The Sea Detective (33 page)

Before 4pm, when Audrey went to post some letters, the story was beginning to be pieced together. Red MacKay had been seen going into Mr Mackenzie’s office by Janice, the physio. There had to be some connection, particularly as Red never came into the township more than once a week. Not until today.

A crowd had gathered in the post office and when Audrey appeared through the door the questions came at her thick and fast.

‘I don’t know anything, I swear.’

Someone shouted ‘Leave the lassie alone’ and they resumed their discussion among themselves.

Mr Mackenzie returned to the office two minutes before 5pm. Audrey was locking up.

‘Are you going home early, Audrey?’

‘My watch says 5pm Mr Robin.’

‘The office clock is the clock we work by Audrey.’

‘Yes Mr Robin.’

She didn’t know whether to go or to sit at her desk. Instead she said, ‘Mr Robin?’

‘Yes, Audrey.’

‘People are saying …’ She hesitated because she knew what Mr Robin thought of ‘tattle’ as he called it. ‘Mr McGill will want his grandfather’s name carved on the memorial now that he’s a hero too.’

Her employer frowned. ‘I cannot imagine it, can you Audrey?’

‘No Mr Robin, I wouldn’t want my grandfather’s name to be on the same memorial as the people who left him to die.’

‘Quite so, Audrey.’

That evening, the hotel bar was fuller than usual. The drink and the gossip were flowing. Laura, one of the bar staff and the sister of a police officer, told the manager, in hushed tones, that Red MacKay had letters proving he was still the legal owner of his grandfather’s log. He’d told the police he wouldn’t be pressing theft charges against Cal McGill. Indeed, that very morning he’d asked Mr Mackenzie to transfer ownership of the log to McGill. ‘You can’t steal your own property can you?’

Jimmy Probert, an incomer who lived on the other side of the Kyle, was huddled in a corner with a reporter.

‘That’s worth another drink son. It’s gold I’m giving you.’

His ‘woman’ was a cleaner at the police station. All the cops were talking about it, how Ellie Rae had gone against her husband Douglas. ‘There’ll be trouble in that house tonight, there will.’ According to Jimmy, Ellie Rae had visited the police station that morning and had spoken to the Chief Inspector. ‘She’s a trustee of the museum,’ Jimmy explained. ‘There are only two of them, Ellie and Douglas.’

‘So what?’ the reporter said.

‘Well she told the police she’d take the stand for McGill if he’s tried on a charge of breaking into the museum.’ Jimmy hadn’t known this but descendants of the islanders had always been allowed special access to the museum. It had been opened up on a number of occasions outside normal hours. Apparently Ellie Rae had told the Chief Inspector that as far as she was concerned the same rule applied to Cal McGill, even though he hadn’t sought permission in advance and had entered through an open window.

‘The cops gave it up after that. The trial would be a farce, Douglas and Ellie Rae quarrelling from the witness box.’

Jimmy tapped his empty glass on the table top.

‘Ok, Jimmy, you’ve earned it. What’ll you have?’

Jimmy smacked his lips together, ‘A whisky would be grand.’

Back at the bar, the manager came from the office with a print out of a BBC Scotland story. He told Laura about it. ‘McGill’s offered to loan the log back to the museum on condition that it is kept open at September 29, 1942, the day his grandfather’s death was recorded incorrectly by old Hector MacKay, and that the three missing pages are displayed beside it.’

They were the verbal equivalents of old-fashioned mile marker stones on the road south. Every minute or two, the driver would offer up a comment to tempt Cal into conversation. ‘Haven’t had such excitement round here for years. Not that you found it exciting I suppose.’ After each remark he would glance in his rear view mirror and study his passenger’s reaction. Cal didn’t respond until the driver said, ‘You’ll be in line for compensation I wouldn’t wonder.’

Cal snapped back, ‘Look, why don’t you pretend I’m not here and I’ll do the same for you?’

‘As you wish,’ the driver said, his jaw tight with offence. He added ‘Sir’ as an afterthought and loaded it with disrespect.

From the police station, the car had taken Cal to Whale Back Beach, named after the long curved hump of rock at its northern end which resembled a cetacean on its way down after breaching. Rachel, according to Mr Mackenzie, had asked to see him there. ‘Not the hotel?’ Cal had asked, but Mr Mackenzie informed him that old Mrs Rae and Douglas had banned him from all their properties in Eastern Township, including the hotel. Anyway, Mr Mackenzie continued, feelings were running high in the local townships, both for and against Cal. In Mr Mackenzie’s considered view, it would be judicious of him to leave the area as soon as possible ‘to let tempers cool’. Under the circumstances, he continued, the beach was as good as anywhere if ‘what you require is a quiet discussion without unwanted interruptions or perhaps some hostility’. Cal didn’t know what Rachel had in mind, so he said nothing.

The driver parked in a turning circle at the road end. From there, the beach curved in a shallow crescent towards the north. Cal saw Rachel immediately. She was alone, walking below the tide line, occasionally stopping to pick up shells. When she saw Cal approaching, she stopped. The shells fell from her hand on to the sand. Cal waved, but she didn’t wave back. Then she turned away from him and Cal worked the Mary’s Bean between his fingers, like she used to, feeling the patina of its woody surface, wondering if she would accept it back as a token of friendship, now that there were no secrets between them.

When he came close to her, he said, ‘Hi.’

She knelt to pick up one of the cockle shells she’d dropped.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going back to the island?’ Still she didn’t look at him.

‘I didn’t think you’d want to know … it’d implicate you.’

‘So you were being considerate?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

Rachel stood and flashed an angry look at him before turning away again.

Cal tried again, ‘I’m sorry if it’s been difficult.’

‘Everything is all over the newspapers, the television news bulletins, everything we’ve filmed.’

There was more she wasn’t saying. Maybe her bosses were kicking up about it. Maybe her job was threatened.

She stared at him, shaking her head as if he just didn’t get it. ‘You never cared about me, you never wanted what I wanted did you?’ Her voice was heavy with disappointment and betrayal.

For a moment Cal considered trying to console her. He’d give her the Mary’s Bean. He’d remind her of the first time they’d been alone on a beach, Skaill Beach, Orkney, where he’d found the bean, how it had been a symbol of his commitment to her, how he’d meant it at the time, but things hadn’t worked out the way he’d expected, how it could stand for something different now, something more durable. He’d rehearsed a little speech in the car, not sure if he should say it, not sure what he should do, knowing that he had to do something, or nothing.

The bean remained in his pocket, his hand clenched around it. Seeing her now, distant and angry, he realised she wouldn’t want it.

He said nothing. (What was there to say if he couldn’t give her the bean?)

‘I can’t do this,’ Rachel said after they’d be standing like that for seconds which were as long as hours. She came close to him, hitting softly at his arm twice with her clenched fist.

All he could think of saying was ‘sorry’ but what was the point? So he didn’t say anything. After a while he turned to look after her and she was already at the car. Then she went behind a grassy dune and was gone.

Cal walked along the tide mark to the rock shaped like a whale’s back. The movement of the sea made him wonder. Should be throw the Mary’s Bean back, let it continue its journey? Instead he pulled at a clump of pink thrift, snapping the flowers until each of his hands was full of them. At the neck of the rock, where it dipped into the sea, he dropped the handfuls one after the other into the water, and watched as the two pink rafts separated and drifted on the tide away from him. He remained there until he couldn’t see them anymore.

His driver had observed it all, leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. He’d kept his curiosity to himself until Altnaharra, half way to Lairg. ‘Pretty girl, she was crying you know.’ Cal hadn’t replied. Then the driver mentioned compensation and Cal had snapped at him. After this exchange, the driver raised the glass partition between them and Cal had called Basanti. He let his phone ring until the answer phone cut in. By the Dornoch Firth he was calling every five minutes. It was daylight. She’d be outside, somewhere: on the roof. Still he rang until he was overcome by the dread that something awful had happened to her. It occurred to him first when he checked his emails. There were dozens of them: from journalists or radio and television producers, wanting him for interviews. The odd one out was a two day old message from DLG. DLG had copied it to everyone in the Omoo group.

‘One of the Omoo guys says he sees that hill and tree every morning from his bedroom window. It’s north-east of Seil Island, on the mainland, a mile or two from a village called Kilninver, south of Oban. There’s a headland with a single track road into it. I’m attaching a photograph. It was taken from his house on the south-east corner of Mull looking across the Firth of Lorn. Sorry about the quality.’

Even with the pixilation, there it was: the hill with the top cut off and ridged sides, looking smaller than in Basanti’s drawing because it was set in a larger landscape. The tree, frozen in the act of toppling, was on its left hand flank, just as she’d drawn it.

As he examined it, his thoughts turned to the currents there. What if Preeti’s body hadn’t floated north with the currents as the police had assumed at the time? What if the opposite had happened? There were strong tidal streams to the north of Corrievrechan, the famous maelstrom between the islands of Jura and Scarba. One of these flowed from the Firth of Lorn, past some small islands called the Garvellachs, towards Scarba. It was here, in an area of sea where a whorl of currents trapped flotsam, that Preeti’s body had been found. What if she had gone into the sea north of Scarba, not many kilometres to the south of it, as the police had thought? The hill with the single tree growing out of its flank was to the north. Cal rang Jamieson’s number but it went straight to answer. He left a message asking her to ring him urgently and forwarded DLG’s email.

When he went back to his inbox, it occurred to him his other emails were in bold black type, but DLG’s was not before he clicked on it. Somebody had already read it. It had to be Basanti. Had she logged on to his email account? Had she followed the instructions he had left her? He rang her again, and again, willing her to answer; talking out loud; accusing himself of letting her down too, Rachel first, now Basanti.

When it was dark he’d be certain, when she came in from the roof. If she didn’t answer then he’d know she’d gone to the headland overlooking the Firth of Lorn to find Preeti’s killers. But he couldn’t wait till dark. She had a two day start on him. Cal tapped on the glass partition. The driver lowered it electronically. ‘Take me to the Argyll coast, south of Oban.’

‘Sir.’ It was still laden with disrespect.

The 06.45 bus from Edinburgh had arrived in Oban on time at 11.20. Basanti inquired about Kilninver and whether any services went there. A man in uniform who was leaning against a parked bus reading the Daily Record’s racing page, answered without looking up. ‘Stance 3 at 1.30pm.’

‘How much?’ Basanti asked.

He replied in the same bored monotone. ‘£2.80 single; £5.60 return.’

Basanti went to the nearby railway station where she bought a cup of tea and a salad sandwich. She walked back along Queen’s Park Place where she found a discreet bench overlooking the sea. She ate her sandwich and watched the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry, painted white and black with a red and black funnel, leaving for the island of Mull.

Her composure pleased her after her close encounter at Cal’s flat. It was how she wanted to be, how she must be, not caring whether the man she’d stabbed lived or died. Nothing mattered now apart from avenging Preeti.

At 1.15pm she walked back to bus stance 3. She paid the driver the single fare and asked him how far it was to Kilninver. ‘About ten miles,’ he replied. She sat at the back on her own. The other passengers, four of them, sat two by two behind the driver. Basanti was first to alight. As she stepped on to the pavement a woman and a child passed by and Basanti showed them her drawing of the hill and the tree. The woman pointed to a rounded hill with a flattish top a kilometre away before examining the drawing again.

‘Right enough,’ she said, looking at the hill a second time. ‘That’s it from the other side.’ Unasked, the woman gave her directions – the best way was ‘down that wee lane’ to the coastal path. ‘The path’s longer than the road but it’s a lovely walk.’

Basanti chose the path.

When she reached the sea, she sat on a rock and watched the waves, wondering how water as blue and as lovely could have killed Preeti, how beauty like this could have destroyed beauty like hers. A shiver passed through her at the sea’s disregard for the life it had taken. She clutched at her pocket, finding reassurance in the hard shape of Cal’s knife.

A few hundred metres further on, the hill began to reveal its familiar side to Basanti. The memory of everything she had suffered rooted her there momentarily. She shuddered, suddenly uncertain about the strength of her will to keep going. She glanced behind her and let out a muffled cry. A man was following her. He was 400 metres away but she recognised his build and shape.

He knew I was coming.

Suddenly she could smell him again: the bitterness of his sweat, the foulness of his breath. She continued along the path, running fast now, down into a dip until she was concealed from him. She peered through the rim of grass and she saw him again. He had stopped on the top of the rise. He was alert and watching, a predator waiting for prey to break cover. Under cover of a sand bank, Basanti ran towards the beach. Her footfalls jolted her ribs, expelling air from her lungs which made a plaintive moaning sound as it passed through her throat.