A Double Death on the Black Isle (27 page)

They made it and went upstairs to the front seat. “Two to Dochfour Drive please,” Rob asked the conductor.

When they had recovered their breath, Rob told Hector, “We are going to your wee shed, you are going to develop this film, I am going to wait, then you are going to explain to me, no,
show
me, what on earth you are talking about, Hector Bain.”

“Promise you'll no tell Sergeant Patience?” Hec was jiggling his legs as though he needed to pee.

“Promise.”

I won't tell the sergeant,
thought Rob,
but if Hec is right, McAllister will have to tell the inspector, and I will have another great front page.

There was no hurrying Hector. Rob did not wait patiently, but at least there was a good collection of
Broons
annuals to while away the time.

Prints and negatives ready, Rob asked Hec to bring his magnifying glass and they left for the
Gazette
offices.

Rob was a long time with McAllister. Hector was with them some of the time. Don spent a half hour with Rob and McAllister, then Hector was sent home to blow up two particularly interesting shots. When Hec came back, there was another long and argumentative meeting.

“Joanne, come and join us,” McAllister asked.

“May as well have the meeting there,” Don pointed out, “more room on the reporters' table.”

“Aye, but shut the door.” McAllister did not trust Mrs. Betsy Buchanan. Seemed too nosy, was his opinion.

“Right,” McAllister started, “look at these.”

At the head of the table, he laid out one shot of a person, standing, watching as the deck caught alight. Then below this, he
fanned out a selection of shots of the person running or hurrying away from
The
Good Shepphard
.

“Quick answers, no thinking,” McAllister commanded. “This one,” he pointed to the top shot, “male of female?”

“Don't know,” Rob.

“Could be either,” Don.

“No idea,” Joanne.

“I canny tell in this picture,” Hector.

“Next.” McAllister chose three pictures of the moving figure.

“Don't know,” Rob and Don spoke at once.

“There's something about this one. . . .” Joanne hesitated.

“It's the walk.” Hector was sure of himself. He grew up when talking about photographs.

“It's the way this person kind o' scuttles. See, here, the steps is too short, and the arms are held out like this. . . .” He stood, held his arms out from his sides slightly, his hands at forty-five degrees. “Looks like a woman to me.”

Joanne smiled at Hector's imitation of a woman; it was funny but also impressive—he knew what he was talking about.

“This is the most important shot, though,” Hector took over the meeting from McAllister. McAllister did not mind one bit.

“See, the hood from the jacket has fallen down.” Hec pointed to it with a pencil. The shot was taken at such a distance that the blow-up was blurry. “Never mind the face,” he continued, “look at the head. See, small, 'cos the hair is flat, and see this,” he tapped a dark blur at the back of the head, “I'm thinking this could be a woman wi' her hair in a bun.”

The others stared. Hec reached for another print of the same image and passed it to Joanne.

“I see what you mean,” she agreed.

“Now look at these.” Hector pulled out the pictures taken that morning outside the courtroom. There were two shots of
the Skinner family as they descended the steps and one as Calum Sinclair shook the uncle's hand.

Hec then produced blow-ups of the heads of John Skinner and his mother, taken at different angles. Mrs. Skinner's hat obscured the top of her head, but a small, round skull, with the hair in a tight bun at the back, was clear.

What was really interesting were the shots of John Skinner and his uncle. Like the late Sandy Skinner, their skulls were long and narrow.

Weasel-like
, had been Joanne's mental image of Sandy Skinner at that terrible Easter Monday picnic on the Black Isle. The photos in front of them confirmed that impression—there was indeed something feral about the Skinner features.

“Well?” McAllister held his hands up and out like the ringmaster in a circus. “Are we sure?”

“It's her.” Rob was certain because he wanted it to be so. “She was the one who started the fire.”

“It certainly looks as though it could be her,” Joanne said.

“I agree, it's her,” said Don, “but remember what happened the last time. The police will no be happy when they see this.” He tapped the picture of Mrs. Skinner running away from the fire.

“The police?” Hector wailed like a banshee. “I'm no going to the police! Rob, you promised.”

Don stuck his fingers in his ears. Joanne put an arm round Hec. Rob looked away. McAllister rolled his eyes, “Hector, shut up. We have to report this.”

“I'll run away,” Hector moaned.

“Hector, listen to me.” Rob was terrified Hec might cry. “I made you a promise and I meant it. Listen, this is what I'll do . . .” For once, he was stuck for an idea.

McAllister took over. “What
I'll
do is tell DI Dunne how Hector Bain has done their job for them. I will point out that
it took the photographer from the
Highland Gazette
to discover what no policeman noticed, and how Hector has solved the crime for them.”

“You'll be a hero, Hector,” Rob said.

“Really?” Then Hec thought of something more, “But if Sergeant Patience thinks I've showed him up, he'll hate me even more.”

“Leave that to me,” Don told him. “If the Sergeant says one word, I'll tell him it will be front page of the
Gazette
that our photographer showed him how to do his job.”

“Jings.” Hector's mouth dropped open, and even after years of a diet of Irn-Bru, boiled sweeties, and sherbet dabs, Joanne could see he had not one filling in his back teeth.

It took a day before McAllister received the call telling him of the arrest of Mrs. Skinner. The uncle had also been questioned, but there was no evidence he had been involved, especially as John Skinner refused to implicate him.

“Thanks for the tip-off,” DI Dunne said when he called McAllister.

“Not at all,” said McAllister. “We want to keep on the right side of the police.”

“And have a front-page scoop.”

“Absolutely,” the editor agreed. “Will you need Hector as a witness for the trial?” McAllister asked.

“Not if I can help it,” DI Dunne said.

The tone in his voice made McAllister laugh.

“No,” the policeman continued, “we have no problems with the case. Mrs. Skinner gave a full confession. She admitted throwing the petrol bomb. The idea of blaming John Skinner was all hers—she believed he would get off lightly because of his age and no previous record.”

“I suppose that is why she persuaded him to plead guilty, to avoid scrutiny.”

“Yes, that's what she said.”

“Did she say why she burned down the boat?” This was the aspect of the whole affair that intrigued McAllister and everyone else at the
Gazette.

“Only that Sandy Skinner was no son of hers, and she'd rather the boat was destroyed than him have it. Family feuds,” Dunne continued, “they never make much sense.”

“One final piece of information . . .”

“Yes?” McAllister said.

“You didn't hear this from me, but the fiscal is furious at the waste of police time over this whole business. He will be asking the magistrate to give Mrs. Skinner a custodial sentence.”

“Sure he's not furious because it took the
Gazette
to discover the truth?”

“Now, now, no need to rub it in,” Dunne said, although privately he knew this was true. “But it's true. If it hadn't been for Hector Bain, we'd all be none the wiser.”

“I don't suppose you could let him know that?” McAllister asked.

“Don't worry, I have it all in hand. Sergeant Patience will be writing to you and to Hector on behalf of the constabulary, thanking you both for helping bring the real culprit to justice.”

DI Dunne had to hold the receiver away from his ear as McAllister roared in laughter.

Two days after his hearing, John Skinner turned up at Achnafern farmhouse. He was too scared to come to the big house, so Allie Munro phoned Patricia, explained, and asked if she would come over to the farm.

“Of course,” she replied.

John Skinner was sitting at Mrs. Munro's kitchen table when Patricia appeared.
The poor boy
, she thought when she saw him.

“Hello John, it's lovely to meet you at last. I am very sorry about all that has happened and I hope we can be friends.”

John doubted that, but he had come to say his piece and he wanted it over with.

“I'm sorry too,” he started. “I came over to say I'm sorry for what Ma—I mean, my mother—did because the boat was rightfully yours and the baby's, since Sandy died and you're his widow.”

“I beg your pardon?” Patricia stared, unsure she had heard right.

The lad continued speaking in a rush, as though in pausing for breath he might lose his courage.

“I want you to know it wisney me burnt the boat and the police came this mornin' and they took Ma away.”

“What?” Patricia's eyes widened, flashing in surprise with hints of glee and amusement. “Sandy's mother? Your mother?”

Mrs. Munro was so surprised all she could say was, “Well I never!”

John Skinner was bright pink from the effort of speaking to Patricia—she dazzled him. “I came to say good-bye, I won't be back for a long time . . . if ever.”

“Ever is a long time.” Patricia said the cliché automatically, busy trying to understand the revelation.

“John, I'm quite lost,” Mrs. Munro spoke to him as though he were a wee boy. “What's this about your mother?”

Her voice worked as well as a Celtic spell to calm the soul.

“It was our mother,” he started, looking down, his eyes not yet ready to meet Mrs. Munro's. “She threw the milk bottle, but she didney mean for the boat to be burnt down.”

Not that John knew this—it was more that he would never understand his mother's reasoning.

“Whyever would she burn down your own boat?” To Mrs. Munro it was an incredible act, especially for a woman and a mother.
Someone might have been hurt,
she was thinking.

“She was angry at him fishing on a Sunday. And she was angry him leaving the faith. She didn't like . . .” he glanced at Patricia, “his friends. She was always angry.”

He stopped. There was no way he could tell them of her rages. As a child, he had thought a ball of fire was burning inside of her. How could he explain that she was always angry at Sandy. He himself avoided provoking her. He was the good boy. Not so Sandy. The fights had been continuous and fierce. Periods of calm came to the household when Sandy was old enough to join the crew of
The Good Shepphard
. But his mother's rage returned the minute Sandy came ashore.

His father was hardly ever at home. He was at sea, or he was down at the harbor mending nets, or keeping the boat spruce and seaworthy. He seldom spoke and never intervened. John loved him. Then he was swept off the deck by a freak wave. Sandy took the boat, took everything. There was nothing his mother could do to stop him. Then she burned down the boat.

“You'll take some tea?” Mrs. Munro interrupted his silence. He hadn't noticed her make it, but said “thank you, two sugars.”

“I had no idea.” Patricia was thinking of Sandy. “No wonder he found it hard to really care for anyone.” She looked at John and saw a quiet, almost scholarly young man, who was obviously miserable. “What will you do now?” she asked quietly.

“When things are cleared up, I want to go to sea, but no as a fisherman. I've always wanted to get into the institute in Stornaway and join the merchant navy as a navigator. But Ma . . .” He
was going to say, “Ma won't let me,” before realizing that did not matter anymore.

“An excellent idea.”
Get away from that poisonous mother
, Patricia thought. She gave him a brief pat on the hand.

John didn't move, but it felt strange to feel a woman's touch.

“I know I'm not popular in your family,” she continued, “but if I can ever do anything to help, come and see me here at the farm.” Bending down to reach into her bag, she came up with a white envelope. “When I heard you were here, I brought this to pay your fine. Now it can help you start a new life.”

She would never say how, before knowing about Mrs. Skinner's arrest, she was planning to give John Skinner the money in the hope that he would desert his family.

John took it, too surprised to refuse. He held it, staring as though it was a magic trick that would transform into a white rabbit.

“Put it in the bank,” Patricia advised. “Perhaps use it to study at sea school. And John, good luck.”

“Aye,” John said, standing, “thank you.” He knew he was dismissed. “Good luck to you too.” He made for the kitchen door, said one more thank-you, and was gone.

“That was right good of you,” Mrs. Munro said.

“I've accepted an offer for my share in
The Good Shepphard II
.” She didn't tell Mrs. Munro that the offer made for the new boat was enough to clear the debt to the boatbuilder and put another substantial sum into her bank account. “And John Skinner deserves some help.”

“All the same . . .”

“One hundred pounds will give him a good start and I think he will use it wisely.”

To Patricia, the payment closed the whole episode of the
Skinners. In time, she would come to believe her baby had been conceived if not by divine intervention, then by power of her own longing.