‘Do we have relatives over there still?’
A pause, then the words came, as if they were being dragged out. Talking about the island—it felt as if she was betraying her dead husband’s confidence somehow. ‘I’ve no idea. Your dad’s mother, your grandmother, died when he was young, his father a few years after he left, before you were born.’
‘Do you think whatever happened on the island, whatever made him leave, involved the family?’
‘Becca, believe me. I haven’t a clue. I wish I did, I really do. But he never at any time said anything of note, just that he really didn’t want to talk about it—and even that was done obliquely. Whatever it was, it was enough to make him hate the place.’
Pen poised, Rebecca suggested, ‘There must be somebody over there I could talk to.’
Another sigh breathed down the line. ‘Becca, something always told me that sooner or later you’d go over there. I knew you wouldn’t do it while your dad was here but you would go sometime, as soon as you could justify it to yourself. Now you have a reason. But I wouldn’t go over there and open up any cans with worms in them. Nothing good will come of it.’
‘You do know something, don’t you?’
Her mother laughed again. ‘Don’t go all conspiracy theory now. Your father said nothing to me. He didn’t want to talk about it and I respected his wishes.’ She paused. ‘Well, eventually. When we were first going together I would ask him, even after we were married, but then I realised that there was no way I would get anything out of him.’
‘But weren’t you curious?’
‘Of course I was! Still am. But after all this time I don’t think there’s anything to be found.’
‘So why are you advising me not to go and open cans of worms? What are you frightened of?’
‘I’m frightened you will find something.’ They both laughed, then her mother said, ‘I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?’
‘Mum, what do you think?’
Another sigh. ‘You were always the same, Becca. Once your mind was set on something, that was it. So like your father.’ She fell silent and Rebecca knew she was struggling with herself. Finally, her mother said, ‘There is Fiona.’
Rebecca felt something quicken in her chest. This was a chink in the armour. ‘Fiona?’
‘His old girlfriend. Fiona McRae. Well, that’s her name now. She was the one person from the island your dad kept in touch with. She was at his funeral.’
Two years. He’d been gone two years. Cancer took him too young and Rebecca still missed him. ‘Did I meet her?’
‘Yes, briefly. She’s a minister.’
Her father was never religious and had insisted on a humanist service at the crematorium, but Rebecca recalled a stout woman with short hair and a dog collar among the mourners. Later she approached them with a kind smile, a brief hello, nice to meet you, sorry for your loss, then she was gone. Rebecca had no idea then what her connection had been to her father and put it down to someone he’d met through work.
Her mother’s tone had betrayed no sign of jealousy, but Rebecca was still slightly taken aback. There was a note of incredulity when she said, ‘She was his old girlfriend?’
‘Yes, when they were teenagers. What did you think—I was his only sweetheart? Your dad was a handsome man. He broke many a heart before he settled down with me.’
That was something she’d never considered. As far as Rebecca was concerned, her mum and dad had been together forever and neither had exes in their lives. She wondered if her mum was still in contact with any former boyfriends. Then wondered if she had hooked up with any since her dad’s death. She put that thought out of her mind immediately. Despite their jokes about gentlemen callers, the idea of her mother having sex with anyone, even her father, was not one she wished to explore.
‘She’s the minister for the island, has been for a few years, she told me,’ her mother said. ‘She moved off the island after she graduated but managed to get back. She missed the place.’
‘But Dad never did.’
‘No. Dad never did.’
Fiona McRae. The local minister. She’d been wondering where to start. Now she knew.
5
The Kelpie rode the slight swell with ease, its bow biting into the waves and sending spray flying upwards. Donnie Kerr heard laughter as the salt water hit the tourists. Standing at the wheel, he glanced over his shoulder, his mouth tightening into a mirthless grin as he watched the half dozen passengers giggling to each other. If that wind picks up any further they won’t be laughing, he thought as he ducked slightly to study the sky through the spray-speckled glass in the wheel house. It was still clear, with only a few clouds, but they had a darkness at their centre that he knew was a forerunner of worse to come. He’d felt it this morning, the pressure on his temples that signalled a storm would hit over the next two to three days. He’d always been able to predict their arrival, even in his ‘wilderness years’. It was a gift, he supposed, but when he was younger he didn’t see any point to it, apart from warning his father that he shouldn’t go out that day. Now it was useful, if not particularly profitable, although as October neared its end predicting rough weather on Stoirm was like saying rain will be wet. It was simply that inevitable. When it did hit, there’d be few chances to get anyone out on the boat. The ferries would be confined to the terminal and the Kelpie would huddle down with what was left of Portnaseil’s fishing fleet and any stranded pleasure craft in the harbour. It was nearly the end of the season anyway and it hadn’t been a great one for him. His mind turned to the pile of bills sitting on his kitchen table. He wasn’t facing the streets just yet, but some decisions would have to be made. He’d think of something.
He slowed the boat down and killed the engine. The current caught the Kelpie’s forward momentum and swung the bow around slightly to starboard. Donnie turned to the passengers and waved a hand towards the water.
‘Okay, folks, this is the best spot to see anything.’ He nodded towards the mainland. ‘You can see the ferry coming over now. Sometimes the dolphins leap around the bow, as if they’re guiding it towards the island.’
A couple of the passengers were visibly touched by the notion that the dolphins were piloting the ferry home, but Donnie knew the mammals were simply riding the bow wave for fun. Dolphins were smart and they knew how to enjoy themselves. The ferry could suddenly veer off course and the creatures would continue to frolic. The thing was, they didn’t do it every trip, so the chances of seeing them really was a lottery. You can’t go through life just having fun, even dolphins know that. The thought took his mind back to those bills again. He pushed the worries away.
‘We’ve also seen whales two or three times this year around this part of the Sound, as well as basking sharks.’ The passengers exchanged nods and smiles. This is what they came for, so cameras and binoculars were readied. ‘We’ll just drift here for a wee while, see what happens. Keep your eyes peeled and if I spot anything I’ll let you know.’
He left them to talk quietly among themselves, eager eyes scanning the water for their first sight of a creature. He hoped they saw something, he really did. They’d paid for the trip, but when there were successful sightings the tips were generous. Donnie longed for a repeat of the whale pod from the year before. He’d had a full boat that day, luckily, and the cash pressed into his hand as his passengers stepped excitedly onto the jetty doubled his take. And non-taxable too.
He rested his hands lightly on the wheel, stared through the window again. He felt the current pushing at the Kelpie’s bow and glanced around, just to make sure there was nothing they could drift into. The Sound was clear. He could remember back when there’d be fishing boats dotted all around, mostly locals heading in and out of Portnaseil, including his father, but there was only a handful of men working the nets now. When his father died and he inherited the Kelpie, Donnie had vowed he wouldn’t sail the volatile waters of the fishing business. He believed tourism was the way forward,
a view he shared with His High and Bloody Mighty Lord Stoirm. Donnie stared across to the island, his eyes picking out the big house. He could see the scaffolding even from here, and further south he saw the white walls of the distillery. The castle was being turned into an upmarket hotel so that Lord Henry Stuart could attract big money from the shooting-and-fishing set. He also wanted to turn it into a wedding venue, a conference centre even. The Stoirm Hotel in Portnaseil wasn’t good enough for the kind of visitor he wanted to attract, even though he owned it along with much of the village. He was even going to stock his land with game so his customers would be guaranteed their jollies shedding some blood. He’d reopened the distillery and was refurbishing it. It had created some jobs and when fully operational would generate more, which Donnie couldn’t argue with, but he had no time for Lord Henry Stuart of Stoirm. Not any more. His father, the old lord, had been okay, and Lady Stoirm had been likeable, even though they spent most of their time as drunk as, well, lords. But the son was a different matter. He was a businessman first and foremost. His parents saw the island as their home, but to him it was just another asset in his portfolio.
The question was, where was he getting the cash for all these ‘improvements’? Donnie knew Henry was wealthy, but he was not the kind to use his own money. He’d brought in specialist trades people from the mainland because the local workforce could supply only so many skills. Much of the raw materials for the work had also, by necessity, been imported. Roddie heard that Henry had tapped into some grant funds, but there was no way that would cover the amount of work being carried out. He was sure it didn’t come cheap.
The suggestion that Henry had foreign investors with deep pockets made Donnie uneasy. Henry had linked the island to such businesspeople before and it had not turned out well.
The faint thrum of engines carried across the surface of the water and Donnie turned his attention to the ferry heading towards them from the mainland.
He wondered if Roddie Drummond was on board.
He couldn’t believe the bastard was actually heading home, not after what he did. The Roddie Drummond he’d known would never have had the balls. Word of his return had surged round Portnaseil like flood waters. It wasn’t a big place and it was difficult to keep secrets. Not impossible, though. Donnie himself knew that.
He had waited fifteen years to meet Roddie again. He had been in no condition after the trial to seek him out and by the time he’d got himself clean Drummond had cleared off to whatever hole he’d been hiding in all this time. Once Donnie had got his head together, he’d tried to find him, but it was as if he’d dropped off the earth. The only person who knew his whereabouts was Shona, but she had refused to give her brother up. Donnie had nothing against Mary Drummond—she was a pleasant woman—but part of him was glad her death might be bringing her son back to the island.
A dolphin broke water on the starboard side in a flash of pale yellow and grey, and Donnie heard the excited cries of his passengers and the chatter of shutters as they attempted to catch the shot that would grace their Facebook pages. Another dolphin arced from the foam on the port side and there was more delight as cameras and phones swung across. They were short-beaked common dolphins, more plentiful than the bottlenose and the Risso’s variety, but still good to see this late in the season. Donnie smiled. He was always glad when the tourists got what they wanted.
He gazed once more across the water towards the ferry cutting through the Sound.
Maybe Donnie would finally get to look Drummond in the eye.
Maybe he’d get some answers.
6
Rebecca nursed a bad coffee and a half-eaten bacon roll and wondered if the man two tables away was Roddie Drummond. She’d seen his face often enough in the press coverage she’d studied the night before, but this man looked too old. Certainly fifteen years had passed, but if this guy was Roddie Drummond then those years had not been kind. The man’s brown hair was thinner but his face was fatter, the beginnings of jowls dragging at his cheeks. In the photographs, she’d seen a twenty-five-year-old man who was solidly built and who wouldn’t be ashamed of taking his shirt off, but the frame she was looking at now was much fleshier: a middle-aged man gone to seed. He was wearing a cheap windbreaker that wouldn’t withstand the chilly gusts she expected to find on the island. The trousers weren’t threadbare but they were well-worn, the shoes polished, but as he’d walked to the table she had noticed the heels were worn down and the leather was scuffed. He sat alone, both hands wrapped round a coffee cup as if he were praying its taste would improve.
The ferry’s café was nearly empty. During the spring and summer months it would be filled with tourists, but the season was coming to a close. In a week’s time the frequency of ferries making the ninety-minute crossing would slow as the winter schedule came into force and islanders who needed to get to and from the mainland would have limited opportunities to do so, even less when the storms hit. Island life was not as idyllic as some would believe.
She tried to study the man without appearing to be staring. If he was Roddie Drummond, then this was an ideal opportunity to speak to him, for he was a captive audience, so to speak. But what if he wasn’t? People were always ready to complain about press intrusion, and she didn’t want to begin her trip by making a huge mistake.
Mind you, it was possible the trip itself was a huge mistake and would cost her her job. She’d phoned in sick that morning, pleading a vomiting bug. She suspected that Drummond would not remain on the island any longer than he had to, so that would give her five days, the limit of self-certification. She felt guilty, not just for landing Yvonne with an additional workload but also for following the story against Barry’s orders and what seemed like company policy. If she was right, and she got this story, he’d understand, she really believed that. She knew under that jobsworth exterior the old-fashioned hack yearned to be set free. At least she hoped that was the case. If she was wrong, or if Barry discovered she’d faked illness, then she would soon be finding out how far Jobseeker’s Allowance went.
Damn it! She just could not be certain if this was her man. She had to get closer.
She picked up her cup and her bag, left what remained of the breakfast roll behind her and wandered back to the counter for a refill, studying the man as closely as she could without being too obvious in case he took fright and left. He looked settled in, though, and apparently lost in his own thoughts. She had her cup refilled, paid for it, then casually wandered to the table beside him and sat down at the far corner, where she could scrutinise his face while still keeping a respectable distance, as if she was honouring his personal space. If he noticed her he didn’t show it. He still gripped his cup like it was the last life preserver on the Titanic and stared at the remains of the brown sludge within.
Rebecca stirred her coffee with the little wooden spatula and examined his features again. Now that she was closer she was certain he was Roddie Drummond. There were lines that hadn’t been there before, naturally, and his eyes were empty, as if he had seen things that he wished he hadn’t.
She sipped her coffee and her nerve was gathering to make an opening conversational salvo when a bald man slid into the chair opposite her target. He was wearing an insulated outdoor jacket with the North Face logo on the left breast. It was unzipped to show off a denim-blue V-neck jumper, with a blue polo shirt showing at the neck. Rebecca would lay money they were from Pringle. His watch was heavy, not ostentatious but a good quality outdoor item. His skin shone with a healthy tan that spoke more of spending many hours in the open air than baking on a beach somewhere. He was in his fifties but he looked after himself. His face was familiar but she couldn’t place it.
‘Roddie,’ he said quietly.
Rebecca could tell from Drummond’s body language that the man was no stranger. He stiffened and his eyes darted around the café, as if searching for an exit.
‘Relax, son,’ said the man, his voice bearing traces of a Highland upbringing. ‘Just he
re to say hello.’
The newcomer’s eyes glinted with amusement as he enjoyed the discomfort his arrival had caused. Then they shot towards Rebecca, so she busied herself in her bag, seeking a book she’d brought. She dug it out, opened it and stared at the pages. She didn’t see the words, though, as she concentrated on the conversation taking place.
She was aware of the man leaning across the table and Roddie pulling back slightly, still looking for an escape route.
‘I heard you were coming home, son,’ said the man. ‘I heard your mother died. Shame that. She was a lovely woman, heart of gold.’
‘Leave me alone,’ said Roddie. His voice was reedy but Rebecca couldn’t tell if it was stretched by fear or anger. Maybe both.
‘Why? I’m just here to pay my respects.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
The man laughed. ‘Now, Roddie, we both know that’s not true, don’t we?’
Roddie scowled at him. ‘Go away. I don’t need to talk to the police if I don’t want to.’
‘I’m not police any more, son. Retired, three years now.’
Rebecca knew who he was now; his photograph had also appeared in the press coverage of the murder. Detective Sergeant William Sawyer had formed part of the investigation and had arrested Roddie Drummond. He had also, according to Roddie’s defence counsel, fabricated an admission of guilt.
Sawyer’s tone was reasonable, but it did nothing to ease the tension evident in Roddie’s posture. ‘Can’t say I miss the job. My pension’s good, I do a wee bit of security work to top it up.’
Rebecca risked a quick glance and saw Roddie’s flesh had paled even further. To his credit, though, he was holding Sawyer’s gaze and when he spoke his voice had gained some muscle. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Thunder Bay Page 4