Deathly Wind by Keith Moray

which she managed in the main, except for a slight problem with her weight – so that she could provide for her ‘three bairns,’ as she called them.
    Together, Morag and Ralph were a formidable team, forming as they did the unofficial forensic unit of the West Uist division of the Hebridean Constabulary. They knew unerringly what the other needed in terms of the examination of the body and the scene.
    ‘Is it a straightforward accident, do you think?’ Torquil asked, after the pair had spent about half an hour examining and photographing the body, the surrounding area, collecting bits and pieces and bagging them up in small polythene envelopes.
    Ralph and Morag looked at each other. Ralph raised his eyebrows and Morag shook her head.
    ‘Well, it looks like it could have been an accident,’ said Ralph. ‘But I don’t like the look of that bullet you found.’
    ‘That’s my view as well, Piper,’ agreed Morag. ‘And where is the rifle?’
    ‘That’s what I thought,’ replied Torquil. ‘I took a walk up to that ledge and saw where he must have tumbled over. But there is no sign of a gun there. So either he didn’t have one with him,’ he paused and stroked his chin worriedly. ‘Or he had one – and someone for some reason has removed it from the scene.’

     
    Death has a galvanizing effect upon people. An hour and a half later Torquil stood beside Alistair McKinley in the mortuary of the Kyleshiffin Cottage Hospital. He could empathize with the old crofter as he pulled back the sheet to expose the corpse of Kenneth McKinley, for he himself had personal experience of having to identify the dead body of a loved one. He remembered that it was like being hit with a sledge hammer, then having your insides twisted like an elastic band. He recalled the scream that threatened to erupt from the depths of his being, the instantaneous dryness of mouth and the overwhelming sense of disbelief.
    Alistair McKinley’s normally ruddy complexion suddenly went pale, as if he had instantly haemorrhaged three pints of blood. And he teetered for a moment if on the point of fainting. But he didn’t. He immediately straightened up and swallowed hard, fighting down rising bile in his throat.
    Then, ‘That is my son, Kenneth McKinley,’ the old man volunteered. ‘As you know well enough, Inspector McKinnon.’
    ‘I am truly sorry, Alistair. I am also afraid that—’
    ‘That bastard McArdle is going to pay for this!’
    ‘I’m sorry, Alistair,’ Torquil said quietly, with the intention of keeping Alistair McKinley calm. ‘What connection is there between them?’
    ‘This is his fault. The lad was as mad as a hatter after Gordon MacDonald’s funeral. He was disappointed that the – laird – told him he couldn’t have Gordon’s croft. He went off in a foul mood. When he was in one of those dark moods you couldn’t—’ His face creased into a woeful expression of pain – ‘you couldn’t argue with him. He was capable of doing anything.’ He shook his head. ‘Only this time he went and got himself killed.’
    ‘But what did you mean about Mr McArdle, Alistair? About him paying?’
    Alistair McKinley held Torquil’s gaze for a moment, before shaking his head. ‘I meant … nothing, Inspector. It is not for me to say what will happen. But the good Lord may have designs on those with blood on their hands. That’s all I have to say.’
    Suddenly, his weather-beaten face creased and tears appeared in his eyes as a sobbing noise forced itself from his throat. He wiped his eyes with a pincer-like movement of his right finger and thumb. ‘I should have stopped him. It’s my fault, Inspector.’
    ‘How so, Alistair?’
    ‘I was cross with him. We had an argument as well. I told him he needed more backbone. I said I was fed up with his fantasies. When he went off with his rifle I should have stopped him. I should have locked him in his room, the way I used to.’
    ‘So he had a rifle with him, did he? You are