Flotsam and Jetsam (3 page)

They all looked round and were surprised to see a man in his mid-thirties dressed like them in waders, but with an anorak and a mesh helmet, such as bee-keepers wear. Hanging from a shoulder strap he was carrying a large box with numerous flasks and containers and in his free hand he had a huge gossamer net on a pole.

‘Who do you think you are?’ quipped Wee Hughie. ‘A mad butterfly collector?’

‘A mad scientist some say,’ the man replied. ‘Doctor Digby Dent, at your service.’ He grinned behind the mesh of his helmet. ‘And I am just about to join you gentlemen.’

‘Not here, you aren’t,’ snapped Bruce. ‘You have no licence to fish here.’

Digby Dent chuckled and tossed his net down on the bank. Then he proceeded to clamber down into the water. ‘And a good morning to you too – Mr McNab, isn’t it?’ Then before Bruce could reply, ‘I have no need of a licence to retrieve my specimens. I have thirty traps embedded all the way along the bank here. It is time to collect them. They should give me a good idea of the midge larval population along this stretch of the river.’

Without more ado he started moving slowly along the river behind them, delving with his gloved hands into the muddy bank to locate and pull out a series of cone shaped plastic containers.

Sandy King noticed that there were small green tags embedded above each one.

‘I think you should clear off, pal,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘We have paid good money to fish this water and—’

‘Then fish away,’ replied Dr Dent. ‘You won’t disturb me.’

Bruce took a step towards him. ‘Did you hear my client, Dent?’

‘Oh yes, but I won’t be long. I am conducting a serious scientific survey here, not kow-towing to the rich folk like you.’

‘You should watch your mouth, pal,’ said Dan Farquarson.

‘Should I give him a ducking, boss?’ suggested Wee Hughie.

Dr Dent laughed again. ‘Look, enough of your prattle. Just let me get on with my work then you can go back to your tiddler-catching, or whatever it is you are doing.’

‘Are you the midge man that we heard about?’ Sandy King asked.

Whether or not Dr Dent recognized the footballer, he gave no indication. He went on collecting his specimen containers, wiping the dirt off each one before adding it to the box.

‘I am an entomologist, but to the folk round here that means I am the midge man. I am the chap who is going to free Scotland of the tyranny of the midge forever.’

‘You are a fool, Dent,’ sneered Bruce. ‘The midges have been here long before man and they will be here long after we have gone.’

In the shade of the bank none of them had really seen the fine haze of the swarm that descended upon them. All the fishermen, including Bruce McNab started to itch and scratch and waft the air about them in a useless attempt to fend off their tiny attackers, which had honed in on them to bite and feed off blood.

‘Bugger this for a lark!’ exclaimed Dan Farquarson, the first to haul himself from the river. ‘Let’s get out of here before we’re eaten alive. Why did you take us to this infested place?’ he demanded of Bruce.

‘It wasn’t infested until he started guddling about in the bank,’ Bruce replied, pointing venomously at Dr Dent.

‘You should have checked up on the Midge Index. It is well displayed on the harbour noticeboard. It is high all week, which means that you should be prepared.’

‘Midge Index! Rubbish!’ Bruce exclaimed in disgust.

‘Aye rubbish you say,’ groaned Wee Hughie, pointing at Dr Dent’s protective clothing. ‘But he’s prepared for it. Why are we not?’

Digby Dent grinned. ‘A lot of the local folk think they know about the midges, just because they live alongside them. But the truth is that they don’t, as your gillie has just proved.’ He clicked his tongue then went on without looking up at them. ‘Look, why don’t you all come along to the
Flotsam & Jetsam
show tonight,’ he said, as he casually went on with his specimen collecting. ‘I am doing a few minutes on the life cycle of the midge. They want a bit of colour adding to their remarkable show,’ he said, with a slight emphasis on the word ‘remarkable.’ Its subtlety was not lost on Sandy King. Then he grinned up at them. ‘You really ought to dress properly when you go out on the river, you know. I could let you have the phone number of a good supplier of midge veils.’

‘Come on,’ Dan Farquarson said irritably. ‘Why don’t you find us another bit of the river where he won’t be disturbed by these little buggers?’ He looked sternly at Dr Dent. ‘Or by any other nuisance.’

‘Enjoy your sport,’ Dr Dent called. ‘I’ve enjoyed mine. If I had been along a bit earlier I could have netted that swarm. A pity that you broke it up like that.’

Bruce McNab’s face had gone puce and he was about to reply, but thought better of it.  

‘You take care of yourself, pal,’ said Wee Hughie, who had no such concerns. There was a snap as he stood on the long handle of the insect net. ‘Whoops! Someone left a pole in my
way.’ He winked maliciously at Digby Dent who stood silently although it was clear that he had been rattled by the way his hands had begun to shake.

Sandy King gave a half smile. ‘That sounds like good advice, Doctor Dent. And you know what they say – you should never bite off more than you can chew.’

Calum Steele the editor the
West Uist Chronicle
had been working through the night to get the latest edition of his newspaper out on time. Since the paper was virtually a
oneman
show – Calum being not only the editor, but the sole reporter, manager and printer – it often meant that he had the devil’s own job to write everything, prepare photographs and physically produce the newspaper in time for the fleet of lads he paid to distribute it to the newsagents and other outlets across the island.

Although he always talked about the
West Uist Chronicle
offices, it was a somewhat grandiloquent title, for although there was a large printed sign attached to the wall beside the door, the newspaper offices consisted of two floors, both of which were exclusively used by Calum. The actual news office itself, where Calum interviewed people and took orders for photographs which had appeared in the paper, occupied the first room on the ground floor, with an all-purpose junk room at the back. Before the days of digital photography it had been the dark room where he did his developing. Upstairs was where the actual work took place. At the front was the room with a cluttered old oak desk where he wrote his articles and columns on a vintage Mackintosh computer or on his spanking
new laptop. Sitting between the two computers was a dusty old Remington typewriter, which served no real purpose other than to help him feel the part of a writer. The rest of the room was occupied with his digital printing press, paper and stationery supplies, and in the corner was the space where he stacked the next issue of the newspaper ready for distribution.

Across the landing was a larger room which had been divided up to form a kitchenette and a shower. The toilet was next door to that, and along from it was the archive room where all the past issues of the
Chronicle
were kept. On the landing there was room for a battered old settee and a
camp-bed
, which Calum used when he was either working late, or when he felt too inebriated to return home.  

By the time the lads had arrived to take their piles of papers away that morning, Calum had consumed three bottles of Heather Ale and the better part of a half-bottle of Glen Corlin malt whisky. As a result he had paid the lads twice the usual amount and wished them a fond farewell before tumbling into the camp-bed intent upon sleeping until at least tea time.  

He was only dimly aware of the downstairs bell ringing, a female voice calling out, then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.  

‘Mr Steele, I’m here! Where would you like me to start?’  

Calum shoved the cushion away from his face and propped himself up on an elbow and felt about on the floor for his
wire-framed
spectacles, without which he could barely see the end of his nose.  

‘What the…? Who the blazes are you?’  

He blinked several times and forced his bleary eyes to focus. As he did so he found himself looking at a pretty young woman in her early twenties with short crinkly hair and with large hoop ear-rings. She was dressed in jeans with fashionable
holes in the knees, pink trainers and a T-shirt with the logo ‘The West Uist Chronicle WRITES!’

‘It’s me, Cora Melville.’

‘Cora? Melville?’ A dim and worrying recollection was itching at the back of his mind.

Cora giggled. ‘Of course, silly. You remember! My
great-aunty
introduced us at the celeidh at New Year. I was just getting ready to do my last term in journalism at Abertay University and you and Great-aunt Bella arranged—’

‘Bella Melville is your great-aunt?’ Calum interrupted. He swallowed hard, for Miss Bella Melville had taught him and most of his friends on the island. All of them were still in awe of her.

Cora nodded enthusiastically. ‘And so here I am, your new reporter ready to start my new job.’ She giggled again. An effervescent laugh that made him think of fizzy lemonade. ‘So, where shall I start? I am so excited that you are going to teach me all about journalism.’

Calum’s head began to throb. Now he remembered only too well. In a near drunken fit of magnanimity he had promised Miss Melville that he would employ Cora at the
West Uist
Chronicle
.

‘Ah, yes. I’m a wee bit tired just now, Cora. I need a bit of sleep. Why don’t you – er – have a look round – quietly get to know the place.’

For a moment she looked a bit crestfallen. But it was only for a moment. She snapped her fingers. ‘I know. A good reporter needs to know the style of the paper back to front. Is it all right if I look through your archives?’

Calum smiled. ‘Aye, excellent idea. The archives are in the room back there. Help yourself. Read and digest. But quietly.’ He yawned and screwed up his eyes to look at his watch. ‘Give
me a couple of hours then maybe you could make a cup of coffee. Strong black coffee.’

Cora smiled and clicked her heels, then saluted. ‘Will do, sir. That will get you perky again. And it will give me time to familiarize myself with the past
Chronicle
stories.’

‘That’s the way, lassie. Just do it quietly, eh? I like your attitude. Good approach. A good journalist needs to be ever on the alert. Vigilance at all times.’

Cora giggled and skipped across the landing. ‘Vigilance at all times, I like it. I’ll make it my motto.’

‘Aye, you do that,’ Calum groaned as he slumped back on the camp-bed. He pulled the cushion over his face again. ‘Vigilance at all….’

Within moments he was snoring gently away.

Sergeant Morag Driscoll was striding passed the
multi-coloured
shop fronts of Harbour Street like a woman on a mission. She smiled at several of the merchants and traders as they set up their market-stalls along the sea wall in readiness for the inevitable market-day crowds. The harbour itself was crammed with a flotilla of yachts, fishing boats and motorboats, all bobbing up and down in the early morning sun. She had been off duty for a week and had recharged her batteries sufficiently to feel keen to get to the station to see how PC Ewan McPhee had managed in her absence. Under her arm she had a bag full of freshly baked butter rolls from Allardyce, the bakers and was looking forward to having one with a cup of Ewan’s famous strong tea. It would be good to have five minutes to catch up before the locals started dropping in to lodge complaints, enquire about lost dogs, cats, budgies, or just to pass the time of day with whichever of the three regular members or the two special constables of the West Uist division of the Hebridean Constabulary was behind the desk.

A pretty, thirty-something, single mother of three, Morag
fought a constant battle with herself. She was attractive by any standards, although she herself believed that she had a weight problem. It worried her and she worked hard to keep as trim as possible, since her husband had died unexpectedly from a heart attack when she was just twenty-six and she vowed that she would always be there for her children. On duty days her morning butter roll at the station was usually her first bite of the day, since she rarely had time to eat breakfast as she bustled about getting her kids up, fed and off to school. Although she felt guilty about the butter and what it might do to her cholesterol, one couldn’t live without a little luxury now and then.

She stopped to look in the window of Staig’s, the newsagents, as she walked, and thought that her reflection did not look too bad today. She was dressed in the blue Arran jumper with three small stripes on her arm to denote her rank, jeans and trainers. She turned slightly to the side and smiled as the side view confirmed her impression that she looked pretty trim. Slim enough to risk two butter rolls, maybe.

She scanned the posters in the window and the advertising cards sellotaped to the inside and noted the headlines on the framed
West Uist
Chronicle
billboard in the entrance. She nodded to herself, pleased to see that nothing dire seemed to have happened while she was off.

‘I’ll have a
Chronicle
please, Willie,’ she said as she entered the shop and handed over her loose change.

‘Are you going to the
Flotsam & Jetsam
show this evening, Sergeant Driscoll?’ asked Willie Staig, the bucolic-nosed newsagent. ‘Should be good. The midge man is going to be on it.’

‘Doctor Dent, the entomologist? What would he be doing on an antique show?’

‘Bit of local colour, I am thinking. Since the news went out that they would be shooting the show here for the next fortnight the holidaymakers have come flooding in.’ He grinned. ‘And as they have come so it seems that the midges have brought their friends with them.’ He leaned forward lest other customers should hear him. ‘I have done a roaring trade in anti-midge creams and repellents. And as you and I know, none of them do very much at all.’

‘Careful, Willie,’ Morag said with mock sternness. ‘That is bordering on an admission of a breach of the Trade Descriptions Act!’

She glanced up at the cardboard sign beside the old shop clock with its ancient advertisement for a famous type of snuff. ‘I see it is a high Midge Index today. Good thing I am in the station all day.’

‘Oh, that is you, is it, Morag Driscoll?’ a familiar voice asked rhetorically from behind her. ‘You have saved me the trouble of going up to the police station.

Morag grimaced at Willie Staig who fully understood her expression and kept a poker face. Morag turned round and found herself looking into the scrutiny of her old teacher’s regard. She was a tall, silver-haired lady of about seventy, dressed in a tweed suit, swathed in a russet-coloured silk shawl. She had a handbag hanging from one arm and was pulling off one of her smart leather gloves as she regarded Morag.

‘Why, Miss Melville, and what can I do for you on this fine day?’

‘You can start by smiling, Morag Driscoll,’ Bella Melville returned. ‘I am sure you remember me telling you that many times when I was teaching you.’

Morag remembered only too well. Miss Melville had been
the Kyleshiffin schoolteacher until her retirement and she had taught virtually half of West Uist’s population. Few ever had the temerity to argue with her and her opinions were well known and respected, if not always agreed with.

Morag forced a smile that she hoped was not too insipid for her old teacher’s liking.

‘That’s better, Morag. You always were a serious girl and I always tried to make you relax, but …’ Miss Melville shrugged her shoulders as if to indicate that she had been a hopeless case. The she smiled indulgently. ‘But I suppose that is why you have become such an excellent police sergeant. Now,’ she went on in her old no-nonsense manner, ‘I really have an important request.’ She frowned slightly. ‘No, not a request, but a demand. The police will have to do something.’

‘About what, Miss Melville?’

‘Not
about
anything, Morag. Something will have to be done
for
Annie McConville.’

Morag said nothing, but nodded encouragingly.

‘She is very upset about all these puppies and waifs.’

Morag frowned and was immediately rebuked.

‘Don’t beetle your brow like that, Morag. Don’t you remember me telling you? The wind might change and you’ll be left like it.’ She sighed. ‘I can see you are not following me. Well, that dog sanctuary of hers is just getting too much for her. She has had several abandoned puppies and a few strays to take in lately. And some cats. And they all seem to have been mistreated in some way or other. It simply is not good enough.’ She unclasped her bag and drew out a purse.

‘I – er – don’t quite see how this concerns the West Uist Police, Miss Melville,’ Morag said, with as expressionless a face as she could muster. ‘Shouldn’t you—’

‘I should do exactly what I am doing, Sergeant Driscoll. I am
reporting the whole thing to the police. Now it is up to you to investigate and sort this out.’

‘But, but—’

Miss Melville looked at the bag under Morag’s arm and smiled. ‘Ah yes, your butter rolls. I expect Ewan McPhee and the Drummond boys will be waiting for their butteries.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘But you just watch them, my lass. As they say,
Easy on the lips, heavy on the hips!
She reached over and picked up a copy of the
Chronicle
and laid down the exact change. ‘There you go, Willie, and you just remember when you are writing your posters that
i comes before e, except after c.
’ With which she tapped the news poster at the door and walked elegantly away, conscious of her own prim and sylph-like figure.

Morag and Willie gave each other a supportive smile. Miss Melville had the ability to make all of her former pupils feel like ten year olds again.

And Morag had lost her appetite for a hot butter roll.

The Kyleshiffin police station was a converted bungalow off Kirk Wynd, which ran parallel to Harbour Street. The walls were pebble-dashed and the garden had been tarmacked over to create a parking area complete with a bike rack and poles for tying dog leashes. Above the door was a round blue police sign and by the door was a glass-fronted case containing all sorts of information about things lost and found, and about various initiatives that had been made by the Hebridean Constabulary.

Inside the station, PC Ewan McPhee, the six foot four, freckled, red-haired wrestling and hammer-throwing champion
of the Western Isles, and the junior officer of the West Uist division of the Hebridean Constabulary was having a difficult morning. It had started badly at six when he had gone for his usual early morning run up to the moor above Kyleshiffin where he could practise his hammer-throwing technique. He had won the Western Isles heavy hammer championship for five years in a row, breaking his own record on each occasion. He had even contemplated converting to throw the Olympic hammer, which demanded learning a whole new method; since the heavy hammer was done from a standing throw, as opposed to the whirling of the Olympic. He had been trying that out for about half an hour when the inevitable had happened.

A heather moor is not ideally suited to the rapid turns of the feet needed to build up pace to hurl the Olympic hammer and his feet got snagged in the purple heather just as he prepared to launch it. He felt himself falling and failed to release the great weight. As he landed heavily it swung over his head and landed with a great sucking noise in one of the pot bogs just feet away.

‘Och, Ewan, you clumsy idiot!’ he chastised himself. ‘Never an Olympic thrower will you make.’

He sat up and was immediately aware that his hammer had disturbed a swarm of midges from the bog. Instantly, they were at him, biting him on all his exposed skin, which was mostly all over since he had stripped down to vest and shorts. Stopping only to pick up his track suit he beat a hasty retreat for the safety of Kyleshiffin police station. It was only when he was inside and enjoying the dubious comfort of a cold shower that he realized that he had left his precious hammer on the moor. He debated whether he would have time to go back for it before he forgot where the pot bog was that he had left it, but his mind was made up for him as he was in the process of
dabbing himself dry and applying toothpaste to his numerous bites.

‘Come on, come on!’ a voice cried out from the hallway. Then a fist thudded a couple of times on the desk and Ewan pulled on his clothes and scuttled through to find one of his heart-sink regulars pacing back and forth on the other side of the desk.

It was Rab McNeish, the local carpenter and spare-time undertaker, a man who epitomized the word paradox. He was a tall, gaunt man with a stringy neck, yet he ate like a horse. At a funeral he was as silent as the grave itself, the perfect funeral director, yet with his carpenter’s hat on he could be a
foul-mouthed
, bad-tempered and self-opinionated boor. He was almost bald, but had an up-and-over and had grown a drooping moustache in an attempt to compensate, but instead it all just gave him an even sourer look. That was not helped by the fact that he was also one of life’s great complainers.

One of Rab McNeish’s greatest fears, which he often communicated to Ewan McPhee when he came complaining, was germs. This was understandable, since his younger brother had died ten years previously from toxoplasmosis.

‘Those bloody dogs!’ he said to Ewan, when he appeared behind the station counter. ‘They are everywhere. And wherever they are, they poo and put everyone at risk of the pestilence that is toxoplasmosis.’

‘What dogs are you meaning—?’ Ewan began.

‘All of them, but especially all of them that Annie McConville keeps in that so-called sanctuary of hers. It is getting more and more crowded. They yap and yowl and create all manner of noise. I bet loads of the locals have been in complaining.’

‘Er – no, I believe you are the first, Mr McNeish.’ Ewan picked up a pen and opened the ledger to take notes. ‘So, is it
an official complaint that you are wanting to make.’

‘A complaint? Me? About Miss McConville?’ Rab McNeish looked scandalized. ‘Not at all. I am just reporting how things are. It is my duty as a good citizen to report when I see loose poo around the place. And there is lots of it, let me tell you. There are dog waste bins all over, but are people using them?’

‘Are you suggesting that Miss McConville is not using these bins?’

Rab shook his head in consternation and creased his brow. ‘No! Leave Miss McConville out of this, will you? It’s those incoming folk, I am betting. They come in their boats and their camper-vans and they let their dogs run wild. You’ll have to do something about it.’

Ewan was starting to get flustered. He looked up from the ledger as the door opened and saw with relief Sergeant Morag Driscoll enter. His stomach responded to the smell of the hot rolls by gurgling.

‘Ah, Sergeant Driscoll,’ he said. ‘Good to see you back. I was just listening to Mr McNeish here and he was telling me—’

‘I was just reporting about all the dogs. They are everywhere, Sergeant. Everywhere!’

Morag pursed her lips. ‘That is curious. Miss Melville was just talking to me about dogs. She was wanting us to do some investigating.’

Rab McNeish jabbed a finger in Ewan’s direction. ‘You see! You see?’

‘But I don’t see that it is a police problem,’ Morag added.

Suddenly the door opened again and Inspector Torquil McKinnon rushed in, his Cromwell helmet under one arm and the Bullet’s panniers over the other. His bagpipes protruded from one and the bedraggled floppy head of a mongrel dog from the other.

‘Can’t stop, folks,’ he said, as he ducked under the counter flap, heading for his office. ‘I’ve got a sick dog here.’

Rab McNeish took a step backwards. ‘Sick, did he say?’ Then, jabbing the air at both Ewan and Morag he quickly retreated to the door. ‘Ugh! Mark my words, I told you so. We’ve got a problem on the island.’

Ewan stood scratching his head as the door swung to behind the undertaker.

‘You look as if you’ve been half bitten to death, Ewan,’ Morag observed. ‘What is it? Midges?’

‘Aye. But speaking of biting, are those butteries up for grabs?’

Morag was still reeling from her encounter with Miss Melville and her parting remark. With a sigh she handed them over. ‘They are all for you, my wee darling. Now what say you make us all a cup of your best tea and let’s see what the boss has just brought in.’

Torquil placed the panniers on the easy chair beside his desk then gingerly lifted the dog out. It was shivering and its teeth were chattering. He lay it down on the floor and it whimpered, before weakly licking his hand once.

‘You poor wee fellow. You look exhausted.’