by Iain North
‘Ever thought of buying a fridge?’ Jim suggested before reading on.
‘Locals clash with protestors. Maybe the dead man was a protestor.’
‘What? You think someone from Strathcarron did for him?’ George was not convinced. ‘It seems a bit unlikely.’
‘It’s just a thought. There doesn’t seem to be much else to go on at the moment.’ George considered the theory for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. There is a lot at stake: jobs, money.’
‘You’ll remember the base when it opened.’
‘Great boost for the local economy.’ George ferreted in the stack of paper again and retrieved a black and white photograph. He handed it to Jim.
‘A big operation.’ Jim was impressed. The picture was an aerial shot of the yard in its heyday. There were huge sheds, row upon row of prefabricated houses and great piles of steel.
‘A workforce of 1600.’ George pointed to the dry-dock in the centre of the photo. ‘That’s where chummy ended up.’
Jim squinted at the massive horseshoe carved into the hillside, a man-made boom separating the pond from the open waters of Loch Kishorn.
The phone rang. It was a bakelite receiver from the days of the General Post Office, with a proper old-fashioned ring. George picked up the grubby yellow handset.
‘Hullo Eddie. What’s new?’ He listened intently. The call lasted for about 30 seconds.
‘Grab your coat,’ George said, smiling broadly.
The drive to Shiel Bridge took about 15 minutes. It was still early and the road was clear of motor homes and caravans.
George spotted Inspector Macdonald’s Land Rover, parked in a lay-by just off the main road. ‘There.’
Jim indicated and swung his car in behind it. Ahead of them were the charred remains of what appeared to be a caravan. There was so little left it was not easy to make an instant identification. But it didn’t look like the usual tourist sort. It was larger, the type favoured by gypsies and travelling show people. There was a blue Ford Transit parked next to it, one side blackened by the flames that must have ripped through the mobile home, and a fire engine.
Inspector Macdonald was surveying the scene, keeping his distance. A constable was circling the vehicle with blue and white police tape.
George bounded over. ‘Chip pan fire?’
Macdonald put out an arm to stop him going any nearer. ‘We’re waiting for Dr Mackenzie.’
‘Dr Mackenzie?’ Jim caught up with George.
‘Pathologist.’
Jim cast his eye over the blackened remains. The shell of the caravan was completely absent. All that remained was the chassis and a few buckled upright pillars, piles of charred debris stacked up on all sides. The firemen were rolling up their hoses.
Jim looked closer. In the midst of the carnage he thought he saw a face, black and featureless. His mouth suddenly felt very dry, then a surge of saliva. He sprinted behind Inspector Macdonald’s Land Rover and threw up.
‘Feeling better?’ Inspector Macdonald cast him a wry smile as he straightened up.
George looked pale, but obviously possessed a stronger constitution.
Jim nodded. He took out his cigarettes but put the box away untouched. He still felt slightly queasy.
‘Thanks for the call.’ George took the spotlight off Jim. ‘Do you think there’s a connection?’
‘I’ve gone a whole year without a suspicious death and then two come along on the same day,’ Macdonald mused. ‘I think it’s fair to say there might be.’
George nodded. ‘We’ll have no problem filling the paper this week.’
The three men looked back at the body in the caravan.
‘The fire brigade was called out half an hour ago. A lorry driver spotted smoke. But the fire was long out. Just the smouldering remains,’ Macdonald said.
‘When did it start?’ George asked.
‘Around midnight they think.’
‘And nobody saw anything?’
Macdonald glanced at the high embankment between the lay-by and the A87. ‘It’s pretty secluded. The guy in the lorry only found it because he pulled off the road for a piss.’
George elbowed Jim in the ribs, ‘You must think every crime in this part of the world is discovered by someone with a weak bladder.’
‘It’s starting to look that way,’ Jim replied out of politeness. His stomach was turning like a washing machine on spin cycle and George’s none to gentle prod had only served to unsettle it further.
They wandered back towards the police Land Rover.
‘Travellers?’ George ventured.
Macdonald nodded. ‘We’ve had a few complaints from residents over recent weeks about them. They’ve been moving around the lay-bys. They’re not really a problem, as long as they don’t pitch up too close to folks’ homes.’
George turned to Jim. ‘Hardly ties in with your theory.’
Macdonald was curious. ‘Theory?’
‘The body in the dock,’ Jim muttered, ‘I thought he might be an environmental protestor.’
‘Done in by a B&B landlady from Lochcarron,’ George chuckled.
Macdonald slipped a notepad from his top pocket and flipped it open.
‘His name is Billy Reid. He was a student from Glasgow. No mention of any environmental group links, though. His parents are on their way up.’
George scribbled the name in his own notebook. ‘Married? Single?’
‘Single.’
‘What was he studying?’ Jim asked.
‘Architecture, at Caledonian University.’
‘Why was he up here?’
‘Hill walking trip, according to his flatmate.’
‘Any word on the post mortem?’
‘We had hoped to have the preliminary results this afternoon, but this will throw a spanner in the works.’ Macdonald looked back at the burnt out caravan. ‘It’s going to be a bugger getting a positive ID on this poor sod. The Transit belongs to a builder in Perth. He reported it stolen a fortnight ago. It’ll be one for dental records, if our man here ever visited a dentist.’
Macdonald looked at his watch. ‘Forensics are coming down from Inverness. There’s not much more I can do until they arrive.’
*****
‘I don’t know when I’ll be home.’ Jim dangled the receiver by his ear. ‘I’ve got some work to do up here. But it should only take a couple of days.’
Jenny was not happy. But then she never was when he was working. And the fact he was away from home made it twice as bad.
‘You remember Brian, from the Mail,’ Jim persisted. ‘I spoke to him last week and made the mistake of telling him I was coming up here for a few days. He called me up on the mobile this morning and...’
Jenny interrupted again. ‘What about Ron’s wedding? We’re supposed to be flying out at the end of next week and we’ve still got to get you fitted for your suit.’
Jim rolled his eyes and looked skyward. ‘I’ll be back in time for that. This will only take a day or two.’
‘But your fitting’s tomorrow, so they can make the alterations.’
‘It’s only a suit.’
‘This is your best friend’s wedding. I’m not having you turning up looking like a tramp.’
Jim lifted his pint of lager from the top of the hotel payphone and took a mouthful.
‘You know my measurements, can’t you not just give them to the shop and let them get on with it?’
Jenny huffed. ‘If you want to turn up looking like a third division football team manager, then that’s your choice. But don’t expect me to sit next to you at the reception.’
Jim bit his tongue. She wouldn’t be sitting next to him at the reception anyway because he was the best man and he’d be at the top table. But he decided not to point that out.
‘Okay. Can you give the shop a phone and book me in for Monday? I should be back by then.’
Jenny let out another audible sigh to show him she wasn’t at
all happy at the inconvenience of it all.
‘I’ll call them tomorrow.’
‘Thanks. I’ll see you on Sunday night.’
Jim replaced the receiver and took another slurp from his glass. He shook his head and returned to the hotel bar.
George was stuffing the remnants of a large slice of Black Forest gateau into his chocolate-encrusted gob.
‘Trouble on the home front?’ he spluttered.
‘Nothing serious.’ Jim sat back down opposite him and stared into his pint.
‘Women, eh?’ George smeared a paper napkin across his mouth, missing most of the black debris.
‘Yeah, women,’ Jim agreed despondently.
‘Another pint?’
Jim nodded. ‘I’ll get them.’
*****
Chapter 3
Jim checked his watch. It was 5.l5am. His head was pounding.
‘One too many last night, eh?’ George chuckled.
‘You had the same. How come you’re so chirpy?’
‘Years of dedicated practice, mate.’ George unwrapped a mini pork pie and stuffed it into his mouth whole.
Jim’s stomach turned. ‘I just need to sleep it off.’
The chill of an early morning mist clung to his spine as he perched by the side of the road, trying to block out the nauseating chomps and slurps emanating from his companion. He felt sicker with each chew.
Across the road more police tape was being unfurled. Inspector Macdonald was getting through a year’s supply in one weekend.
George pulled a half bottle of whisky from the pocket of his Barbour and offered it to Jim. He shook his aching head.
‘It would make you feel better, hair of the dog and all that.’ George knocked back a generous measure.
‘No thanks.’ Jim dragged a tired hand across his sweating brow and watched the constable ring off a telegraph pole.
The ambulance departed 10 minutes before they arrived. It wasn’t needed. Now they were waiting for Inspector Macdonald’s verdict.
‘We could go and have a look, if you like,’ George suggested.
‘I’ll just wait here.’ Jim didn’t relish the prospect of seeing another dead body. One in a week was more than enough for him.
Inspector Macdonald was walking towards them.
‘Hullo George,’ he said breezily.
‘Third time lucky?’
‘Not for the driver, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s the story?’ Jim mumbled.
‘Well boys, we have an amazing coincidence here, two in fact.’ Macdonald was in his element. ‘The Ford Mondeo down there at the bottom... or rather what’s left of it... belongs to our young friend who went swimming during the early hours of yesterday morning.’
‘The lad in the dock?’ George interrupted.
Macdonald nodded confirmation. ‘It belonged to his parents. He’d borrowed it for the weekend.’
‘That is a coincidence,’ Jim added.
‘But not the only one.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You want to know who was driving?’
Jim and George nodded simultaneously.
‘A girl called Samantha O’Brien. Sixteen years of age. And she just happened to be related to the man who was barbecued in his caravan.’
‘At Shiel Bridge,’ George added.
‘We found his dental records. His name is Gary O’Brien and he was Samantha O’Brien’s uncle.’
‘Christ,’ George spluttered. ‘That should make your job a bit easier.’
‘The last thing I wanted on my patch was three murder inquiries,’ the inspector agreed. ‘I’m in the middle of organising the Highland Games.’
‘Have you got a motive?’ Jim asked.
‘There’s a bit of background to this one.’
Macdonald paused for a minute and it was George who broke the silence. ‘He was convicted of lewd and lib, wasn’t he?’
The policeman nodded. ‘You’ve a good memory. A few months back, at Oban Sheriff Court.’
Lewd and lib – journalist-speak for lewd and libidinous practices and behaviour; touching youngsters up.
George’s eyes narrowed, as his brain sifted through its bulging archive of news material. ‘I seem to remember it was against a member of his family.’
Macdonald nodded again. ‘Clearly it wasn’t reported in the papers at the time, but it was young Samantha.’
George shook his head despairingly. ‘That’s fuckin’ tragic.’
‘Revenge?’ Jim asked.
‘Maybe he tried it on again,’ Macdonald said. ‘She attacked him, and legged it.’
‘So what about Billy Reid?’ George added. ‘He’s got no connection to this, has he?’
Macdonald shook his head. ‘There is nothing to suggest any direct link. My guess at the moment is the poor sod just picked her up.’
Jim was curious. ‘But why kill him?’
Macdonald shrugged. ‘Maybe he tried it on too.’
‘And her death?’ George inquired.
‘It was most likely just an accident. She was 16. She probably couldn’t drive a car. She was going too fast, left the road and hit the telegraph pole.’
Jim glanced at the pole. The Mondeo had apparently hit it and rolled down the embankment. It had lain undiscovered for 24 hours. He looked at the road. It was straight enough, no bad bend.
Macdonald looked at George and then peered down the embankment. ‘So your friend’s theory is like that car - fucked.’
Jim was content enough, though. He had his story. ‘Gypsy pervert stabbed in revenge attack by the teen girl he abused.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘And no inconvenient legal complications.’
Everyone involved was dead, so there was no one to sue. The Sunday Mail would love it. He would be home in time for his suit fitting with a big cheque in his back pocket, and everyone would be happy, including Jenny.
*****
‘Do you want a coffee?’ George was holding up the kettle in his office.
‘Have you been to the shop for milk?’
George shook his head.
‘No thanks.’
Jim plonked his laptop down on George’s desk and powered it up.
‘That’s a result then,’ George said, filling the kettle up from a tiny chipped basin in the back corner of the room.
‘Certainly is.’ Jim was pounding away at the keyboard. His story was written and filed within 10 minutes. He had all but forgotten all about his drink-induced headache in the excitement.
‘You’ll be heading back to civilisation?’
‘Aye,’ Jim nodded, giving his friend only scant regard as he struggled to find a mobile broadband signal.
‘A drink to celebrate?’
Jim nodded again. ‘But just the one.’
‘Aye, right.’ George laughed.
*****
Jim and George fell out of the back door of the Marine Hotel just after midnight.
‘Back to the office?’ George spluttered, cradling a four-pack of lager bought at the bar under his right arm.
‘Aye,’ Jim burped. ‘I cannae go home like this.’
His head went fuzzy on contact with the cold night air.
‘I havenae got a home to go to, anyway,’ George cackled as the pair staggered arm in arm along the deserted main street. Somehow they found their way up the narrow flight of steps to the old man’s office.
George smacked the light switch on and Jim collapsed into a threadbare armchair in the corner of the room. It was the one George laughingly referred to as the best seat in the office, the one saved for management when they made their annual visit to this lost outpost of their newspaper empire.
George chucked him a can. Jim caught it and flipped the ring pull back.
‘To a good day’s work,’ Jim murmured, lifting it up for his colleague to clink.
‘Hey, there’s a fax,’ George announced proudly.
‘You’ve got a fax? I thought you still relied on carrier pigeons.’
&n
bsp; George ripped the paper from the machine and cast a drunken eye over it.