Lachlan had diplomatically left the room to squat in the hall and stroke Crusoe. He straightened as Torquil came out of the sitting-room.
‘Lumsden isn’t pleased with me,’ Torquil explained. ‘He as good as said that if I put a foot wrong over this he’ll have my guts for garters. You know how much he’d like to get rid of me.’
Lachlan shoved his hands deep in his pockets and frowned. ‘I take it that means the responsibility does not go all the way up the chain of command?’
‘No, I am the last link.’
‘Did you ask him about Lorna?’
Torquil gave a rueful smile. ‘It didn’t seem an appropriate moment, Lachlan.’
Fergie was in a bad mood after the show that evening. After giving Geordie Innes and the crew a roasting for the way it had all gone, he grabbed Chrissie by the arm and flounced out.
‘Where are we going, Fergie?’ Chrissie asked.
‘For a drink. Maybe four or five.’
‘That’s not a good idea, lover. You know it just makes black moods blacker.’
‘Good. Then maybe I’ll get into a proper dark mood and go and sort somebody out.’
Chrissie pulled him up and spun him round. She grabbed both his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Just what do you mean? Sort who out?’
Fergie’s eyes seemed to be smouldering, as if he was full of rage. He stared back at her defiantly, and then in his best show biz manner he shrugged, smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Just a manner of speech, darling. I’m just peeved at that old fool Guthrie Lovat. He screwed my plans up tonight. That show was like filming a jumble sale at the Wee Free. It wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs.’
Chrissie eyed him askance. ‘You don’t plan on getting drunk though, do you? You know I hate it when you get drunk.’
Fergie laughed. ‘Why, because I get too boisterous?’ Then he winked. ‘Or is it because I don’t get boisterous enough?’
She cuffed him playfully. ‘Come on then. But let’s just make it two drinks, and then go back for an early night.’
Fergie clicked his tongue. ‘Agreed. Just enough alcohol to make me mildly frisky.’
They emerged on to Harbour Street and made their way towards the Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern.
‘I just hope that wee busybody of a journalist isn’t there tonight,’ Fergie whispered, as they approached.
‘Calum Steele? Why, I thought you liked him?’
‘He can give us publicity, Chrissie. I pretend to like him. He has his uses.’
Chrissie frowned. ‘That’s typical of you, isn’t it, lover?’ she said with just the trace of an edge in her voice. ‘You have a talent for finding out how to use people.’
If he detected the edge he didn’t show it. He grinned as he reached out to open the door of the Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern. ‘I do indeed, my darling. And it is that talent that keeps you in the style that you are used to.’
Calum Steele was seething with fury as he and Cora pushed open the door of the Commercial Hotel public bar.
‘Can you believe it, Cora! Mollie McFadden asked me to leave! Me! The editor of the West Uist Chronicle.’
‘And me, Calum. She asked us both to leave. I’ve never been thrown out of anything before. I don’t know what Great-aunt Bella will say.’
At the mention of Miss Melville’s name Calum felt a prickle at the back of his neck. ‘Oh aye, that’s a thought. What do you think she’ll say?’
To his surprise Cora Melville let out one of her effervescent giggles. ‘I have no idea, and to be honest, I don’t care. It’s all a bit of a laugh, isn’t it? I mean, they all think we are the bad guys.’ She tapped her chest with her thumb. ‘Me – a bad guy. It’s so exciting.’
Calum’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. ‘Oh, aye, I suppose it is quite. I mean, you get used to it.’
‘And I guess it can be useful at times for a journalist. Being a social pariah, I mean.’
‘A pariah? Actually, I wouldn’t go as far as that, Cora. But you are right, it can be useful. Then when you make your next scoop they all think you are the bee’s knees.’
‘So we just need a scoop, eh, boss?’
Calum stood looking across the bar, seemingly oblivious to her last words.
‘I said we just need a scoop—’
‘Sh! I heard you, lassie. And I think we might just have stumbled on one. Just act naturally and follow me to the bar, then when we get there take a look at the group of men in the corner. You’ll recognize one I am sure.’
They went to the bar and while Calum ordered drinks Cora casually looked around the bar, focusing as she did on the men drinking whiskies in the corner.
‘I see what you mean, Calum,’ Cora whispered, as she turned back to the bar to take the lemonade and lime that he pushed along the bar to her. ‘There could be a scoop there all right.’
‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’ He stroked his chin. ‘We need to find out what the up-and-coming striker Sandy King is doing on West Uist.’
‘Never heard of him, Calum. I thought you meant Dan Farquarson, the biggest crook in Dundee. Him and his minder, Wee Hughie.’
Calum Steele almost choked on the first swig he took of his pint of Heather Ale.
Guthrie Lovat’s mobile phone went off.
He had been expecting the call. He took a gulp of the whisky and soda that he had just poured then waited a couple of further rings before he picked up the phone and pressed the answer button.
‘Lovat here,’ he said languidly.
‘Christ! I thought you weren’t going to answer. I tried you earlier and you didn’t pick up.’
‘I was beachcombing on the islands,’ he replied. Then he said with a hint of sarcasm, ‘You could have left a message.’
A hostile edge crept into the voice on the other end. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid! You know I never leave messages.’
‘I know. So go on, talk to me.’
‘There will be one tomorrow. Passing the rendezvous at three a.m. GMT. Usual jetsam.’
‘And the usual payment?’
‘Of course.’
He gritted his teeth at that. The whole bloody thing was starting to frustrate him. For a moment he considered trying to draw the guy out.
‘Did you hear me?’ snapped the voice. ‘I said of course. The same payment and all the same arrangements.’
‘I understand.’
The edge was there again. ‘Just make sure you do. You know the penalty for non-compliance! It still applies.’
He swallowed hard. Part of him wanted to tell the voice to bugger off, but he knew that would be dangerous, suicidal perhaps. So instead he said, ‘I know. And I love you too.’
This brought a humourless laugh then the phone went dead.
He stood looking at the dead phone for a moment before hurling it at the settee.
‘One day, you bastard. One day!’
Morag heaved a sigh of relief when she finally got her three children to go to bed. Helping her youngest with homework had been an effort, for her mind had been preoccupied about the death of Digby Dent.
‘Oh Morag Driscoll, what have you done?’ she moaned to herself, as she slumped on the settee with a large gin and tonic in her hand. She took a sip then screwed up her face in disgust.
‘Ugh! Disgustingly bitter stuff that gin is,’ she cursed, leaning forward and depositing the glass on the coffee table. ‘Whatever was I thinking about trying to drown my guilty conscience in this filthy stuff that has been in a bottle for years? Sherry or fizzy white wine, that is your limit, you silly girl.’