. That would certainly fit with their bully-boy antics on West Uist.’

Wallace Drummond raised a hand. ‘Excuse me, but what was the significance of the bullet-riddled car?’

Morag shrugged. ‘I am not sure. Rhona made the point that the Mulhollands had probably killed whoever was in that car.’

‘But was there was no body?’ Douglas asked.

‘No body, so no charge against Matthew Mulholland. He denied any connection. It was only supposition that it was connected. False number plates and everything. But inside the glove pocket they found a gun, a Mauser, and a library book about guinea pigs.’

‘Guinea pigs?’ repeated Wallace.

‘Could that be the animal rights folk again?’ his brother asked.

‘The police checked and the book had been taken out by someone called Enrico Mercanti, who was on the Dragonetti gang payroll. The police think that he was a fellow punisher with Cardini-McArdle.’

Torquil stood up and went over to the whiteboard, and added a few more notes under Jock McArdle’s name.

He drew a line between McArdle’s name and Rhona and added a balloon with the word ARTICLE inside.

‘Cardini to McArdle. Sounds similar, as if he wanted to retain the sound of his name. So does the Italian connection have more significance than we thought?’ He suddenly snapped his fingers and added in capital letters the word FAMILY to the notes under McArdle’s name. Then he drew a
line from there to the notes relating to Ewan McPhee’s diary, where the same word stood out prominently.

‘Could Ewan have been meaning this
family
, McArdle’s
family
?

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Piper?’ Ralph asked.

‘Maybe! If you are thinking the word –
mafia
?’

Everyone started speaking at once, as the possibility hit home. But Torquil had been scrutinizing the ever-more complex spider web diagram that had been gradually
developing
. ‘There is something here,’ he mused, tracing out lines in his mind.

‘Look there!’ he cried, tapping the board under Rhona’s name. ‘CARD IN! We’ve assumed she had written a message about a card. I reckon she was writing Cardini! But why? What else was she trying to write?’

The phone rang and Morag answered it. ‘That was Calum Steele,’ she said a few moments later. ‘He was wanting to tell us to turn on the television. Scottish TV have a bulletin
scheduled
for the next few minutes.’

And as Wallace switched on the station television and found the channel, they found themselves confronted by Kirstie Macroon sitting at a desk behind which was a picture of the Kyleshiffin harbour. In a small square at the top of the picture was a smiling photograph of Calum Steele, to whom Kirstie was talking over a phone link.

Calum Steele’s voice was heard again, but immediately cut off as Kirstie Macroon deftly continued with her bulletin.

She stopped in mid-sentence and touched her earpiece.

A picture of Jock McArdle on the day that he took possession of Dunshiffin Castle appeared, replacing that of Calum Steele.

She never finished her sentence. Jock McArdle’s thick Glaswegian accent broke out and continued in a staccato barrage of anger.

The phone went dead and Kirstie Macroon picked up again, as a photograph of Dunshiffin Castle now took up the backdrop behind her.

Wallace turned the sound down.

‘The wee fool,’ cursed Douglas, his brother. ‘What does Calum Steele think he’s playing at, giving out information like that on national news?’

‘Och, he’s a journalist, Douglas. You know well enough what he’s like.’

‘Well I think he’s a pain in the backside,’ persisted Wallace.

‘He’s worse than that, I’m afraid,’ said Torquil. ‘He may not realize it, but he may have just signed someone’s death warrant. Jock McArdle sounded as though he was preparing to pull up his drawbridge against a siege.’

Nial Urquart’s hair was dripping wet from his shower as he came into Katrina’s small sitting-room, a towel wrapped around his waist. Katrina was sitting in a silk dressing-gown with a mug of coffee in her hand as she watched the news flash on Scottish TV.

‘I thought you were going to make a great big fry-up after all our exertions of the night?’ he asked with a grin, as he slumped down beside her and wrapped an arm about her shoulders. ‘And right afterwards I’m going to sort things out with Megan.’

‘Just a minute, Nial,’ she said, raising a finger, her eyes wide with alarm, ‘This is important. There was a fire on the Wee Kingdom last night – and a death.’

‘A death? What? Who?’

Together they watched and listened to Kirstie Macroon’s conversation with Calum Steele.

‘Thank God it was none of the Wee Kingdom folk,’
whispered
Katrina. She turned and looked at Nial. ‘This isn’t good, Nial. You ought to be there for Megan.’

But he was still watching the news as Kirstie Macroon talked to Jock McArdle, before signing off. ‘The bastard!’

‘Who?’ Katrina asked, bemusedly. She noted the sudden gleam of anger in his eyes.

‘McArdle! Him and his kind who profit out of suffering. It’s all his fault. And now he’s wanting police protection. Bastard!’

‘It must have happened very late last night. I think you had better get in touch with Megan. She’ll be frantic – as well as furious with us.’ She bit her lip. ‘It must have been awful. What did Calum Steele say, it was like a beacon, like the—’

She suddenly stood up and switched off the television. ‘Come on, Nial, we’ve got to get going. I’ve got a couple of visits to make then I have an operating session scheduled for this afternoon, and you need to go and talk to Megan.’

She disappeared into her room returning a few moments later after having thrown on a jumper and pulled on jeans and trainers. Nial watched her gather her case, a water bottle and then open a cupboard under the stairs and pull out a rifle bag.

‘Crikey, have you got to put some poor beast down?’ he asked with a humourless grin.

‘She nodded. ‘Always a possibility. Look Nial, could I borrow your boat?’

‘Sure, the keys are on the bedside table. It’s in the harbour, well-fuelled and ready.’

Katrina ducked back into the bedroom returning swiftly. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. ‘I need to rush. You talk to Megan. No, better still, you go and see her.’

He watched her through the window as she drove off in her van. He started humming as he flicked on the electric kettle and loaded a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

‘But first things first,’ he mused to himself, as he reached for his phone.

Torquil finished his call then pocketed his mobile phone. ‘That’s Calum Steele sorted,’ he said with a scowl.

‘How was he?’ Morag asked.

‘Peeved and a bit non-plussed. He feels that he has pulled off a major coup and performed a public service, and he was surprised to hear me say that I may be pressing charges on him as a police nuisance.’

‘And will you?’ asked Lachlan.

‘Of course not, but I just wanted to rattle him a bit, and get him off our case.’

Ralph McLelland had stood up and was packing his bag. ‘I feel a bit guilty there actually, Torquil. He collared me at breakfast and pumped me for information. I didn’t think he’d be straight on national news with it.’ He shook his head guiltily. ‘And I’m afraid I’ve got to be off. I have a surgery soon.’

Once he had gone, Torquil addressed the others. ‘Right, we’ve got a number of leads to follow up. First—’

He was interrupted by the phone ringing on the station counter. Morag went through to answer it. They waited until she answered it and came back.

‘That was Nial Urquart,’ she volunteered. ‘He says that he’s worried about Katrina Tulloch, the vet. She’s just left her flat in a hurry – he’d stayed the night he told me – and she’s taken some sort of a rifle. He says she looked preoccupied and went off as soon as she heard that news bulletin this morning.’

‘Calum again!’ said Torquil. And then after a moment’s thought, ‘But what could there be in that news bulletin to worry her?’

‘There’s more,’ said Morag. ‘She’s taken the keys of his boat.’

‘We’d better get after her and see what’s going on,’ said Torquil.

‘We’ll go,’ said Wallace standing up. ‘Shall we take the
Seaspray
?’

Morag stood in his way. ‘No, with respect, I think I should go. I know her better than you. She’s a woman and I’ve talked to her already. I know she’s a bit confused at the moment.’

Torquil nodded. ‘I agree; Morag should go.’

‘And I’ll keep her company, shall I?’ suggested Lachlan. ‘Better two people in the
Seaspray
catamaran.’ Then as she was about to remonstrate, he added, ‘Remember that Ewan went missing after going off on his own.’

‘Uncle Lachlan is right, Morag. Away you go. We’ll sort out the rest of the tasks.’

Vincent was feeling exhausted and guilty after a sleepless night. After taking Megan back to her croft he had listened to her rant about Nial Urquart’s betrayal. He had wiped her tears away, and together they had speculated about the cause of the fire. At about five in the morning they had drunk a couple of whiskies and each become aware of the chemistry that had been threatening to bubble to the surface for several months.

She kissed him and he recoiled.

‘Katrina, I’m old enough to be your—’

She silenced him with another kiss. And then another.

‘But what about you and Nial?’

‘There is no me and Nial now.’

And then they moved to the bedroom where they stayed, cocooned from the world by their love-making, until the
cockerel
and the geese roused them back to reality, and the ever-increasing problems that surrounded them. But now their love-making was like a drug and the hours seemed to drift by until Vincent finally heaved himself out of bed and started to pull on his clothes.

‘I don’t want you to go, Vincent,’ Megan pleaded, and she insisted that he stay for breakfast. As she prepared food and boiled the kettle, Vincent settled down on the settee and turned on the television. As they ate, they watched the morning farming programme, which was interrupted by the news bulletin from Kirstie Macroon. They sat and watched in horrified silence.

‘Oh my God,’ gasped Megan. ‘What is happening to this place? It is all falling apart. She leaned forward and put her hand on his. ‘But at least I have you to protect me now.’

Vincent shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Megan. It doesn’t feel right.’

‘It feels very right to me.’

‘What should we do, Megan?’

She wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘We need time to talk and see where we’re going here. But I have a job to do first. Wait a minute.’

And she disappeared into her bedroom, coming back after a few minutes with a large holdall and a rucksack. ‘These are Nial’s,’ she said. ‘Will you help me load them in the car?’

‘I had better come too.’

‘No, I have to do this myself.’

He helped her pack up the car and watched her drive off into the swirling mist. Then he purposefully strode back to his croft. He had an important job of his own to do.

Alistair McKinley had watched the firemen battle to contain the fire, then withdrew and watched the police go about their business after they discovered the body. After they had taken it away Alistair went back to his croft and catnapped in his armchair before washing and breakfasting. Then as usual he went out and tended to his livestock and did some work on the loom. Half expecting a news report on the fire he went in for a cup of tea and turned on the old television in time to see Kirstie Macroon’s report. As he watched, he became more and more irate.

‘So much death!’ he whispered to himself. ‘And all down to him!’

Methodically clearing up his breakfast things he set about doing the other chores that he did not feel could wait, before going back to the outhouse that housed his loom. Pushing several boxes of wool aside he prised up the flagstone in the corner, reached into the hollow beneath and drew out the rifle wrapped in polythene. He unwrapped it, gave it the once over, then reached into the hollow again and drew out his father’s old hunting bag, which contained his spare ammunition.

‘Just one more job to finish,’ he mused. ‘And this is in your memory, Kenneth my lad.’

Five minutes later Alistair McKinley’s jeep disappeared
into the mist, its red tail lights swiftly disappearing in the swirling yellow vapours.

Then a lone figure came round the side of the croft, heading swiftly across the ground towards the Morrison family croft. He sniffed the air as he went past it, heading up the rise towards Wind’s Eye croft. And he stood by the burned-out shell surrounded as it was by the plastic police tapes.

‘Just one bloody great mess!’ Geordie Morrison muttered to himself. ‘Someone’s going to pay for this. And I am going to see to that!’

Morag and Lachlan had arrived at the
Seaspray
catamaran berth just in time to see Nial Urquart’s motorboat disappear out of the harbour, heading northwards.

‘It’s a nippy little thing that she’s got there,’ said Morag, ‘but we’ll soon catch her.’

She donned a waterproof and life-jacket and started the
Seaspray
up while Lachlan untied the mooring ropes and then boarded beside her. ‘Aye, as long as she doesn’t disappear into the mists,’ he said, as he donned waterproofs and life-jacket, while Morag went through preparations to leave harbour. ‘Have you any idea where she may be headed?’

‘None at all. But what worries me most is why she feels she might need a gun at sea.’

As she expertly manoeuvred out of the harbour before
accelerating
northwards it looked as if Lachlan’s fears might be correct. Already the boat had disappeared into the misty waters.

Morag switched on the radar and moments later she had a blipping image on the screen in front of her. ‘We can’t see her, but she’s there right enough. And it looks as if she’s heading around the coast.’

‘Towards the Wee Kingdom, do you think?’ Lachlan asked.

‘Maybe,’ Morag replied. ‘Or possibly to Dunshiffin Castle.’

‘Wallace, I want you to go to the Wee Kingdom and make sure that Vincent Gilfillan, Alistair McKinley and Megan Munro
don’t leave their crofts. We’ll want to take statements from them later. Douglas, I want you to find Nial Urquart and bring him back here.’

‘Are you going to question him, Piper?’ Douglas asked.

‘I am. But I’m going to go over things here first and get my thoughts in order. And I’d better give the superintendent a ring and put him in the picture.’

Once he was alone Torquil went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

Then with his cup in his hand he went through to the Incident Room and stared at the whiteboard.

Jock McArdle! And now he wanted police protection! He grinned. There was only him available to give that protection now. But protection against whom?

The answer came when the station telephone rang.

‘Emergency!’ The rasping whispered voice had an
unmistakable
Glaswegian twang. ‘This is Jock McArdle at Dunshiffin Castle. I need help now! There’s a nutter here – with a gun!’

There was the deafening noise of a gun being discharged, then a strangled cry, then silence.

‘Bugger!’ cursed Torquil. He dashed out, stopping only to pick up his helmet and his gauntlets. Moments later he was hurtling along the mist-filled Harbour Street on the Bullet.

Like many native West Uist women Katrina had been used to handling boats since she was a youngster. She knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing. Her heart was racing and she felt more anxious than she thought possible.

She was unaware that she was being pursued.

It seemed to take an interminable time as she raced through the mist as fast as she dared go. And she was always conscious of getting too close to the coastline, with its
innumerable
stacks, skerries and hidden rocks. But at last she saw the Wee Kingdom loom out of the mists, and she steered a course parallel with it until she rounded the western tip,
where three successive basalt stacks jutted out of the sea. On the top of the most westerly one, was the ruins of the old West Uist lighthouse and the derelict shell of the keeper’s cottage. She headed straight for it, slowed the boat and manoeuvred to a stop by the aged jetty. Quickly tying up, she unsheathed her rifle from its bag and gathered her medical bag and water bottle. As she turned to look at the bleak ruins of the
lighthouse
, she felt a shiver of fear run up and down her spine.

She mounted the steps to the ruin, which was nowadays no more than the bare husk of a tower. The door had long since gone and the inside was full of collapsed masonry and years of guano from the gulls that even now were circling it, protesting noisily at a human presence. Then she turned her attention to the derelict lighthouse-keeper’s cottage. She went along its frontage, trying to see through the wooden shutters that had been nailed in place years before. And then she was at the door, staring at the new looking padlock.

Another shiver ran up her spine as she tested her weight against the unyielding door. She listened with her ear at the door, but heard nothing.

Except the noise of an engine approaching through the mist.

Who the hell was this?

She had no time or inclination to find out. She dropped her bag and water bottle and taking careful aim with the Steyr-Mannlicher rifle, she fired point blank at the lock.

Morag and Lachlan heard a popping noise as they approached.

‘What was that?’ Lachlan asked.

‘It sounded like a muffled gunshot,’ said Morag.

‘You mean a shot from a gun with a silencer?’ Lachlan queried. ‘We’d best be careful here, Morag.’

And minutes later, having tied up beside the motorboat on the jetty they made their way warily to the open door of the old lighthouse-keeper’s cottage. Just inside the door a rifle was propped up against the wall, while inside they saw
Katrina Tulloch sobbing her heart out and leaning over a body lying face down on the floor.