Free A Double Death on the Black Isle by A. D. Scott

“very good” and “like it” and “very happy” and “smashing.” The last word was from Hector. It was currently his favorite word, and he used it for everything and anything.
    â€œAny phone calls?” McAllister asked Don.
    â€œA few” was the reply. “Well all right, more than a few. On Friday I did a ring around the newsagents and shopkeepers. They like it.”
    â€œIt sold out at the station,” Rob said. “I tried to buy a copy and they were all gone by ten o’clock.”
    â€œSold out in Fort William by lunchtime,” Don added.
    â€œOn Saturday morning, not usually a busy time for me, I took bookings for advertisements,” Mrs. Smart told them.
    â€œMy parents-in-law think it’s easier to read,” Joanne contributed. “That means they like it, and my mother-in-law is not one for changes.” Joanne turned to McAllister. “You haven’t given us your verdict.”
    â€œEarly days yet.”
    There was a spontaneous groan.
    â€œSorry,” he laughed. “This edition is good, but we have to keep it up, every week, every year. . . . So, next edition? Front page? Anyone?”
    â€œLast week’s lead story is still good for a follow-up,” Don said, looking at Rob. “Any more from the police?”
    â€œThey’ve still no idea who threw the petrol bomb.”
    â€œMaybe I can use my ‘Police Baffled’ headline this week.” Don glared at McAllister, who had changed the heading to a more innocuous, “Police Search for Information.”
    â€œI’ve done a think piece for page five,” Rob continued, “the state of fishing, small boats being squeezed out by the big trawlers, intense rivalry between ports, Icelanders trying to keep all their fish for themselves, that kind of thing. Some are even saying the herring won’t last forever.”
    â€œI’ve some smashing pictures of fishing boats,” Hec contributed.
    â€œTalking of which . . .” McAllister nodded to Joanne, “thefishing boat story. Have you found the skipper, what was his name? Skinner?” McAllister was looking at her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze.
    â€œI
did
meet the skipper of the boat.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œWhat I found out is not really relevant to . . .”
    â€œI’ll be the judge of that.”
    â€œI was in the Black Isle for Easter, staying with Patricia Ord Mackenzie, an old school friend and . . .” She paused.
    â€œ
And?”
McAllister was getting impatient.
    â€œPatricia was married on Thursday, I was her matron of honor, her husband is Sandy—Alexander—Skinner, the owner of the boat that went on fire.”
    â€œDid you get an interview?” asked McAllister.
    â€œAn Ord Mackenzie married a fisherman?” Don.
    â€œCan I take their picture?” Hec.
    â€œI bet she’s up the spout,” Rob.
    â€œGoodness me,” Mrs. Smart.
    All this was said all at the same time, simultaneously, overlapping, leaving Joanne flustered and guilty and completely lost as to how to reply to any of the questions.
    â€œOrder.” McAllister thumped the table. There was a momentary hush.
    â€œJoanne, firstly, there is no ‘went on fire.’ The boat was fire-bombed. That’s a crime in Scotland. Second, this is a sensational new twist to the story—you should have told us immediately.” McAllister caught the warning glower from Don. “Sorry, I know it must have been awkward for you, but does this Skinner fellow know who threw the bomb?”
    â€œSorry. Sandy didn’t speak to me much.”
    â€œDid you ask?”
    â€œSorry, no. After seeing the front page, I doubt he will givean interview to anyone at the
Gazette
, especially me. Patricia Ord Mackenzie called first thing this morning. She said her husband asked her to ask me to ask you to drop the story.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œI told her