Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  He nodded slowly, seeing the sense in her argument. He was relieved. His face relaxed and he looked like he’d been told the dentist was off that day. She stood up, every muscle and tendon in her legs throbbing, and opened the passenger door as Chaz rounded the vehicle’s bonnet. She was contemplating the effort of lifting her leg onto the baseboard when her phone rang. It caught her by surprise. ‘There’s a signal out here?’

  Chaz nodded. ‘Broadband’s crap but mobile signals can be great, if patchy.’

  She dug the phone out of her pocket and checked the screen, feeling instantly a tightening in her chest that had nothing to do with her exertions. It was the office calling. She thought about not answering. She could say later she had been sleeping. She was ill, after all. At least as far as Barry was concerned. But then it might not be Barry. It might be one of the other reporters with a query about something she had left unfinished. She felt bad enough leaving them to pick up her slack, so she climbed into the passenger seat, closed the door to cut out as much of the background noise as she could and slid the button to green.

  It wasn’t one of her colleagues. It was Barry. She’d barely got out a hello before he went on the attack. ‘What the hell are you doing on that bloody island?’

  She thought about continuing the lie, bluffing it out, but that moment was passed. ‘Barry, let me explain . . .’

  ‘I told you not to go there.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  ‘But you went anyway, right?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly like that.’

  Actually, it was and she knew it. What was worse, Barry knew it too.

  ‘Bollocks, Rebecca.’ Rebecca. He only ever used her full name when he was angry, which wasn’t often, to be fair. In fact, she’d never heard his voice so full of rage, even though she could tell he was trying to control it. ‘You deliberately defied me. I need you here—your colleagues need you here. Remember them, Rebecca? The people you work with? The ones you left to carry your load while you went off on some . . . some . . .’ His fury was impairing his ability to find the right words, which wasn’t like him. He found them, though. ‘Some sort of personal crusade.’

  ‘Barry . . .’ she said, but he wasn’t finished.

  ‘Not only have you shown a complete lack of courtesy to everyone here, and that includes me, Rebecca, your boss, in case you’ve forgotten, but it’s also selfish and unprofessional . . .’

  She felt the words sting. ‘Barry . . .’ she began again.

  ‘This isn’t some bloody movie, Rebecca. You’re not the maverick reporter who goes her own way and to hell with the consequences. I told you not to go and you went. This is amateur hour, this is fucking out of order . . .’

  He was swearing now. Barry never swore, or at least she’d never heard him swear. From his point of view she was in the wrong and that troubled her because now she was beginning to wonder if he was right.

  ‘Did that Wymark lad know what you were doing?’

  She glanced at Chaz, who was watching her face intently, a slight frown crinkling his brow. ‘No, he didn’t know I was coming until I got here. He thinks you’ve okayed it . . .’

  Barry fell silent, trying to gauge if she was telling the truth. Rebecca suspected that if he decided she was lying then Chaz would get no more work from the paper. She didn’t want that on her conscience. She was relieved when Barry sighed and said, ‘Okay. Right.’ He paused again—she wondered if it was to take a calming breath. ‘I want you on the next ferry back here.’

  She didn’t reply. He wouldn’t like the word that came into her head.

  ‘You hear me, Rebecca? I want you back here and at your desk tomorrow morning.’

  She leaned forward in the seat, her head almost resting on the dashboard. She hated what she was about to do. She hated having to defy him again. He had called this a personal crusade and that was exactly what it boiled down to. This was personal, at least part of it, and she had to see it through.

  ‘I can’t do that, Barry.’

  His voice was low and curt. ‘What?’

  Something dry and bitter lined her throat, so she swallowed to dislodge it. Her heart hammered in her chest. This was worse than any door-stepping assignment. ‘I’m on to something here. You have to believe me . . .’

  ‘Did you not hear me? You’re not Woodward and Bernstein. This isn’t the Washington Post. This isn’t the Sunday fucking Times. We’re the Highland Chronicle, a weekly newspaper. We report on wheelie bins and dog shit and local court stories and jumble sales, for Christ’s sake. We’re not built for a reporter to swan off for days on one story.’

  She sat back up again, injecting as much strength into her voice as she could. ‘This is important, Barry.’

  ‘Getting your arse back here and behind that desk is important. Getting your pay once a month is important. If you don’t do the first, then you’ll no longer get the second, understand me?’

  So there it was. She knew she risked losing her job, but she never thought he’d actually threaten it. Now that he had she felt even worse than before. Reporting jobs weren’t easy to come by and being dismissed wasn’t something from which you bounced back quickly. She couldn’t simply submit, though. It wasn’t in her nature.

  ‘Barry, who told you I was here?’ There were two possibilities. Simon. Had he simply told his mate because he’d finally taken the hint that whatever there had been between them was over and he wanted to punish her? She hoped that wasn’t true, because not only did it reflect badly on a man she thought was fundamentally decent but also she was rooting for the other possibility, one that might—might—give her a toehold in this argument.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Barry said. ‘The point is, I know . . .’

  ‘It matters.’

  He exhaled again. ‘I got a call from Heather . . .’

  Yes, Rebecca thought. Heather was the manager of the advertising department and she thought little of interfering in editorial matters if it meant additional revenue. The problem was, the London owners tended to agree with her, the need to protect shareholder dividends and executive bonuses being deemed more important than any news story.

  Barry continued. ‘They’d been contacted by the Stuart estate over there. They said you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself, asking questions.’

  ‘They threatened to withdraw advertising, didn’t they?’

  ‘Not in so many words. But that was the gist, yes. It seems they have a substantial budget set aside for this new venture—and the distillery—and Heather is worried you’ll scupper our chance of getting a piece of it.’

  ‘They actually said that, that I’ve been making a nuisance of myself?’

  ‘That’s what Heather said. So, let me ask you: what the hell does the Stuart estate have to do with a fifteen-year-old murder?’

  ‘As far as I know, nothing. But I did cover a public meeting last night about the proposals for the estate.’

  ‘So? It seems it’s welcomed by everyone.’

  ‘Not quite everyone. There’s local opposition.’

  ‘There’s always local opposition. They don’t want trees cut down, they don’t want heather disturbed, there’s a newt with a “Do Not Disturb” sign on its nest. People don’t like change, some just don’t like progress. But I still want you back here, Becks.’

  He was back to calling her Becks, which meant he’d calmed down a little. She was grateful for that but she couldn’t surrender her position. She couldn’t meekly go back. She knew she was tempting fate but she had to fight her corner. There was too much of her father in her to let it go.

  ‘I can’t do that, Barry.’ She heard him begin to say something, but she carried on. ‘I’m sorry, but this is important.’

  ‘Important to who? You?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s also a story here. More than one. Roddie Drummond. The estate. I mean, why don’t they want me asking questions? What have they got to hide? There’s a suggestion that they’ve forcibly moved a few te
nants off the land to make way for the new plans. What’s that about, Barry? Have we got some new clearances going on over here?’ She glanced at Chaz again, who was nodding. ‘Also, Lord Henry Stuart and the dead woman were childhood friends. That didn’t come out in court, as far as I know.’

  ‘Any reason why it should? I’m sure she had lots of childhood friends who didn’t get a mention in court.’

  ‘Maybe so, but none of them have had their people phone our advertising department to apply pressure.’

  He thought about that. ‘I don’t care, Becks. We’re not set up for this sort of thing, not at the moment.’

  She went on the attack. ‘What happened to comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable, Barry? If we don’t do it, then who will? We let the big boys handle it? Is that what we’re about? All the news that’s fit to print, as long as it’s easy?’ She’d appealed to his journalistic instincts before. And failed. She was trying again. Chances were she would fail but she had to push it. ‘And here’s something else that wasn’t mentioned back then. Mhairi said she was in trouble . . .’

  ‘Who’s Mhairi?’

  ‘The victim, Barry. The woman who died. The young mother who was found beaten to death in her home.’ She realised her tone had sharpened, so she blunted it before she spoke again. ‘Something was worrying her. Something scared her.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’ve spoken to a witness who didn’t give evidence.’ She hoped Barry wouldn’t ask why Donnie didn’t testify because when he heard that he had been a junkie at the time he’d do what the Crown did and reject whatever he said as unreliable. She pressed on. ‘If I can get all that after one day here, Barry, think what I’ll get if I stay on a few more. This is big, Barry. This is the kind of thing that wins awards. This is the kind of thing that could get a guy back to the city, if he played it right. All he needs to do is have the courage I know he has and stay the course.’

  She waited for him to respond. She waited for what seemed like a long time. She had deliberately dangled getting back into the dailies because she knew that’s what he wanted. This was a personal crusade for her, so she had to give him the motivation to get on board. Chaz watched her and she had the feeling he was holding his breath. Through the windshield she saw something move against the sky. Something big that seemed to float towards the cliffs, its long wings giving way to feather fingers.

  ‘Okay,’ said Barry, his voice low. ‘Here’s what we do. You take this week as unpaid leave.’

  She felt relief wash over her. ‘Thanks, Barry.’

  ‘And I don’t hand you your P45. But you be back here on Monday morning, come what may. And you email me a story about last night’s meeting.’

  She ignored the fact that if the leave was unpaid, she shouldn’t have to send a story. She was getting off lightly and she knew it. As she thanked him again and the conversation ended, she watched the bird languidly beat its wings once or twice and then head gracefully over the cliff edge towards its nest.

  The eagle really had landed.

  22

  The morning classes seemed interminable to Sonya. Her first thought had been to bunk off, but she’d never done that before and was too afraid of being caught. She knew of others who would dodge classes and head away from Portnaseil to a remote part of the coast but that wasn’t for her. She liked school, she enjoyed learning. Today, though, she had something to do. Certainly it could wait until later, but she was eager to get it done.

  Time dragged. Each click of the second hand on the big clock on the wall seemed to be in slow motion. Then finally it was lunchtime. She dashed out of school, avoiding both Gus and Sylvia, and headed straight for Campbell Drummond’s workshop on the upper fringe of the town, keeping an eye out for her gran or granddad. It was unlikely they would be up this way, but you just never knew. Of course, there was the chance someone would spot her and tell them, but she could say she was just out for a walk at lunchtime. Why she was lingering on the roadway within sight of the workshop and the cottage beside it was a more difficult sell, so she dodged behind a hedge from which she could keep watch, hoping Roddie Drummond would come out so she could talk to him. She didn’t have the courage to knock on his door; it had to appear to be an accidental meeting. She took a sandwich she’d prepared that morning from her bag and bit into it. She was hungry. She had half an hour tops, but she couldn’t face classes that afternoon on an empty stomach.

  A couple of cars passed as she watched, including Alisdair McGovern’s Ford pick-up. He was probably heading to see his sister, who lived a mile to the north. She saw his big broad face peering out at her and he gave her a quick wave. She waved back.

  A couple of off-islanders sauntered by, also heading north, obviously late-season tourists. They nodded to her and she nodded back, hoping they wouldn’t start a conversation or ask directions. Thankfully, they kept on walking up the rise until they eventually vanished over the crest of the hill.

  She had been waiting for around twenty minutes when Deirdre Marsh drove up in her battered little Peugeot and stopped in the yard beside Campbell Drummond’s black van. The big double doors to the workshop were open and, even at this distance, Sonya could hear the clang of hammer on metal. The woman made no attempt to get out, although her head was angled towards the cottage door as if she was watching it intently. Campbell must have heard the sound of the idling engine because he appeared in the workshop doorway, wiping his hand on a rag. He frowned as he walked to the car and leaned into the driver’s window. Sonya couldn’t hear what was being said, but she saw Campbell briefly crane his neck to glance towards the cottage door then shake his head as he turned back to face her. He had both hands on the car door, as if he was holding it shut, but he stepped back when she pushed it open. He said something else, but Deirdre ignored him when she climbed out and walked purposefully towards the cottage.

  The front door opened just as she reached it and Sonya’s breath caught in her throat as she saw Roddie Drummond for the first time. He looked so different from the photograph she’d seen. Not just older but defeated. As if life had been nothing but a disappointment to him.

  He said something to Deirdre, glanced at his father, who shrugged, his hands working at the rag again as if he was washing them of any responsibility. Roddie watched him disappear into the workshop, then stood aside to let Deirdre enter. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, his eyes sweeping the roadway and the countryside. Sonya eased further behind the hedge but she could still see him through the twigs. He seemed to stare straight at her for a second, then closed the door.

  She waited a few minutes, the sandwich forgotten in her hand, her feelings mixed. That was Roddie Drummond. The man they all said had murdered her mother. More than ever she wanted to speak to him, to face him, but part of her, now that she’d set eyes upon him, wasn’t sure it was a good idea. As it was, she was unlikely to see him, not now that Deirdre Marsh was with him.

  She thrust the half-eaten sandwich away, knowing she’d grab a few minutes back at school to finish it, and then, with a final glance at the Drummond home, shouldered her bag. While she walked back towards Portnaseil, she wondered what business the gamekeeper’s wife had with Roddie Drummond.

  She was only dimly aware of Alisdair’s pick-up cruising past her again.

  * * *

  Deirdre was surprised at how much Roddie had aged. His hair was thinner, his body, which she recalled as being young and firm and a joy not just to watch but to caress, had sagged. His face was fuller, his eyes not as bright. But he was still her Roddie, she knew that. After all, she was no longer the woman she had once been, but if Roddie was disappointed at her appearance, he didn’t show it.

  He led her into the cottage’s small living room with its old but comfortable three-piece suite, an open fire with its coals lifeless in the grate, and heavy, dark furniture that had probably been in the family for generations. There were windows to the front, looking onto the courtyard, and rear, fac
ing a small, neat garden. Radio 2 was playing in the kitchen, Jeremy Vine talking to someone about parking in the city. Other people’s problems and a world away from the island.

  ‘Good to see you, Deirdre,’ Roddie said, motioning towards an armchair.

  She perched on the edge of the cushion, partly because her body still ached but also because she was nervous. She’d been fine in the car, her mood almost buoyant over her sudden decisiveness. But now she was here, in this small cottage, seeing the man she’d thought about so often over the years, her certainty began to waver. It wasn’t that she had been put off by the way he looked now, that didn’t matter, but it occurred to her that she didn’t know where he’d been all this time. For all she knew he could be married. He could have a family. She couldn’t see a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything. Perhaps he was in a stable relationship but unmarried. Until now, she hadn’t considered the possibility that there would be someone else in his life.

  Roddie leaned forward on the settee, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. ‘How have you been?’

  How have I been? She almost laughed. She wanted to say that there hadn’t been a day she hadn’t thought of him. She wanted to say that she often thought of how different her life would have been had they gone away like they’d planned. She wanted to say that when Carl made his demands, it was Roddie’s flesh she stroked, his lips she kissed, it was him she felt moving inside her. These were the things she’d come here to say, but in that moment she couldn’t.

  ‘I’ve been fine, Roddie. And you? What have you been doing with yourself?’

  A short laugh escaped his throat. ‘This and that.’

  They fell silent again. This was not how she had dreamt this. She hadn’t expected him to pull her into his arms—she didn’t know what she had expected, but it wasn’t this. But what else was there? They had once been white hot with passion, but a lot of time had passed. Now it was just polite conversation.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your mother,’ she said, amazed at how normal her voice sounded, while in her mind she was willing him to tell her how much he missed her, how much he wanted her, that he wanted to be with her.