The Sea Detective (11 page)

‘The wife,’ Beaky said, with a presence of mind that had suddenly deserted Big Belly. ‘From the garden. Got green fingers she has. She can grow anything she can.’

‘Oh,’ said the minister, studying it again.

His exclamation continued to reverberate after the minister had gone and the click of his heels was receding across the hall. Beaky snatched up the plant looking for the label. Sure enough there it was. Some Latin name and a warning about a new ice age.

Just as the newspaper said.

‘Dump it,’ hissed Beaky, ‘or we’ll be for it.’

By 9.30 Cal’s equanimity was draining away. His morning had become a confusion of reporters and camera crews with their questions, deadlines and demands. He’d lost track of who they were (except for the Scottish Sun’s crime correspondent who held Cal personally to blame for Rosie’s news agency selling the story exclusively to his paper’s rival, the Daily Record. For £25,000, he said, and ‘Tell me Mr McGill, what was your cut?’).

Cal sensed the others thought something similar. If it wasn’t explicit in their questions, it was implicit in their tone. Did he know Rosie well? Had the story been some time in preparation? Had he/she held anything back for the Sundays, a second bite at the cherry? In every question there was the inference that he and Rosie had planned it together. It was what Rosie did, one of them said. Cut a deal for an exclusive with 50% of the proceeds shared between interviewee (Cal) and interviewer (Rosie).

Cal had bridled and had gone up the spiral stairs to the door to the roof. One by one the reporters fell silent and watched him. There was a murmur when he reappeared carrying a large wire tray full of plants, which he banged down on the table. ‘Help yourself.’ Cal began handing them out.

The Scotsman’s reporter hesitated before taking his. ‘Is it legal?’

Cal put one beside him. ‘It’s Dryas Octopetala, the plant I’ve been leaving in MPs’ and MSPs’ gardens. It thrived in the big freeze, and if we’re not careful it’ll thrive again. It’s one of the possibilities, climate change disrupting the currents carrying warm waters from the Equator to the North Atlantic. Yes, you’ll find scientists who say it won’t happen, but why take the risk?’

The reporters shuffled awkwardly.

Cal said, ‘Sorry about the lecture but that’s the story not this crap about Rosie.’

A mousy young woman with an A4 notepad and a serious expression asked a question about the wild distribution of Dryas Octopetala. As Cal was answering, the others began to drift away and the camera crews packed up.

Cal didn’t altogether blame the journalists. They’d had their fingers burned by Rosie before. Cal, too, felt scalded by her when he opened The Record for the first time.

The previous afternoon – it must have been when he was at the map – she’d copied his grandfather’s photograph without him knowing. It was all over that morning’s paper. The page 1 headline was what he’d expected if over-dramatic: ‘Revealed: the eco-warrior who raids ministers’ gardens.’ The page 4/5 spread caught him by surprise: ‘The making of an eco-warrior: I owe it all to my grandfather’s tragic wartime death at sea.’ His grandfather’s smiling face stared out at him from the page.

He hadn’t expected that. He shut the paper quickly, feeling a lurch in the pit of his stomach.

After he ushered out the last of the reporters, his mobile phone rang. He left it, ringing and vibrating on his table, and went for a long walk west along the Forth towards Cramond. Just to get away. The tide was turning when he arrived at the causeway to Cramond Island and he watched the sea lap over it before going to a pub where he played snooker and had lunch. It was mid-afternoon when he started back along the Forth to Granton, buying an ice cream on the way, killing time, watching children flying kites, enjoying the sun, delaying the moment he had to return. Would there be more reporters waiting for him, more questions?

He was angry with himself for telling Rosie Provan about his grandfather. Now all the papers would write the story. It was the picture he minded about most, the way it had become public property without his permission: Rosie’s sleight of hand, but Cal’s fault too, for saying too much, for trusting her.

It was after 5pm when he arrived back at The Cask. No reporters were waiting. His mobile phone registered four missed calls, but no messages. He didn’t recognise any of the numbers and he checked his emails. Glancing down the list of 16 in his inbox, most seemed to be from media organisations of one kind or another. Two were from DLG; one from WWF; another from Greenpeace (which he registered as interesting because it might be more work), and one from his estranged wife, Rachel. He clicked on it. ‘Cal, please ring.’ She left her work mobile number and signed off ‘Rachel xxx’. Three kisses were routine for her. It didn’t signify anything.

He stared at her email, making up his mind whether to reply to it now or later, before typing ‘why, what’s up?’ He made coffee and when he returned to his chair her answer was waiting for him.

‘Cal, I’ve come across an old woman who grew up with your grandfather. She saw his picture in the paper this morning. She’d very much like to meet you, Rachel xxx.’

Cal swore and dialled Rachel’s mobile.

She picked up after the fourth ring. ‘Cal?’ She was nervous.

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t be angry, Cal.’ She did that often: telling him what his reaction was going to be before he’d even heard what she had to say.

‘I’m not angry. I’m tired Rachel. I’ve had a difficult couple of days, all right.’

‘I know I’ve been reading about it.’

It was typical of Rachel. Her standard response to his environmental campaigning was to say little about it, neither approving nor disapproving. But he knew by now what she thought: by always being on
that
side of the argument Cal restricted his clients to charities or public agencies when shipping and oil companies would pay more for his ocean expertise. He’d told her often enough: he didn’t want to work for big business, for polluters.

Anyway it was none of her business. Not anymore.

‘I meant don’t be angry at what I’m going to tell you,’ Rachel continued.

‘Well what is it?’ Cal tried to keep his rising irritation out of his voice.

‘The woman who knew your grandfather is called Grace Ann MacKay. She grew up next door to him. They were friends, good friends by the sound of it.’

‘Why should that make me angry? That’s interesting.’

Rachel waited before answering. ‘I wanted to see you.’

‘Why?’

‘To tell you about the TV series I’m working on. That’s how I came across Miss MacKay.’

‘You can tell me on the phone can’t you?’

This was beginning to remind Cal of some of their conversations after the crack in their marriage widened into a breach. After a few exchanges, with her tip-toeing around him, he’d become bad-tempered, distant or unhelpful, exactly as she’d forecast he would be. He was starting to be it again: he couldn’t stop himself. It had become a bad habit, one he couldn’t break. ‘Well can’t you?’

Rachel sighed. ‘It’s about abandoned places, you know villages that were left deserted after the highland clearances, islands which had to be evacuated because they weren’t viable, in one case a big house in England which was abandoned in the 1920s after a murder and has never been lived in again. …’

She broke off as if expecting a response. When none came she added, ‘We’re planning a series of eight documentaries, two based in Scotland, the others south of the Border.’

Cal said, ‘What should make me angry about that?’

‘The thing is, Cal … the island is Eilean Iasgaich, where your grandfather was born.’

Cal didn’t reply.

‘Cal?’

‘Why Eilean Iasgaich?’ he replied, his voice flatter and louder.

‘I knew you’d be cross.’ She sounded resigned, deflated.

‘Why do it then? There are other abandoned islands. What’s wrong with St Kilda?’

‘Cal, everyone’s heard of St Kilda.’

He didn’t reply.

She filled the silence. ‘Eilean Iasgaich is less well known and it’s a good strong story; all those men dying in the war; their widows and children having to start new lives on the mainland.’

Cal still said nothing.

‘Well, you know the story …’ she said. After another silence, Cal said, ‘That’s my territory, Rachel.’ His meaning was clear.

‘It’s not
your
territory, Cal. You’ve never even been there,’ she said.

‘It’s my
family’s
territory. I don’t want you on it Rachel.’

His tone communicated his distaste; his feeling that something underhand was going on, something calculated on her part.

‘I didn’t mean it to happen like this,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I mentioned it at the series planning meeting because it was a story I knew off the top of my head – and they liked it …’ She broke up her speech as if she expected him to interrupt at any second, but everything she said was met with brooding silence. ‘What was I supposed to do? Tell them it had to be another island, a less good story, because your dead grandfather was born there?’

Cal said, ‘Back off, Rachel.’

She felt her temper rising, suddenly. ‘Oh, get a life Cal.’ She cut the call.

Later, she sent him a terse email. ‘Her name is Grace Ann MacKay. She lives in Galashiels. She’s 85, nearly 86, the oldest surviving resident of the island, and the only one left who was born there and grew to adulthood there. Until I met her she didn’t even know of your existence. Nor did she know your mother was dead. She rang me today because the photograph of your grandfather in the Daily Record has made her anxious. After reading the paper, she knows how much your grandfather’s death has influenced you, even though you never met him. It’d be a kindness if you contacted her or went to see her. She’s worried about having another stroke and dying before she has a chance to speak to you. If you did contact her it’d stop her worrying. But of course you’ll suit yourself, as always.’ She gave Miss MacKay’s address and telephone number and signed off ‘Rachel xxx.’

Cal looked away from the screen after reading it and swore. Why hadn’t he told her?

If he had told her about the affair, she wouldn’t have anything more to do with him, she wouldn’t have mentioned Eilean Iasgaich at the planning meeting, she wouldn’t have emailed him. She’d hate him, instead of maintaining tenuous contact (ringing when her father died; sending him an e-card on his birthday), as if she sensed he still had something to say to her, an explanation that made sense of their split.

He clicked distractedly on the first of DLG’s two emails. ‘Well, haven’t you become famous? In case you’re still interested the severed foot was wearing a shoe, a man’s trainer.’ DLG’s second email added, ‘No manufacturer’s name. Sorry.’

Cal replied, ‘Thanks. I’m still interested.’

So the severed foot floated in on the tide.

Cal googled it and clicked on the Scottish Sun’s version of the story. ‘Butcher or surgeon hunted in severed foot horror.’ Cal read one sentence aloud in a despairing voice. ‘The foot was separated from the leg so expertly that police suspect the culprit is someone with anatomical expertise like a butcher or a surgeon.’

He left it there and went to bed before 10pm, wanting the day done, feeling at odds with himself and tense after the phone call with Rachel. He didn’t behave like that with anyone else.

Why hadn’t he told her?

At the time, he didn’t think he owed her an explanation. By then they were hardly speaking and when they did it was only to hurt each other, and hadn’t she spent so much time away they might as well not have been married?

Cal and Rachel had met once since they’d separated 14 months before. It was the previous August. She was in Edinburgh for the Television Festival. She rang him. Could they have coffee? Part of him dreaded seeing her, but he couldn’t find it in him to be hostile. There had been enough of that already.

He arrived first and spotted her walking along George Street. She had a new hair cut, a half-fringe over her left eye, the colour a more lustrous brown than he remembered. Her clothes, too, spoke simple style: a blue shift dress and espadrilles, a linen jacket over her arm. When she joined him at a street table, as they’d agreed, her wide eyes creased pleasantly at the edges and she met his hesitation by saying ‘we can still kiss hello can’t we?’

She presented one cheek, then the other. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she said, sitting down. His guard up, he said something awkward about how well she looked.

‘Oh, it’s my networking outfit; not really my thing as you know,’ she said dismissively.

A waitress interrupted them and they ordered coffee.

‘How are you?’ Cal asked, wanting to deflect Rachel from inquiring after him for as long as he could.

‘I’m well. The job’s good. London’s good.’ She was still with the same company making television documentaries as she’d always done. She nodded, smiling, the sun lighting up her olive skin. ‘Yeah, it’s ok. I’m ok. And you?’

‘Same as always,’ he said, giving nothing away.

Like friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while, they ran through the normal catch-up questions. She inquired after his father; he mentioned the death of hers, how was her mother coping? She asked about the flat – was he still in it? Her answers were longer than his. After they’d exhausted the obvious topics, conversation began to slow. During a gap, Rachel lifted her face to the mid-afternoon breeze. ‘God, I’d forgotten the air here, the way it moves. In London it’s stagnant. It never feels fresh, not like this.’

She breathed in deeply, before squinting again at Cal. She watched him, her eyes narrowing, as if searching for the explanation which still eluded her. An explanation she understood. Cal smiled back. ‘You’ve forgotten about the cold winds from October to April’ but he was thinking meeting her had been a mistake. It reminded him uncomfortably of the past.

She laughed in a distracted way, leaning back in her chair. ‘Isn’t it odd,’ she said, ‘us talking like this?’

‘Like what?’ Where was this leading?

‘You know, like strangers.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t you find that, well, sad?’