Free Flotsam and Jetsam by Keith Moray Page A

stared at each other then laughed in unison.
    ‘Not unless they were really naughty boys,’ Cora added.
    The West Uist Chronicle editor and the West Uist inspector of police both went silent and stared awkwardly at each other. Cora instantly picked up on the guilty look that passed between them.
    ‘All right, Calum,’ Torquil said. ‘I’ll get Ewan McPhee to come over in half an hour to photograph and dust the place.’
    ‘Oh, I can do that afterwards,’ Cora volunteered.
    ‘I think he means he’s going to dust the place for fingerprints, Cora,’ Calum said with a grin.
    ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Cora. And it was her turn to blush.
V
    It seemed as if half of the population of Kyleshiffin and a goodly number of tourists and other folk from the outer parts of the island had squeezed into the Duncan Institute to watch the filming of the Flotsam & Jetsam show that evening.
    The TV crew consisted of two cameramen, a soundman and the producer. Many of the audience, set-in-their-way islanders, had written them all off as a bunch of hippy-type, la-di-da luvvies with media studies degrees from a host of English universities. In this they were almost one hundred per cent wrong, since all of them were either Edinburgh or Dundee graduates in the arts or hard science. While Geordie Innes, the producer, looked like a fresh graduate, he was twenty-seven and had already won a coveted Dairsie Award for documentary making.
    Lachlan and Kenneth were sitting in the front row, both wearing their dog collars. Lachlan had fleetingly seen Torquil before going in and been told about Crusoe, the prospective new resident of the St Ninian’s manse. He was quite relaxed about it, although he had told Torquil that any house-training would be entirely his responsibility.
    Morag was standing in the side aisle with her hands behind her back, while the Drummond twins were stationed at the back and other side of the hall, in the unlikely event of any trouble. She had seen Bruce McNab and his party of fishermen file into seats at the back of the hall. Chancing a glance over atthem she saw Sandy King wink at her and she felt her heart skip a beat.
    Don’t be an idiot! she mentally chided herself. You’re a police sergeant and you have three wee ones at home. Stop acting like a schoolgirl!
    The stars of the show of course were Fergie Ferguson and his beautiful partner and co-presenter, Chrissie. Earlier in the afternoon they had met half of the audience at the pre-show antique viewing that they always did before an actual broadcast. Since they were planning ten twenty-minute programmes each evening Monday to Friday over the fortnight before the Scottish TV News bulletin they had been granted the use of the back room at the Duncan Institute every afternoon. People came with their antiques and knick-knacks and filed past Fergie and Chrissie as they sat at a central table. There they would give free valuations, occasionally make offers there and then, and essentially spot the antiques that they wanted people to return with to the show proper. They also primed them well, so that it would seem as if they were viewing the pieces for the first time on the show. It was a formula that had worked well for seven seasons and made the show something of a Scottish institution.
    Fergie stood on the stage and gave the audience a final last-minute run through of the programme’s format.
    ‘So we would be grateful if everyone could just be careful of their language,’ he said. ‘No heckling, no lewdness, and, please, just remember that this is a family show.’
    ‘There will be no swearing here, don’t you worry, Mr Ferguson,’ piped up Rab McNeish, the undertaker-carpenter, soberly dressed in his black funeral suit. ‘There is no one who swears on West Uist.’
    This was followed by general hilarity.
    ‘Not from you in your burying suit, at any rate, Rab McNeish!’ someone called out from the back of the hall, much to Rab’s discomfiture. He moved restlessly in