A Double Death on the Black Isle (26 page)

The evidence was circumstantial. But, Calum conceded, it was possible a stray kick or slap or punch
had
caused a brain injury. There was no evidence though. A fair summing up would warn the jury against this, and against prejudice. Calum supposed it would be just as hard for a Campbell to find justice in Glencoe.

“Can I interrupt?”

The sound of a female voice in the public bar of a public house gave him a start.

“Patricia Ord Mackenzie.” She smiled down at him.

He stood, clumsily knocking the table and almost upsetting the beer over his papers.

“Yes, I know.”

“Really?”

“I recognize your voice from the phone conversation. Plus, there are not many women who will enter a public house.”

“There is no law against it, although some men would like there to be.” She smiled. “I know it's scandalous and I don't care.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“A lemonade would be lovely.”

While waiting for the drinks, Calum watched Patricia in the bar mirror. She was looking around, and she nodded to a couple of men at a table across the room and smiled at the man who turned to glare at her for daring to be in a man's domain.

“Do you want to move to the snug?” Calum asked when he returned.

“Perhaps we'd better.”

The cramped room behind the bar smelled of damp and disuse—
all the better to discourage women from drinking,
Patricia thought.

“I'd better warn you. I asked one of the secretaries in your office where to find you, so expect more gossip.”

Calum laughed. “I'm sure it will enhance my reputation being seen with you.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” She dipped her head, extended her elbows, in a mock half-curtsy. “I ought to be able to move in a man's world, as I am as good as any farmer hereabouts. But no, the success of Achnafern Estate is credited to my father. Never
mind that he rarely stirs from his study. His obsession with Napoleon makes life at the turn of the nineteenth century more real than the present for Daddy. It's a shame I wasn't born a boy, is, I believe, the general opinion of the community.”

Calum was examining her as she spoke—her body, her face were animated. She smiled a lot. With white, even teeth, clear skin, shining reddish-gold hair, she had the glow of a Russian propaganda poster showing a classic countrywoman harvesting the wheat.

“I shouldn't complain, but the attitude annoys me. Just last month, I overheard the remark that I was a good judge of livestock, ‘for a lassie.'” She laughed.

Calum smiled back.

“So, it's good to meet you in person. And as I said on the telephone, I'm pleased you agreed to help the Skinner boy, my brother-in-law I should perhaps call him.”

“Not at all, I'll do what I can.”

“There is no need to involve me in this business. In fact,” Patricia looked at Calum, “the Skinner family want nothing to do with me. Other than pay the bill of course. So it might be best if you don't mention my name.”

“I see,” Calum said. He didn't, but it was obviously not a matter Patricia wanted to discuss. “Won't you want to know the outcome of the Skinner boy's case?”

“I shall probably read about it in the
Gazette
.” She smiled. “But yes, I'd like to know how he gets on.” Patricia glanced at her watch. “Heavens—I must go. I have to meet my housekeeper, Mrs. Munro. She'll have a fit if I keep her waiting—she's terrified I'll be burnt to a crisp by a biblical bolt of lightning. Although I did ask exactly where in the Bible God commanded ‘thou shalt not visit a public bar if thy name be woman.'”

“I must get back to work too.” But he didn't make a move.

“Thank you.” Patricia stood and held out her hand.

“Not at all.” He stood and took the hand. It was warm and slightly rough.
A farmer's hand,
he thought, and liked her all the more for that.

As she made her way towards the swing doors, Patricia waved her fingers at the overawed barman. When she left, a buzz ran through the room like a swarm of bees in June. She enjoyed that.

Calum smiled as he gathered his papers to leave. He had enjoyed every moment of their meeting.

On his walk back to the office, he suddenly remembered the fatal accident inquiry. “Dam and blast it! I forgot to ask how it went.”

He would read about it in the newspaper,
but I should have asked her in person
. All he knew about the death of Sandy Skinner he had learned from the
Gazette
. Remarks overheard in the office from the junior staff filled him in on the community's reaction. The chief comment was how Mrs. Janet Ord Mackenzie must be relieved her unsuitable son-in-law had met a most unusual end. “The kind o' thing you see in a film,” one had said.

It had been two weeks since the inquiry into Sandy's death, two weeks since Joanne's account of it was published. Since then, she had heard nothing from Patricia.

No word from Bill either, nothing about the girls' future, nothing about a divorce.
All this quiet is unnerving,
she thought.

“The hearing with John Skinner is at eleven, do you want to come?” Rob asked Joanne.

“I'm up to my eyes in this report from the local council. It seems it will be doomsday before we get a new bridge. Anyhow, I've had enough of the Skinners.”

“You should have more confidence in your work,” Rob told her with all the experience of a twenty-one-year-old. “One of the best ways to learn is to look at what you've written, then look at it in print after Don has slashed your copy to shreds—always cutting out the best bits, naturally.”

“McAllister said the same.” Joanne smiled, “but I really have to do this. We can't always be having dramatic headlines, so council stuff it is.”

“Can I come and take a picture?” Hector asked Rob.

“Fine, but it's probably a terrible idea. Remember the last time you took a picture of a Skinner?” Rob and Hector simultaneously had a vision of Rob splashing about in the waters of the canal. “This time, be discrete—if that's possible.”

“I'll sneak behind something and take a picture as they leave the court. You'll never notice I'm there.”

When they reached the Magistrate's Court, Rob left Hector to wait.

Hector was good at waiting—lurking in corners, behind trees, round the back of dustbins, was his specialty. Time meant nothing to him if he thought there was a good picture in it. He removed his lime-green bobble hat, convinced he was now invisible, forgetting that his beacon of hair was equally lurid.

When Rob entered the court he was surprised to see Calum Sinclair with John Skinner. He was also curious as to how the Skinners had linked up with the solicitor—it did not seem their style. Patricia, was his guess. Then again, he didn't think the Skinners and Patricia Ord Mackenzie were on speaking terms. Curiouser and curiouser.

He took his usual seat in the courtroom. A few seats down, he saw a figure he recognized. It was the man who had closed Mrs. Skinner's door on him when he was asking questions in the
fishing village—John Skinner's uncle. Seated next to him was a woman Rob took to be Sandy's mother.
She looks as friendly as barbed wire
, he thought.

The hearing had barely started before it ended. Rob was furious.
Another nothing story
, he thought.

Calum Sinclair had obviously been given his instructions at the last minute, as there was a sheaf of papers on his table. Folders too. He had prepared well to argue a not-guilty plea and looked no more happy than Rob.

“I understand you wish to plead guilty to the offense,” the magistrate said.

John Skinner looked down and said, “Yes” in a faint voice.

“I have here the report from the procurator fiscal about the incident. I hope you understand the seriousness of the charges,” the magistrate continued.

“Yes.”

“This is one of the worst cases of vandalism I have come across.” There was a pause while the magistrate consulted his papers. “However, because of your age, because you have pled guilty, and you have never been in trouble before, the procurator fiscal has recommended a fine. But the sentence could well have been Approved School. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” John Skinner looked down, unable to meet the magistrate's eye.

“I also have to remind you that a conviction means you will have a police record for the rest of your life.”

For the first time, the boy reacted. He glanced at Calum, who nodded an “I told you.” He glanced at his mother—who did not move—then, turning his back on both of them, he said, “Aye. I mean, yes, I understand.”

Rob had to suppress a smile—it must have been a challenge for the boy to say “yes” instead of “aye” to the questions.

“I'm sorry,” John Skinner muttered.

“Speak up, boy.” The magistrate had heard, but wanted the boy's contrition stated loudly and clearly. Humiliation was good, in his opinion.

In that moment, Rob remembered John Skinner was fifteen. He watched as the boy again looked at his mother. The woman did not, in any movement of body or lips or expression, acknowledge her son.

In a loud, clear voice, barely controlling his anger, John said, “I am very sorry
The Good Shepphard
burned down.”

“Fined fifty pounds,” the magistrate announced.

The next case was called.

Rob hurried out the court ahead of the Skinners and waited on the steps. It took him a moment to spot Hector, who wasn't hiding, only loitering.

The Skinner trio walked from the courthouse so fast Calum Sinclair had to hurry to keep up.

“John . . .” Calum asked, “why did you change your plea?”

John Skinner looked at his mother and said nothing.

Politeness demanded a pause, a thank-you and a handshake between Calum Sinclair and the uncle. Mrs. Skinner made a “tssk” sound of impatience. John Skinner studied the pavement and didn't once take his hands out of his pockets.

Rob stood in front of them and said, “
Highland Gazette.
Can I have a minute of your time? John, isn't it? Why did you burn down your own boat?” They tried to push past him. Rob didn't move. Only John hesitated before his mother yapped, “John. Wi' me.” The Skinners parted and moved around Rob.

“John, what will you do now you no longer have
The
Good Shepphard
?” Rob called after them. “Will you be joining another fishing boat? John?” he shouted when they were a good fifty yards away.

All the while, unnoticed, Hector was firing off shots, not game to confront a Skinner again, even if it was a woman.

Calum Sinclair stood by, enjoying the theatrics—it was a modicum of revenge for the way Mrs. Skinner had dismissed him and his hard work in preparing a defense, which, he believed, would have returned a not-guilty verdict.

“Have
you
any comments, Mr. Sinclair?” Rob asked when the Skinners had vanished.

“No, no comment. But I like your style.” Calum laughed.

“Ta,” Rob grinned. “No comment on the guilty plea?”

“It would not be worth the bother to comment on Skinner business.”

All through the brief encounters, Hector had been as good as he had promised—taking the photos discretely and unnoticed.

That was not the bigger surprise for Rob. “Get any good shots?” he asked as they walked back to the office.

“Aye,” Hec said.

“Great. We got some good editions out of
The
Good Shepphard
—fire, bombs, intrigue, great stories, great pictures. Pity the hearing was a fizzler.”

“How so?” Hec asked.

“Because John Skinner, Sandy Skinner's wee brother, pled guilty to throwing the petrol bomb that burned down the boat, so the hearing was really boring,” Rob explained. “John stood up, admitted he was guilty, said he was sorry. He was fined. End of story.”

“John Skinner. Was he the lad I took the photo of outside the court?” Hec asked.

“Aye. Did you get a good shot of him?”

“I did.”

They were nearing the office. “Come on, Hec, I'll buy you a coffee.”

“Fine.”

Rob noticed Hector did not do his usual jig when he was asked out for coffee.

They took the long, steep steps down to Castle Street, and had gone about twenty yards before Rob noticed Hector was no longer with him. He turned. Hec was plodding along, camera around his neck, head down, hands in his pockets.

“Get a move on,” Rob called.

Hec caught up.

“What's your problem?”

“I canny tell you. I'm scared of what Mr. McAllister will say.”

“Tell me, maybe I can help.” Rob was used to Hec. A problem could be anything from filling out an expense sheet that would pass Mrs. Smart's eagle eye to discovering a Second World War spy living in a Dalneigh council house disguised as a coalman.

“Fine.” Hec stopped in the middle of the pavement. The pedestrians parted around the pair as water round a rock. “You said it was Sandy Skinner's wee brother, the lad that was in court that threw the milk bottle that burned down the boat.”

“Yes. . . . And?”

“It wisney him that threw the bottle.”

“What? Are you sure?” Rob tried to remain calm, but his instinct was to run across the road, up the wynd, and rush into McAllister's office shouting “scoop” or something equally childish.

“I think I'm sure it wasn't him.” Hector's bottom lip was sticking out. Rob knew not to ask again. Hec could be stubborn when his judgment was questioned.

“It's something about him,” Hec explained with his hands. “He's no the right shape, his head is no right.” Hec's hands moved as though describing a ball. “But I'll need to develop the film to be
sure
sure.”

“There's a bus—run. We'll make it.” He grabbed Hec's hand.