‘Or about guilt then?’
Kenneth gave a short laugh. ‘Like a confession, you mean?’
‘I am always here for that purpose, Kenneth, you know that.’
Kenneth patted his arm and wrinkled his eyes. ‘Thank you for the offer, Lachlan. I appreciate it, but for now let’s just go and say our prayers then let me get my revenge.’
Lachlan tapped out his pipe and ground the ashes in the gravel of the path. ‘After you then.’ He popped his pipe into his breast pocket and followed his guest. He felt slightly uncomfortable about the way that he had twice mentioned the word ‘revenge’.
Cora had slept badly. Although the camp-bed was comfortable enough she had been unable to cut out the sound of Calum’s snoring. When first light peeped through the shutters she rose, washed and dressed then searched the fridge and cupboards in search of breakfast. Finding only beer in the cupboard and a stack of mince pies and an assortment of things suitable for Calum’s beloved frying pan she decided to simply have a cup of tea. Upon fording the tea caddy empty she pouted with disappointment and decided that the place needed some sensible restocking. She grabbed her bag and headed off for some fresh supplies.
At Allardyce’s, she bought three butter rolls, a tub of low fat margarine and a small pot of honey. She positively skipped along Harbour Street enjoying the fresh sea air as she made her way to Anderson’s Emporium to buy tea-bags.
It was already busy as an assortment of fishermen, yachts folk and nature-loving holidaymakers were buying supplies for the day.
She joined the queue and noted that there was only Agnes Anderson to serve all of the customers.
‘What do you mean you have no paracetamol?’ a wiry young man in his late twenties complained to Agnes Anderson when it was his turn at the counter.
‘I am sorry, sir, but we have had a run on them. You could always try the chemist. It will be open at nine o’clock.’
‘Dash it! I haven’t time to wait. Look, I don’t like to ask this, but is there anything you can do? I just need about four of them. They aren’t for me; they’re for my bosses, Fergie and Chrissie Ferguson. They were – well, they were out having a drink or two last night.’
‘I can vouch for that, Agnes,’ a tall man standing behind them volunteered. ‘I was in the Bonnie Prince Charlie. They bought everybody a drink. I was coming to buy some paracetamol for myself.’
There was communal laughter from the rest of the queue.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Agnes. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll raid our medicine cabinet.’ She raised herself on tiptoe to address the rest of the customers. ‘Sorry, folk, I’ll get to you all as soon as I have taken care of this gentleman.’
When she had left, Geordie turned to the queue. ‘I apologize for this, ladies and gentlemen. That’s show-biz folk for you, I’m afraid. But please, don’t let anyone know that I was in here for this. You know what the media are like. A pack of animals the lot of them.’
The tall man was quick to agree. ‘Aye, and we have a real wee Rottweiler of a newshound here on West Uist. Calum Steele the editor of the Chronicle would hang out his own granny’s dirty washing if it sold more copies of his rag.’
‘He’s more of a Jack Russell in my opinion,’ chirped in someone else, much to the amusement of the rest.
‘I know the man,’ Geordie Innes confided. ‘You should hear what Fergie calls him.’
And, as the other customers joined in the ragging of Calum Steele, Cora felt her hackles rise. Part of her wanted to wade in to defend her boss, but the other part told her to keep her head down. No one knew that she was a member of his staff and that could be useful. She listened as Geordie Innes let one or two little nuggets of gossip about the Flotsam & Jetsam show slip out, much to the glee of the emporium customers.
As the shop gradually cleared and she took her turn at the counter, Agnes Anderson smiled at her.
‘Are you on holiday, miss?’ she asked.
‘No, I’ve moved here for a while.’
‘Working here are you?’
Cora began to feel uncomfortable with the questioning. It was time to be evasive. ‘Sort of. I’m a writer of sorts.’
‘Really? Are you writing a novel then?’
‘Well, I’m thinking about it. That’s why I need more tea.’
Agnes tittered. ‘Oh mercy me, there I go being a Nosy Parker. Sorry, miss. Is it a small box or a big box you want?’
‘Your largest. You have no idea how much tea—’ She stopped herself just in time, for she had been about to mention Calum’s name. She grinned, then added, ‘That I drink while I’m doodling.’
She couldn’t wait to tell Calum about the nuggets she had collected. And, as she walked back to the Chronicle offices, she realized that there was something very exciting about being an investigative journalist. She could quite see why it all gave Calum a buzz.
Yet her image of Calum Steele, editor-in-chief and investigative journalist par excellence took a sudden dip as she bounced up the stairs with her supplies.
The toilet door was open and Calum, dressed in underpants and a string vest, was kneeling over the toilet retching into the bowl.
He pushed himself up and looked round at the sound of her footsteps. His hair was lank and his face was as pale as the porcelain of the toilet bowl that he was clutching.
‘Ah, Cora, I wondered where you were. We had better sit down and plan our next move.’ He hiccupped. ‘I’m not feeling so great today. I think I might have eaten a few too many nuts at the pub last night. My tummy is a wee bit upset.’
Cora refrained from making any comment about the whisky that he had taken to bed. Instead she offered to make him tea with a butter roll and honey.
She winced as he shook his head and sank his head in the toilet to retch again. A moment later he heaved himself up and looked round with a pleading grin.
‘Do you think you could pop round to Anderson’s Emporium and ask them for some paracetamol?’
‘Oh really, Calum!’ Cora cried in exasperation.
Ewan had been for his early morning run and a spot of hammer practice before opening up the station. He was busily working his way through the backlog of cases when Morag came in. One look at her and he lifted the counter flap and took her arm.
‘Morag, what’s wrong? You look like death warmed up. Shall I get you something?’
‘A paracetamol and a cup of your strong tea would be wonderful,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘And anything you have for guilt.’
‘Och, Morag!’ Ewan exclaimed. ‘You have nothing to be guilty about. Everyone has told you that. It was me who wasn’t looking where I was throwing my hammer.’
‘Oh you are a wee darling, Ewan. But it isn’t just that I feel guilty about. I drank too much last night. I was on my own after I had put the kids to bed. It is something I have never done before.’ She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. ‘It was so irresponsible of me.’
Ewan patted her shoulder. ‘No one will think the worse of you for that, Morag. Now go and have a seat in the rest room and I’ll bring tea and a paracetamol through to you.’
No sooner had he performed that duty than the station bell tinkled and the first client of the day came in. It was Rab McNeish.
‘Ah, Mr McNeish,’ Ewan greeted him warmly, belying his real feeling of dread as he expected another tirade of invective amid the inevitable complaints about cats and dogs.