The Sea Detective

by Mark Douglas-Home

  ‘Yes of course it was the right shoe Jamieson. How many people do you know with two left feet, apart from yourself?’

  ‘It’s an Air Max 95. The shoe we’ve got is a recently restyled model. The remaining shoe is an Air Max Classic BW – BW stands for ‘Big Window’ sir – and it was introduced in 1991 though there have been different trims and adaptations since then. This one is a new version, last year.’

  ‘Is that all Jamieson?’

  ‘Not quite sir.’

  ‘Well go on.’

  ‘You might have noticed sir. There’s no wear and tear on the soles. They’re new, sir.’

  Ryan frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Ryan tapped his pencil on his notepad. ‘So why would someone wear two odd trainers which were brand new?’

  ‘I’ve no idea sir.’

  Ryan sneered at her. ‘No I don’t suppose you do. Is that all you’ve got, Jamieson?’

  Jamieson flushed in anger. She was damned if she was going to tell him now.

  ‘Yes sir.’

  No sir. The shoes are counterfeit sir.

  Ryan was scribbling again.

  The logo is wrong sir.

  ‘Is there anything else Jamieson?’ Ryan didn’t bother to look up.

  ‘Nothing sir.’

  The labels are the wrong format sir.

  ‘Jamieson, make sure you don’t tell anyone about the trainers not matching. I mean no-one, Got that.’

  ‘Yes sir. I’ve got that sir.’

  Two can play this game sir.

  The next morning Jamieson’s pique had subsided. She went into police headquarters intending to tell Ryan about the counterfeit shoes but he wasn’t in his office. When she went to the detectives’ room she found he’d left a note on her desk.

  ‘1. Where’s your report on the trainers? By 11am urgent.

  ‘2. Scottish Association for Marine Science at the Scottish Marine Institute, Dunstaffnage, Oban. Dr Tim Lenska, an expert on Atlantic and North Sea currents. You have an appointment with him at 3pm.’

  At 10.37 Jamieson signed the three page report on the trainers and carried it to Ryan’s office. She knocked on his door. There was no reply and she knocked again. His PA, a nervy temp with eaten away finger nails, called over to her from her recessed workstation half way along the corridor.

  ‘He’s gone out.’

  ‘Oh … do you know when he will be back?’

  ‘He’s gone to East Lothian, Seacliff beach.’

  ‘Oh, why?’

  ‘Something to do with television. He didn’t tell me exactly.’ She pulled on her stringy blonde hair and let out a nervy giggle.

  ‘No, nor me. Look can you give him this. He wanted it for 11. It’s Joan isn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m Helen.’

  ‘Hi.’ She took the report from Jamieson but something else also passed between them. It began with a look of desperation on the PA’s face and it ended with Jamieson’s expression of understanding. She patted her on the hand. ‘Remember it’s the good guys who win in the end, always.’

  A flicker of a smile crossed Joan’s face. Another of forlorn longing came into her eyes and another icicle dropped into Jamieson’s heart. My God he’s screwed her too.

  On the way back from Oban, a three hour drive, Jamieson listened to Classic FM before switching to Radio 4 for the news at 6pm. It was the third item. ‘Police try to solve a new puzzle in the case of the severed feet. Why was one of the missing men wearing odd shoes?’ Jamieson stabbed her finger at the radio on/off button before Ryan’s voice came on, misjudging a bend and swinging wide as she did so. She drove the rest of the way to Lothian and Borders Police HQ chastened and in a rage. On her desk was a note. ‘My office ASAP.’

  DC Tessa Rainey passed her as she was reading it. ‘He put that there about 20 minutes ago.’

  Jamieson remained silent.

  ‘Looking dishy as usual.’ Rainey growled with theatrical desire.

  Jamieson said acidly, ‘I’ve never seen the attraction of shagging a shit like Ryan but maybe you’re just more used to it than me.’

  Rainey put her hands on her hips and tossed her hair. ‘Well I’m certainly more used to being shagged than you … at least that’s what I’m told.’

  ‘Haven’t you got better things to do Tessa?’

  Two male detectives exchanged glances and jeered. Rainey walked towards them wiggling her hips. They whistled and jeered some more.

  Jamieson covered her ears with her hands. The faint sound of laughter followed her through the closed door. Was she really hearing it or was her imagination conjuring up the noise she expected to fill every room after she’d left it? Ryan was sitting at his desk flicking through a sheaf of press cuttings. Jamieson stood in his doorway waiting for him to look up. ‘Is this a good time, sir?’

  Ryan kept on turning pages. ‘That depends on what you’ve got, Detective Constable.’

  ‘Can I come in, sir?’

  ‘I can hear you well enough from there.’

  ‘Dr Lenska wasn’t able to be of much help sir. You see tracking floating objects isn’t really a developed field of scientific investigation.’

  Ryan stopped what he was doing. ‘So you’ve got nothing for a whole day’s work, Jamieson.’

  ‘I didn’t say that sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m waiting.’

  ‘Dr Lenska says marine science is more interested in salinity, temperature, whether currents are flowing faster or slower than in tracking objects. But there is someone who is expert at it, one of his part-time PhD students.’

  ‘Well Jamieson, who is it?’

  ‘Dr Lenska shares data with him and so does the Met Office. He’s developed the best tracking program, the only one with complete data for the North Atlantic and North Sea.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  Jamieson waited to savour the moment. ‘Cal McGill, sir.’

  Ryan stared at Jamieson. His jaw muscles pulsed with tension.

  ‘He’s very good at it sir, highly rated.’

  ‘Are you off your head?’

  ‘I don’t think so sir.’

  ‘Are you seriously suggesting we go to a guy who has raided the gardens of half the politicians in this country, including the Environment and Justice Ministers?’

  ‘If he can help us sir …?’

  ‘I’d be crucified. Can you imagine the headlines?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Go away Jamieson.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  When Jamieson returned to her desk Rainey and the two male detectives had gone. She clicked on her private hotmail account. She didn’t want this email in the office system. She wrote McGill’s address followed by ‘Dear Mr McGill, Can we meet?’ She signed it Helen Jamieson, not Detective Constable Jamieson. She stared at what she’d done, realising she was one click away from something irrevocable. Then her nerve wavered and she saved it to drafts.

  Walking home, she wondered what Isobel Dalgleish would have thought of her taking such risks with her career. She’d have advised against it, strongly, Jamieson decided. Back in her flat, changing her shoes, Jamieson glanced at the photograph of Isobel in her police uniform, on the chest of drawers. She picked up the frame and studied her adoptive mother’s expression. There was pride there and in the lines around her eyes something that Jamieson hadn’t noticed before. Was it disapproval at what her daughter was contemplating? ‘Ryan’s rotten, Isobel, a bastard. You don’t understand. He’s not like you.’

  Chapter 12

  She introduced herself as Mrs Ferguson and apologised to Cal for greeting him in her dressing-gown with the implicit reproach: ‘I dare say you wouldn’t expect anything else since it is well past midnight’. He mumbled something apologetic about the late train from Edinburgh and followed her to the Lavender Room, her last vacancy, on the third floor of the B&B close to Inverness station. At the penultimate half-landing she stopped to catch her breath.
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br />   ‘This is your bathroom.’ She spoke in a hushed, impatient manner. ‘You’ll find towels in your room.’

  ‘Will there still be hot water?’ Cal asked.

  Mrs Ferguson adjusted her hair net. ‘There will of course, though at this hour I dare say my other guests would value their sleep more than your cleanliness.’ Her disapproval hung in the air along with the smell of pine lavatory cleaner.

  ‘Perhaps a small one,’ Cal tried in conciliation.

  ‘The morning would be more appropriate for bathing.’ Mrs Ferguson pursed her thin colourless lips. A pale pink blush of irritation simultaneously appeared on her cheeks which were greasy with night cream. ‘Your room is this way.’

  She led him to the next landing and along a corridor panelled in dark wood. ‘It’s a comfortable room, and warm,’ she remarked opening the door and switching on the light. ‘It looks on to the river.’

  The Lavender Room turned out to be painted pale green with a mushroom coloured carpet. A yellow fluted vase filled with dried lavender stood on the mahogany chest of drawers.

  Mrs Ferguson went to the window and closed the curtains. ‘Breakfast is from 8–9.30’ As an afterthought, she added, ‘Punctual.’

  ‘Oh, I have to catch a train at 8 …’ Cal’s exclamation trailed away leaving behind the unspoken suggestion of breakfast earlier.

  Whether Mrs Ferguson detected it or not she replied brusquely, ‘Indeed, ah well’ and bid him good night.

  Cal propped his rucksack against a chintzy arm-chair, threw his jacket on to the bed before looking back round the door. Mrs Ferguson had gone. He went to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. He was grimy and tired after his unexpectedly long journey: an obstacle on the line, whatever that meant. If he wasn’t getting breakfast, he was certainly going to have a bath. When he turned the hot tap there was a loud gurgling, followed by a rush of water, and a distant clank of pipes. He imagined his landlady lying in bed, disapproving, lips pursed tight, and his mouth pulled right in a brief smirk. The bath was half full when he turned off the rush of steaming water. Before he could add any cold he heard the distant ring of his phone. He jumped up, opened the door, and went back along the dark corridor to his room. The mobile was beside his jacket on the bed. He grabbed at it and pressed answer without looking at the screen to see the caller’s number. ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Cal, are you awake?’

  It was Rachel. He swore silently.

  ‘It’s late Rachel.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘So you thought you’d wake everyone else up.’

  ‘Oh, were you asleep?’

  ‘I was about to have a bath.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Cal didn’t feel like asking her why she couldn’t sleep.

  Rachel filled the silence. ‘Did you go and see Miss MacKay?’

  ‘Yes. …’

  ‘Did she tell you about your grandparents?’

  ‘Yeah …’ He knew it was grudging but he didn’t want her thinking he was apologising for arguing the last time they’d spoken. She’d just have to make do with him sounding ungrateful.

  ‘It’s extraordinary they’d leave Uilleam’s name off the memorial like that,’ she said.

  Cal didn’t reply straight away. Then he said, ‘What is it you want from me Rachel?’ It didn’t come out the way he expected. He tried again, ‘I suppose you’re after permission to use my grandfather’s story.’ But the damage had been done. He knew it, and he couldn’t bring himself to undo it.

  Usually when he caught her on the raw, her speech became cold and distant. It was that way when she answered. ‘I didn’t think I needed your permission, and anyway that’s not why I’m ringing.’

  He closed his eyes and swore silently again. He hated what he became on the phone, talking to Rachel. Why did she ring him?

  When he didn’t reply, Rachel said, ‘You always think the worst of me.’ It was an accusation he’d heard before, often.

  ‘How would you like it if I was grubbing around in your family?’

  ‘I’m not grubbing.’

  ‘What else do you call it?’

  ‘I’m making a programme, Cal.’

  ‘Well go on. Tell me you don’t want to use my grandfather’s story.’

  ‘Cal, I wasn’t ringing to ask you for anything.’

  ‘Well, what else is there?’ Cal regretted the question. It gave her an opportunity to open up the conversation, to talk about their marriage split. Before she had a chance to reply, he said, ‘Can’t you see it from my point of view? You doing a programme about Eilean Iasgaich … my family …?’

  ‘Why is it always about you Cal?’

  ‘Well, tell me you’re not doing it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know the answer.’

  ‘You’re being unreasonable, Rachel.’

  ‘I’m doing my job.’

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked, suddenly suspicious.

  ‘I’m in Eastern Township, at the hotel.’

  Cal said nothing, another brooding silence.

  ‘I haven’t exactly made a secret of it, Cal. I’m researching the programme. So, I’m in Eastern Township. Ok. It’s not big news.’

  ‘Oh, of course you’re not ringing about that.’ Cal laughed. ‘Course not.’ Now he was angry again.

  Rachel sighed. ‘Do you really know want to know why I’m ringing?’

  ‘Ok. Go on.’

  ‘It’s because I can’t get to sleep and I thought you might like to talk to someone about Grace Ann MacKay and your grandfather.’

  ‘Oh come on, Rachel,’ he said. ‘You know what this is all about.’

  ‘Yes, yes I do. It’s about you. It’s always about you.’ With that she ended the call.

  ‘Fuck.’ He fell spread-eagled on the bed. ‘Fuck.’ After a while, he rolled on to his side, flicked the switch by the side of the headboard which turned off the overhead light. He was still fully clothed. Sometime during the night he remembered the bath he’d run.

  It was after 2am and the lane running along the side of The Cask was dark. A slender, girlish figure ran quickly to the back of the building. She rounded the corner and stopped by a rusted iron ladder. She clambered up it to a wooden landing from which whisky barrels once were lowered to the backs of waiting carts and, in a later era, lorries. She paused there, crouching, listening, before climbing the old industrial fire escape which rose from the landing. Near its top was a gully in the slate roof. She crawled into it. The gully was wide, with lead flashing in the bottom, which made walking easy. There were rows of plants there. They were all the same, in little plastic pots. Beyond them was a stairway with an iron handrail up to a small wooden door which was recessed into the roof. She listened at the door, pulled on it, opened it a fraction, then more until it was wide enough for her to squeeze through. Inside, she waited again, the whites of her eyes flashing as she searched the room. She was certain as she could be that nobody was there. She’d seen Cal McGill leave and the lights had been off all night. Still, she had a fear of being trapped. She paused, to calm her breathing, before descending the spiral stairs. The map she’d seen in the newspaper was on the far wall. It was lit dimly by the light from the street. The newspaper cutting was there too, in a shadow. She reached for it, easing it from the wall, taking it to the table behind her, beginning to feel nauseous with anxiety for Preeti. She clicked on the desk lamp and read the cutting quickly before turning it off. Now she was in blackness; her eyes still dazzled with the glare of the bulb and filling with tears. She fell to the floor. ‘No, Preeti.’

  Her beautiful friend, her gentle protector, had been dead three years and Basanti hadn’t even known. Her sweet, lovely face had been cut by a boat’s propeller blades. Basanti cried, curled up where she’d fallen, her body shaking with sobs. From the very first day they met, in the car with the blackened windows, Preeti had been her support. Even after their separation she knew
Preeti would be brave and it made her brave too. Weren’t they the most beautiful girls ever born to Bedia? Wasn’t their blood warrior blood? Even apart they were together; strong, resilient. Except it was a fiction: Preeti was dead. Basanti’s imagination flipped from one image to another: the fright in Preeti’s eyes; her face luminous and lost in a vast ocean; the livid propeller slashes across Preeti’s cheeks. Gradually the sobbing stopped. But she continued to lie there until her emotions turned cold and determined. Now she had to avenge Preeti. Now she had to be brave again. Wouldn’t Preeti accompany her, just as she had these last three years?

  Chapter 13

  The early morning train from Inverness to Lairg arrived on time. The Postbus which travelled the remaining forty miles to Eastern Township was waiting at the station. Cal was the only passenger. He sat behind the driver, a woman in her mid-40s with a wind-beaten ruddy face, hoping it would discourage her from talking. She had other ideas. Her name was Sally ‘and yes, I’m English before you ask’. He wasn’t about to but he could hardly cut her dead now.

  ‘What brought you this far north?’ he said, as the Postbus gathered speed.

  ‘Oh, a fellah, of course …’ She erupted with laughter. ‘It’s always a fellah for a girl. But no sooner had I come up here than he went south. I was done with chasing him so I stayed.’

  He grunted in sympathy.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  ‘A lowlander: the English are more welcome here than lowlanders …’ She giggled. ‘… That’s not saying much, mind. The English are the Poles around here. We drive the taxis and the buses; run the shops and the cafes. We’re the builders, the carpenters, the plumbers and the electricians. I don’t know what they’d do without us, and all we get is resentment and called names like white settler. Huh.’

  Cal watched the scenery go by for a few minutes hoping his silence would end the conversation. But Sally wanted to chat. ‘What brings you up here?’

  ‘My mother’s family came from Sutherland.’

  ‘Oh, where?’

  ‘Eilean Iasgaich, do you know it?’

  She glanced at him in the mirror. ‘The brave men of Eilean Iasgaich, the MacKays and the Raes?’