Read Online Flotsam and Jetsam by Keith Moray - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Keith Moray
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Bonnie Prince Charlie Tavern on Harbour Street and weaved her way through the lunchtime crowd.
Mollie McFadden the doughty landlady of almost sixty years was pulling a pint with well-practised ease as she marshalled her staff as they bustled about with trays of tantalizing smelling seafood and pints of Heather Ale. She peered at Morag through her pebble-thick spectacles and gave her a broad smile as she recognized her.
‘Why Sergeant Driscoll, it is not often that we have the pleasure of your company at lunchtime.’ She placed the pint before a thirsty customer and collected his money with a smile.
‘And what can I be getting you, Morag? Are you here for the celebration? A birthday maybe? Or to meet a gentleman?’ Her eyes twinkled mischievioulsy and she raised a hand to push her spectacles back on her nose, revealing as she did so a well-developed forearm, a consequence of having pumped a veritable sea of the Bonnie Prince Charlie’s own Heather Ale over the years.
‘No such luck,’ Morag returned with a down-turned mouth. ‘Just police business.’
‘No trouble, I hope?’ Mollie asked, a trace of anxiety flashing behind her spectacles.
Morag shook her head with a grin. ‘Nothing like that. I am trying to track down a fishing party who were out with Bruce McNab this morning.’
Mollie’s face brightened. ‘Oh they are in the Prince’s Suite at this very minute. They wanted a bit of privacy you see. One of them is a chap who doesn’t believe in wallets. He’s a tubby wee Dundonian chap I think. Some sort of big business chappie. He just pulled out a roll of twenties and peeled the notes off like he was tossing a lettuce salad. They all came in dribs and drabs.’ She eyed Morag suspiciously. ‘There is nothing dodgy about them, is there? I wouldn’t like to see them sucking Bruce McNab into anything illegal.’
‘Don’t worry, Mollie, I am sure it will all be fine. I just need to have a chat with them.’ She pursed her lips and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Did you notice if Sandy was one of them?’
‘Sandy who?’
‘Sandy King, the footballer!’
Mollie shrugged unconcernedly. ‘No idea. I don’t follow the football. I prefer my men to play a hardier game than that. Something like shinty.’ Her eyes seemed to grow misty behind the thick lenses. ‘Like Bruce McNab. Now he really was a shinty player to watch.’
Morag made her way past the portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the Prince’s Suite and noticed that the ‘Reserved, Do not Disturb’ sign was stuck to the glass panel of the door. She ignored the message, rapped twice on the wood and immediately entered.
‘Excuse the interruption, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I am Sergeant Morag Driscoll of the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary. I need a few minutes of your time.’
‘That’s a pity, darling, you see we’re a bit busy right now,’ said Dan Farquarson in an unmistakable Dundee accent.
This, Morag deduced from the quality of his clothes and Mollie’s description had to be the business chappie with the big bankroll.
‘Aye, maybe you could come back later, sweetheart,’ added a big man sitting beside him with a pint of beer halfway to his mouth. He had the audacity to wink at her.
‘I said my name is Sergeant Driscoll,’ Morag reiterated assertively in her best no-nonsense voice. ‘And this is official police business, so I am afraid that whether or not you are busy is of no consequence: I need to speak to you now.’
Bruce McNab had been sitting in shadows. He stood up swiftly and came forward, smiling placatingly. ‘Morag Driscoll … I mean, Sergeant Driscoll, sorry. Of course you must ask whatever you want. Please, come in and sit down and let me introduce you to my clients.’
Morag let him make introductions while she swiftly appraised the group. The little middle-aged Dundee businessman was Dan Farquarson. His associate, whose size and bulging muscles made it obvious that he was in
Mollie McFadden the doughty landlady of almost sixty years was pulling a pint with well-practised ease as she marshalled her staff as they bustled about with trays of tantalizing smelling seafood and pints of Heather Ale. She peered at Morag through her pebble-thick spectacles and gave her a broad smile as she recognized her.
‘Why Sergeant Driscoll, it is not often that we have the pleasure of your company at lunchtime.’ She placed the pint before a thirsty customer and collected his money with a smile.
‘And what can I be getting you, Morag? Are you here for the celebration? A birthday maybe? Or to meet a gentleman?’ Her eyes twinkled mischievioulsy and she raised a hand to push her spectacles back on her nose, revealing as she did so a well-developed forearm, a consequence of having pumped a veritable sea of the Bonnie Prince Charlie’s own Heather Ale over the years.
‘No such luck,’ Morag returned with a down-turned mouth. ‘Just police business.’
‘No trouble, I hope?’ Mollie asked, a trace of anxiety flashing behind her spectacles.
Morag shook her head with a grin. ‘Nothing like that. I am trying to track down a fishing party who were out with Bruce McNab this morning.’
Mollie’s face brightened. ‘Oh they are in the Prince’s Suite at this very minute. They wanted a bit of privacy you see. One of them is a chap who doesn’t believe in wallets. He’s a tubby wee Dundonian chap I think. Some sort of big business chappie. He just pulled out a roll of twenties and peeled the notes off like he was tossing a lettuce salad. They all came in dribs and drabs.’ She eyed Morag suspiciously. ‘There is nothing dodgy about them, is there? I wouldn’t like to see them sucking Bruce McNab into anything illegal.’
‘Don’t worry, Mollie, I am sure it will all be fine. I just need to have a chat with them.’ She pursed her lips and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Did you notice if Sandy was one of them?’
‘Sandy who?’
‘Sandy King, the footballer!’
Mollie shrugged unconcernedly. ‘No idea. I don’t follow the football. I prefer my men to play a hardier game than that. Something like shinty.’ Her eyes seemed to grow misty behind the thick lenses. ‘Like Bruce McNab. Now he really was a shinty player to watch.’
Morag made her way past the portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the Prince’s Suite and noticed that the ‘Reserved, Do not Disturb’ sign was stuck to the glass panel of the door. She ignored the message, rapped twice on the wood and immediately entered.
‘Excuse the interruption, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I am Sergeant Morag Driscoll of the West Uist Division of the Hebridean Constabulary. I need a few minutes of your time.’
‘That’s a pity, darling, you see we’re a bit busy right now,’ said Dan Farquarson in an unmistakable Dundee accent.
This, Morag deduced from the quality of his clothes and Mollie’s description had to be the business chappie with the big bankroll.
‘Aye, maybe you could come back later, sweetheart,’ added a big man sitting beside him with a pint of beer halfway to his mouth. He had the audacity to wink at her.
‘I said my name is Sergeant Driscoll,’ Morag reiterated assertively in her best no-nonsense voice. ‘And this is official police business, so I am afraid that whether or not you are busy is of no consequence: I need to speak to you now.’
Bruce McNab had been sitting in shadows. He stood up swiftly and came forward, smiling placatingly. ‘Morag Driscoll … I mean, Sergeant Driscoll, sorry. Of course you must ask whatever you want. Please, come in and sit down and let me introduce you to my clients.’
Morag let him make introductions while she swiftly appraised the group. The little middle-aged Dundee businessman was Dan Farquarson. His associate, whose size and bulging muscles made it obvious that he was in
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