A Double Death on the Black Isle Read Free Page A

sodium light hair.
    Joanne’s guess at garden gnome came from the lime green knitted woolen tourie—far too big for Hector’s head and weighted down to one side by an enormous bobble. A black and white Clachnacuddin Football Club supporter’s scarf completed the outfit. Hat and scarf had been knitted by his granny who could never find her glasses, and it showed.
    Still grinning at the threesome sitting around the reporters’ table, Hec waited. When it became obvious that neither Don nor Rob were going to introduce him, Joanne spoke.
    â€œWe weren’t formally introduced yesterday. I’m Joanne Ross, I’m a reporter here. This is Don McLeod, deputy editor. You know Rob.”
    â€œI know.” Hector continued grinning until Joanne decided this was the natural state of his face.
    â€œSo,” Joanne asked since her colleagues continued to ignore the apparition, “what can I do for you?”
    â€œIt’s more a case of what I can do for you, Joanne.”
    â€œMrs. Ross to you, boy,” Don growled at the newcomer.
    â€œHere’s ma card.”
    He handed the offering to Joanne. She peered at a hand-cut, hand-printed rectangle of cardboard the color of spam.
    â€œHector Bain. Photographer. The
Highland Gazette
.”
    Rob reached over the shared desk and snatched the card from her.
    â€œDid you use your wee sister’s printing set?”
    â€œ
Highland Gazette
? What’s this about?” Don’s frown made the lines on his fifty-maybe-sixty-something-old face resemble a relief map of his native Skye.
    â€œMorning. I see you’ve met our new photographer.” McAllister stood in the doorway, enjoying the consternation.
    â€œHim? We’re to work with him?” Rob poked a finger at Hector.
    â€œI’ve heard of some daft things in my time, but this takes the biscuit,” Don McLeod told the editor.
    McAllister shrugged. “You asked for a photographer. I got you a photographer.”
    â€œAye, but what else is he besides?” Don replied. “I know you’re keen to get the new
Gazette
launched, and yes we’re desperate for a photographer, but not that desperate.” He narrowed his eyes, squinting through the smoke of his fifth cigarette of the morning, which dangled from a corner of his mouth.
    McAllister checked the clock. “Let’s get on, we’ve a paper to publish.”
    Don spread the new-look layout over the High Table, his blasphemous term for the square table used by the reporters. Five large typewriters took up one end and the layout filled the other. The gap between table and walls made a passage just wide enough for two to pass if they were good friends.
    Joanne leaned over and took a look. “Don, you’re an artist!” she exclaimed.
    â€œOh my, Mr. McLeod, this is wonderful.” Mrs. Smart, the office manager, had come in and was looking over Joanne’s shoulder.
    â€œIt’s certainly different,” Rob contributed.
    â€œNot bad at all,” was McAllister’s opinion.
    Don McLeod’s chest swelled like a wee bantam cock about to chase the chickens. He opened his mouth to explain more, stopped, stared, looked at the gangling figure in the doorway—six foot three would be Don’s guess—and said, “Dr. Livingston, I presume.”
    It was the nut-brown face and the plus fours and the tweed deerstalker hat, which could have easily been a pith helmet, that made Don think of the legendary explorer.
    â€œMortimer Beauchamp Carlyle, actually. But please call me Beech. Everyone does. How do you do?”
    â€œFine, thanks,” an awestruck Rob replied.
    And like a character out of a Boy’s Own Adventure novel, darkest Africa chapter, the gentleman stuck out his hand. Rob took it and immediately, in spite of at least fifty years between them, they became fast friends.
    â€œBeech will be writing our new Countryside column,” McAllister