Deathly Wind by Keith Moray Page A

sure about that?’
    ‘Absolutely sure.’
    Torquil did not think it an appropriate time to mention that the gun was missing.
     
    The Padre was pulling into the Cottage Hospital car-park on his 1954 Ariel Red Hunter motor cycle on his way to visit Rhona McIvor when he saw his nephew come out of the back door of the little hospital with Alistair McKinley. The old crofter’s demeanour and posture told him that some tragedy had occurred. The fact that they were coming out of that particular door immediately rang alarm bells since the door only opened from the inside, and he knew full well that it meant they had come from the mortuary.
    He crossed the car-park to meet them. After seeking Alistair McKinley’s permission, Torquil explained about the finding of Kenneth McKinley’s body at the foot of the cliff.
    ‘Do you need some company, Alistair?’ asked the Padre.
    The crofter scowled. ‘If you are going to the Bonnie PrinceCharlie, the answer is yes, but if you mean do I want God’s company, the answer is definitely no!’
    Lachlan glanced at his watch as Torquil retreated, but not before he had given him a gesture that meant ‘look after him’.
    The Padre sighed inwardly. He felt profoundly sad at the loss of a young islander. He put a comforting hand on Alistair McKinley’s shoulder. ‘No, it will just be me, Alistair. The Lord never pushes Himself on folk, but He’s there if you need Him later.’ He squeezed the shoulder. ‘Come on then, we’ll drink to your lad’s memory. Just the one drink, though. The whisky bottle can be a false comfort at a time like this.’
    Alistair McKinley said nothing but allowed himself to be steered down Harbour Street to the Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern. The aroma of freshly cooked seafood assailed their nostrils as they entered the bar, behind which the doughty landlady Mollie McFadden and her bar staff were busy pulling pints of Heather Ale and engaging in healthy banter with the clientele.
    ‘And what can I be doing for you gentlemen?’ Mollie asked, as she finished serving another customer and greeted them with a smile. She blinked myopically behind a pair of large bifocal spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She was a woman of almost sixty years with a well-developed right arm that had pumped a veritable sea of beer over the years.
    ‘A drink in memory of my boy, Kenneth,’ Alistair McKinley said; then raising his voice above the background of chatter, ‘And a drink for anyone who will drink with me.’
    Mollie’s face registered a succession of emotions from shock to profound sadness. ‘Oh Alistair, I am so sorry to hear that. An accident, was it?’ she asked, as she signalled to her bar staff to begin dispensing whiskies from the row of optics above the bar to the assembled customers willing to join the crofter in a drink.
    ‘A tragedy,’ Alistair returned. ‘He fell from a cliff at the base of the Corlins.’
    Mollie paused momentarily from pouring a couple of large Glen Corlin malt whiskies for Alistair and the Padre. ‘Was he climbing in the Corlins?’
    The crofter shook his head. ‘He was after shooting the eagles, I am thinking.’ He picked up one of the ornamental Bonnie Prince Charlie jugs of water that lined the bar and added a dash to his whisky.
    Mollie nodded sympathetically. Being well used to orchestrating toasts and all sorts of drinking ceremonies, both joyous and tragic, she clanged the bell above her head. As the bar went silent she drew attention to the crofter standing in front of her.
    ‘To my lad, Kenneth McKinley,’ called out Alistair, raising his glass.
    A chorus followed, then about twenty glasses were raised, drained and then snapped down on the bar. Half a minute or so of silence ensued, then the customers dutifully and respectfully came up and offered their condolences to the bereaved father.
    When the throng had passed, Alistair McKinley fixed Lachlan with a steely gaze. ‘You said just the one, Padre, but I have a