Bruce McNab eyed Calum warily, then his eye set on Cora and he smiled. ‘You are not related to Miss Bella Melville, are you, Cora?’
Cora shrugged her shoulders and smiled demurely. ‘My great-aunt’s reputation proceeds her everywhere I go.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Bruce said. Then, nodding at Calum, ‘But I’ll have to resist your kind offer, Calum. I’m with a party.’
‘Oh aye,’ Calum said, matter-of-factly, peering past Bruce as if seeing his party for the first time. ‘Oh goodness me, is that Sandy King, I spy there?’
Bruce nodded to the barman and pointed to the empty glasses. ‘Same again, Tam. And whatever Calum and Cora here would like.’ As the drinks were being dispensed he placed a large hand firmly on Calum’s shoulder. ‘My clients are here on holiday, Calum. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Oh aye, I know, Bruce,’ Calum replied, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Discretion. Don’t worry, it’s my middle name.’
‘That’s funny, Calum. Most folk around here think it is Nosy-Parker!’
Calum’s cheeks reddened, but he said nothing. He merely grinned.
But this time Cora was unable to suppress one of her rippling giggles. It rose above the hubbub of the bar and almost every head turned to see the source of the laugh and to try to discern the cause of such hilarity. Wee Hughie stopped with his pint halfway to his lips and his eyes lit up. Seeing that Bruce McNab seemed to be having a joke with them he signalled them all over, much to Dan Farquarson’s disdain.
‘Hughie, what do you think you—?’ Dan Farquarson began, then seeing that Bruce McNab was returning from the bar with drinks, helped by the giggling girl and a short tubby fellow in a yellow anorak, he scowled and said in a short aside to Wee Hughie, ‘We’ll have words later, pal.’
But Wee Hughie gave no sign that he had heard his employer. He was on his feet immediately, pulling out a chair for Cora. ‘Come away and sit down,’ he cooed. ‘Any friend of Bruce is a friend of mine. What was the joke?’ He tapped her arm with his elbow. ‘It wasn’t anything smutty, I hope.’
Cora giggled again. ‘Oh no, it was just that—’ She looked at Calum’s raised eyebrows and then at Bruce McNab’s stern mouth and hesitated. ‘It was just something that my boss, Calum here, said. You tell them, Calum.’
‘Well—’ Calum began.
‘Calum Steele is our local newspaper editor,’ said Bruce.
‘A journalist?’ queried Dan Farquarson, guardedly.
‘Aye, Calum Steele, editor-in-chief of the West Uist Chronicle, at your service.’ Despite himself, Calum’s chest swelled slightly beneath his anorak. ‘And this is Cora Melville, my – er – cub reporter.’
‘A cub reporter, eh?’ said Wee Hughie, unable to tear his eyes away from Cora. ‘You mean like an assistant? Well, what I’d like to know is what’s a bonnie lassie like you doing wasting your time on an island out here?’
‘I am a Hebridean,’ Cora replied immediately. ‘I love the islands. I belong here.’
Wee Hughie grinned. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Cora, I like them myself. See, I think I like them more and more all the time.’
Calum took a seat next to Bruce and sipped his beer, then automatically wiped froth from his upper lip. He beamed at Dan Farquarson, then at Sandy King. His eyes opened wide with almost pantomimic effect and he clapped a hand to his mouth. Then as if recovering, he leaned across the table and asked, almost conspiratorially, ‘Is it true? Am I really sitting at the same table as Sandy King, The Net-breaker?’
‘That’s me, all right,’ Sandy replied. ‘But I’m not looking for publicity. I’m just here for the fishing and hunting.’ He grinned and slapped Bruce on the back. ‘That’s why we have engaged the services of the best fisherman on West Uist.’
Calum grinned. ‘Aye, Bruce is famous around here. Not as famous as you of course, Sandy, but in West Uist he’s a sort of celebrity.’
Bruce McNab frowned. ‘That’s havers, Calum, and you know it.’
‘So, how was your fishing this morning?’ Calum asked.
There was a moment of awkwardness as the group looked at each other.
‘We didn’t get the fishing today,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘We had a bit of a mix up. We didn’t really meet up as we meant. So tomorrow we will make up for it. That’s what we are doing now, you see. Planning tomorrow.’
‘Do you like fishing, Cora?’ Wee Hughie asked, staring at her dreamily.
Cora shivered. ‘Ugh! I hate it. I am a strict vegetarian, you see. I couldn’t possibly kill a fish.’ She screwed up her face in distaste.
Wee Hughie looked bemused, but thought quickly. ‘Actually, I’m not so keen myself. I’m just here with my boss.’ He looked beseechingly at Dan Farquarson. ‘I haven’t had a bite at all, have I, boss?’
Dan Farquarson gave a humourless smile. ‘No, nothing at all. He’s useless, Cora. Completely useless.’
‘Well – er – I wondered,’ Calum said to Sandy, ‘how would you feel about giving me a wee interview? The West Uist Chronicle readers would love to know what you think of our island.’
Dan Farquarson cleared his throat and Sandy King darted him a quick glance. It was not missed by either Calum or Cora.
‘Look, Calum,’ Bruce said, ‘my clients are here for the fishing, not to be emblazoned across the front page of the Chronicle.’
‘No need to include us in anything,’ Dan Farquarson added. ‘Wee Hughie and me are just here for the fishing, like Bruce here says. As for Sandy—’
‘As for me, I can speak for myself,’ Sandy King said firmly. Then he said to Calum, ‘I’ll give you an interview all right, Calum. But not here and not now. Tomorrow I’ll call you. How’s that?’
Calum produced a card with the skill of a conjurer and handed it over. ‘Any time, Sandy. Day or night, the Chronicle, reporters are always on hand.’
‘Does that include you, Cora?’ Wee Hughie asked with the hint of a leer.
Cora opened her mouth as if to give an indignant reply, but Calum answered for her.
‘Oh, aye, that goes for all of the Chronicle staff!’
The lights were shining through the frosted glass of the Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital mortuary as Torquil rode up. He dismounted and made his way through the outer doors, then pressed the intercom button and called his name.
Ralph McLelland’s voice sounded almost robotic through the speaker:
‘Come straight through, Torquil. I’m in the lab.’
A buzzer sounded as the lock was released and Torquil pushed the door open and was immediately struck by the coppery odour of blood mixed with that of strong disinfectant. He walked passed the closed post-mortem room door and tapped ‘Oh, aye, that goes for all of the Chronicle staff!’on the laboratory door at the end of the corridor before pushing it open.
Dr McLelland was dressed in blue surgical scrub clothes, sitting at a bench with a heap of notes on one side and several jars containing specimens of viscera on the other. In front of him was a microscope and various bottles of fixatives and stains.
‘OK Ralph, so what have you come up with?’
‘Questions, Torquil. Questions that don’t make sense.’
‘It’s a bit late for riddles, Ralph. Tell me more.’
Ralph took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He pointed at a jar containing pinky-grey tissue. ‘This is Dr Dent’s lung tissue. I’ve been looking at it. There is water in the lungs.’
‘So he was drowned? That’s what you expected, isn’t it?’