Hamish McNab was always careful to cover his tracks. He had done so all his life even though he liked to play with fire, but being careful had thus far prevented him from actually getting burned. He considered himself a past master in the art of using people to his advantage and prided himself on finding soft spots to exploit.
He liked the mist and fog, those wonderful meteorological conditions that gave one blanket cover to come and go. It was especially to his liking when he had things to do, to take care of. Like arranging one of his clandestine meetings. This one had been arranged quickly in response to her text.
After parking his SUV in the boathouse where her old Fiat was already parked out of possible sight, he walked round and let himself into the old fisherman’s cottage by the sea. It was one of the discrete properties around the island that he had acquired over the years.
She was waiting for him, drinking a bottle of lager. She had removed her work clothes and was sitting on the settee dressed in her undies. The full works, suspender belt, fishnet stockings, all the frilly stuff that turned him on. He knew that her soft spot was to act out her fantasies. Respectable care assistant and churchy-churchy lady to everyone she knew, but internally a wanton tigress. He was pleased with the way he had groomed her so that she would spy for him.
‘You took your time,’ she said, dangling her shoe by the toes of her crossed leg. ‘Like I told you in my text, Inspector McKinnon was around at the Hydro asking questions.’
‘Asking about what, Doreen?’ he asked, slumping down beside her and reaching out to stroke her fishnet covered knee. ‘About me?’
‘No, he never even mentioned you. He wanted to know if Robbie Ochterlonie had a secret still. And he wanted to know if he could have had a secret relationship with anyone.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I didn’t know about a still.’
‘And a relationship?’
‘I said I thought it was likely.’
Hamish nodded as he continued to stroke her knee. ‘Good girl. Did he ask anything about Catriona McDonald?’
She lay the bottle on the side table and guided his hand higher up her thigh. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Good, you’re a great little spy, so you are,’ he returned with a chuckle before kissing her bare shoulder and letting his hand be led by hers. ‘How are we for time?’
‘I have until five o’clock. I took care of arrangements.’
‘No rush then,’ he said, running a hand up her back to unclip her bra. Soon he would take her to bed. He liked to pay his debts off straight away, especially when the paying was such pleasure.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ewan arrived at the station at a little before half past seven the next morning. He was surprised by the silence when he unlocked the front door.
‘Creideamh! Did I forget to switch on the alarm last night?’ he muttered to himself. ‘That’s careless, Ewan. You’ve too much on your mind.’
He grinned to himself as he thought of DC Penny Faversham. He was determined to ask her to go for a drink with him soon. But as he opened the cupboard containing the alarm control box he found that it was flashing. Puzzled, he looked up at the siren and saw that the wires leading to it had been cut.
‘Stop! Police!’ he called out as he flicked up the counter flap and went quickly through to the corridor and then noisily checked each room, ever ready as he did so in case the intruder was still on the premises.
The back door was closed, but the lock was damaged. Before he did anything else he pulled out his mobile phone and called Morag. She answered almost immediately.
‘Sergeant Driscoll, it’s me, Ewan.’
‘It must be more bad news if you are using my rank. What’s wrong, Ewan?’
‘The station has been burgled.’
‘Are you on your own? Are you safe?’
Despite himself, Ewan smiled. It was typical of Morag that her foremost concern was for him rather than the building. ‘I’m fine, Morag. Whoever did it knew what they were doing. They forced the back door and then went straight for the alarm and cut the wires to the sirens. The alarm must have gone off for just a few seconds.’
‘I’m on my way, Ewan. Have a look round, but don’t touch anything. I’ll need to dust for fingerprints. Meanwhile, call Torquil.’
It was just a matter of minutes before Morag arrived.
‘Piper is on his way, too,’ Ewan told her. ‘And DC Faversham. I thought I should get her in to check her office.’
Morag nodded as she looked around. ‘Has anything been taken that you could see?’
‘A few things, but I haven’t opened any cupboards or drawers in case I smudge any prints.’
‘There should just be ours then. I have all of ours in my files, so I’ll just need to get Penny’s when she comes in. I’ll get on with dusting for prints.’
She went through to the rest room and opened the cupboard where she kept the forensics kit that she used in the days before all forensics were farmed out to the Scene Examiners. Pulling on latex gloves and taking out her equipment, she asked over her shoulder, ‘So what things have been taken?’
‘The petty cash tin has gone and as far as I can see also the stuff relating to the teenagers. All the things that had been found on the search including the bag with the trainer that was found. And my new murder shoes, as well.’
Morag stood up and eyed him quizzically. ‘Your what?’
‘You know, my hammer boots. My murder shoes. And I’ve not even worn them yet.’
The station phone rang and Ewan went to answer it while Morag began her investigations. He was still speaking when Torquil arrived.
‘I see, thank you Mr Corlin-MacLeod. We’ll get someone out to you straight away. If you could just stay exactly where you are and don’t disturb the ground near it that would be very helpful.’
‘Is Morag in?’ Torquil asked, lifting the counter flap.
‘Yes, boss. She’s started dusting for fingerprints, I think. But I think you need to hear this first. That was Mr Corlin-MacLeod. He was heading into Kyleshiffin to catch the early ferry when he saw something beside the road. It’s an Adidas trainer.’
‘So is he on the Strathshiffin Road?’
‘No, he’s on the west coast road.’
Torquil raised his eyebrows. ‘A curious way to go, unless he wanted to go by McNab’s Abhainn Dhonn distillery.’
‘Do you want me to go out there?’
‘No, leave this to me. You help Morag.’
Torquil rode over to the west, going past the Abhainn Dhonn Distillery and then along the West Coast Road as it chicaned before hitting a long straight section that cut through crags and gullies towards the south of the island. Up ahead, he saw the red Lamborghini Aventador Roadster SV with the personalised number plate GCM 1 parked by the side of the road with its hazard lights flashing. As he rode alongside it the doors slid open, lifting upwards like dragon wings.
Pure ostentation and totally impractical for the roads of the Western Isles, thought Torquil.
George Corlin-MacLeod got out of the supercar and waved. ‘I hope this isn’t a fool’s errand I’ve brought you out on, Inspector McKinnon. I saw this and thought it looked like the trainer I saw on the West Uist Chronicle blog.’ He led the way back down the road as Torquil pulled the Bullet onto its stand. ‘There it is on the other side of the ditch.’
Torquil took off his helmet and goggles and followed. He jumped over the ditch to look at the shoe.
‘It’s covered in mud and seems to be soaked through. It’s probably been there quite a while. I’m pretty certain that’s the other one, Mr Corlin-MacLeod. And it looks like there is scuffing on the wall of the ditch.’