“I’d rather you start. Are you concerned about who was driving the other car and where they are?”
“That actually wasn’t uppermost on my mind but, yes, who were they? Are you going to pursue it?”
“Of course. Given what we’ve heard, the procurator will have to order some kind of investigation. What are the unanswered questions, if it’s not that?”
“The first thing that leaped out was that huge time gap from the time we believe the accident happened, which we assume was about eleven-thirty, to the time she showed up on Duncan’s door at four-thirty. If she’d been lying unconscious on the grass somewhere, surely she would have been in bad shape when she did arrive at Duncan’s. He certainly acted as if she’d been out walking for half an hour, max. He made no attempt to get her medical attention.”
He’d made a note on the paper. “Shall I deal with the questions one at a time?’
“Sure.”
“Given she banged her head, it’s quite likely she was in and out of consciousness. There are places to shelter among the rocks, and she grew up in the area, so she might know them instinctually. As for Duncan not rushing her off to the hospital, I’d classify that as an island characteristic that is a throwback to the time when you had to pay hefty fees to the doctor, who didn’t necessarily know what he was doing, or else why was he practising here in the back of beyond.”
“All right. We’ll put that one in the grey area. Second unanswered question: Why was there such a scene at Tormod’s that Sarah MacDonald ran out, threatening to ‘tell everybody’? What was he promising to make up to her? Mrs. MacNeil told me that Sarah was engaged to Iain MacAulay when she was young and that Tormod disapproved of the match and broke it up. Is that what this is all about? But why now after so many years?”
Another note in his neat handwriting. “Maybe Tormod was doing another gazump right back at Sarah. Remember, the realestate transaction still wasn’t final. Perhaps he changed his mind and reverted to the original offer.”
“I’ll concede that as a possibility, but I’m puzzled as to why Joan would be so vague about it. Surely it would have been obvious what he was doing.” I put on my best Scottish accent. “Och, Sarah me lass, I’ve gone changed me mind and I’m not selling the Swedes the property after all.”
He laughed gratifyingly. “That was good. They weren’t Swedes, by the way. Norwegians, I believe. Anyway, go on.”
“She was extremely upset when she was reliving the scene at Tormod’s house. You heard her. That is way out of proportion with what she said was going on.”
“She did know him when she was a child. It’s upsetting to see somebody years later when he’s sick.”
“True, but she never referred to that once. I thought her reaction was extreme.”
“All right, I’ll give you that. But if she wasn’t upset to see him poorly, why was she crying like that?”
“An unanswered question.”
“Next.”
“We know who picked the flowers, but I’m still uneasy about this tidy-up that happened. Who did it?”
Gill raised an eyebrow. “Why not Tormod?”
“It doesn’t feel right. His visitors have rushed out after a huge row, he’s not a man to put things away, according to Lisa, and some things were out of place.”
“I don’t always put everything back in the usual place. My ex-wife used to complain about it all the time. ‘How long have you lived in this house and you don’t know where the pots go?’ Maybe tidying up was his way of calming himself down.”
“A woman maybe. Did you ever do something like that?”
“No. I’d chop wood.”
“Okay. I’ll put the Molly Maid issue in the grey area too. Joan referred to Tormod as ‘Uncle,’ but I assume that is a courtesy title.”
“It is. Technically, Tormod and Joan were cousins, but he was a lot older and she would have called him ‘Uncle.’ By the way, Joan is the English equivalent of Shona.”
“She hasn’t explained yet why she chose the names she did, but in passing, Mrs. MacNeil mentioned a Morrison family. I’d bet Joan just abbreviated that.”
A little doodle on the notepad. “I did wonder who came to the door? Remember she said, ‘There’s somebody at the door.’”
“A man from the village.”
“What?”
“I took a course in Romantic poetry in university and, according to legend, Samuel Taylor Coleridge — who was in the middle of writing a brilliant poem, ‘Kubla Khan,’ while under the influence of a controlled substance — was interrupted by a knock on the door. A man from the village. He couldn’t finish the poem.”
“Ah, ah. I see you are a woman with an astonishing breadth of knowledge.”
“How perceptive of you.”
We both laughed, and I felt a little rush of happiness. We seemed so comfortable with each other in spite of the circumstances. I felt as if we’d known each other a long time, not just a handful of days.
“I’ll have to assume the visitor was one of the neighbours, who wouldn’t have had any reason to inform us because we have not been treating Tormod’s death as a homicide.” He put down the pencil. “Chris. Now I have a question. I think the issue of what happened at the accident is more or less settled. I believed your mother when she said Sarah was driving. We know she had an over-the-limit blood-alcohol reading, which would slow her reaction times. Joan walking away from the site is understandable, as is the temporary amnesia... ”
“So what’s your question?”
“Why are you so focused on what happened at MacAulay’s house? We know he was very ill and could have hemorrhaged at any time and, according to Dr. MacBeth, that’s what happened. There was no trauma to the body, no indication of foul play. Yet you’re worrying at it like a terrier. Is this just a function of the overactive police profiler’s mind at work or...”
“Or what?”
“Do you have some reason for wanting your mother to be in trouble?”
“No, of course not.” But even to my ears my answer was too fast. “I’m just a case, am I?” I knew I didn’t want her to be involved in any nefarious death, nor for her to be in trouble, but Gill was quite right. I couldn’t let it go. This was a case, and the fact that my own flesh and blood was involved didn’t stop me gnawing at it. I felt compelled — probably neurotically, I admit — to tie up loose ends.
“Anyway, you’re right. What I came for seems to have been cleared up. She can’t be accountable for vehicular homicide.” I realized our official connection might be over. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. I do appreciate it.”
“It’s my job. I’m the family liaison officer.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“I’m the one assigned to be a contact person with the family if there’s a police matter. I talk to them, pass on information, and so forth. They don’t have to deal with different officers all the time. It’s much easier for all of us.”
I absorbed that for a minute. I could hear Joan’s voice. I’m a case now, am I? Were those dinners and hugs all part of the job?
My face must have been transparent, because he suddenly got up and came over to me, bending over the chair with his hands on the arms.
“Wipe those evil thoughts out of your head. I took you out because I liked your company.”
He was so close I was in danger of seeing him cross-eyed, so I leaned back a little. He had brown eyes slightly flecked with gold. The shinty bruise was starting to turn yellow.
“The feeling is mutual.”
I was aware of what Paula had said: “They think you’re not interested in them and they get discouraged.” Unfortunately, I was experiencing breathlessness, and the problem wasn’t that I would appear indifferent but that, at any moment, I might throw myself on his bones.
Who knows what would have transpired next if the extension phone hadn’t rung. Not a man from the village, but equally as disruptive. With a grimace, Gill went to answer it.
> “Sergeant Gillies here. Will you speak up, Ma’am, I can hardly hear you... ” Suddenly, he looked alarmed and signalled to me to hand him the notepaper. I did so, placing it on the desk and grabbing the pen for him.
“What are you referring to, Ma’am?... Will you please identify yourself?... Who are these people?... Ma’am?... Damn.”
He replaced the receiver. The caller had obviously hung up. Quickly, Gill pressed the connecting button.
“Phil. That call that just came through. The woman didn’t by any chance give her name did she?... No, eh? But she asked for me personally? Okay. Thanks, Phil.” He disconnected. “That was warning message number two from our Royalist friend.”
“Was it recorded?”
“No, we only do that for emergency calls.”
“Quick. Write down everything you remember about the call. Sound of the voice, as exact words as possible. Don’t embellish it at the moment. Write it line by line, with a space for your replies.”
I moved away to be completely out of his orbit, and he did as I asked.
He finished and handed me the paper.
1. I told you before they are out of control and you haven’t brought them in yet.
2. You know, I told you before. We’ll all be blamed if they pull it off.
3. No, I can’t do that.
4. It’s the White Dog group. They’ve lost it.
I borrowed his pen and added what I recalled about his side of the conversation. I read it out loud.
“Hello, Sergeant Gillies here. I told you before they are out of control and you haven’t brought them in yet. What are you referring to? You know, I told you before. We’ll all be blamed if they pull it off. Will you identify yourself, Ma’am? No, I can’t do that. What people do you mean? It’s the White Dog group. They’ve lost it. Hang up. Damn.”
“That’s it, although I think she said, ‘I already told you,’ not ‘I told you before.’”
I wrote in the change. “Did you recognize the voice?”
He grimaced. “She was speaking so low I could hardly hear her, and she had a heavy Lowland dialect that sounded phony to me. Shit. I hate this stuff.”
“This woman is obviously somebody known to you. She addressed the other letter to you, she asks for you, she disguises her voice. Notice she said, ‘ We’ll all be blamed.’ She might belong to a political group, and the White Dog crowd are a militant or fringe wing that she doesn’t approve of. Do you have a list of known anti-Royalists?”
“We do keep track. The problem is it’s a long list. I don’t mean anti-Royalist but anti- anything. Anti-war, anti-landlord. You might think of us as a perverse bunch.”
I studied the message as he’d written it out. “She says, out of control, then, they’ve lost it, which is ambiguous. Could be another way of saying the same thing, or they’ve lost the original purpose, which is the traditional development of every radical group in history, from suffragettes to IRA. Is it certain the Prince is coming here?”
“Oh yes. They’ve added a side trip on the way down to Harris. They’re going to visit the Black House Village in Na Gearrannan. But it’s still highly confidential. We’d like the laddie to have as much privacy as he’ll ever get.”
“Word does seem to have got out, though. Who’d leak it?”
He shrugged. “We’ve had several royal visits here. The people know how to read the signs like the collies watch the shepherds. A few well-dressed, polite men come ahead of time and hang out at the ferry watching visitors. Then a couple of sniffer dogs are flown in and walked around some building. A great local source of chat is to guess who’s coming. Lots of the women keep track on all the activities of the family. ‘Couldn’t be the Princess Royal. She was here recently.’ They’ll zero in on which level of royalty it is within the hour. Also, some officers here have to know. They mention it to the wife, who bursts to tell it to her sister, and off you are.”
“I noticed Tormod MacAulay had a photograph of himself shaking hands with the Queen. Was he a Royalist?”
“He was after her visit last year. He said she was a bonnie lass and knew more about weaving then any visitor he’d encountered.”
“The common denominator of all these incidents attributed to the White Dog group is that they are public and some kind of metaphor, ‘You stink,’ ‘We’ve been hacked like this.’”
“So, if this woman is warning us about another incident, we can expect something like that. Embarrassing, public, and symbolic.”
“I hope so. I mean, I hope it’s still at that level and not escalating into out-and-out violence.”
He stood up.
“I’ll go and talk to Jock.”
“I would recommend you find out if there are any women around them, probably disgruntled. An ex-wife or girlfriend is a possibility, but that woman herself is politically active.”
He nodded. I really wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t thought about himself, but I was confirming his ideas.
“Are you going back to the hotel?” he asked.
“I am. But before that, I’m going to rent a car.”
He looked as if he were about to protest, but I stopped him. “You’ve got better things to do than be my chauffeur.”
“I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to talk to these buggers, but can I call you, if it’s not too late? We can go international and have Chinese food at the place next door. It’s not bad.”
“Sounds good to me.”
We both hesitated, but the sexually charged moment when he leaned over me had gone. I hoped we’d get it back before too long.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I squeezed into the tiny Peugot I’d rented at the local friendly car-hire. The man suggested I “give it a whirl” around the harbour parking lot to get used to it, and that turned out to be good advice. I hadn’t driven a gearshift for years, and trying to deal with that with my left hand while getting accustomed to being on the wrong side of both car and road was challenging. I narrowly missed scraping the side of a van and moved too close to a pedestrian, almost giving her a heart attack. I crawled around for ten minutes or more before venturing out into the streets. Thank goodness Stornoway’s idea of rush hour was five cars waiting at the light, so it was easy to get into the traffic flow.
I did a couple of big loops of the town, which confirmed my initial impression of a clean, sensible place with no tacky areas to compare with Orillia, and certainly absolutely nothing like Toronto, with its constant struggle against dirt. My palms were sweaty but I was starting to relax somewhat when a motorcycle zoomed across my path, causing me to stop so suddenly I stalled the car. While I grappled with a gear-grinding jolt to get me going again, the leather-clad driver started to wave at me with manic glee. It was Lisa MacKenzie and she was gesticulating in the general direction of the Duke, from which I surmised she wanted me to join her.
I’d had enough of road anxiety by then, so I turned into the harbour parking lot again and manoeuvred myself into a space. I got out and looked around for meters, but there wasn’t one in sight, and I realized I hadn’t even seen any on the streets. What! A town that didn’t get an income from parking charges?
The Duke was in the next block over, and Lisa was waiting in the entrance.
“You’ll get the hang of it eventually,” she said with a grin. “I think you should try to go more than ten miles an hour though. It tends to slow down the traffic.”
“I will, I will. Just give me time.”
We went inside.
“I’m going up to see my brand-new niece. Do you want to come?”
“Sure. Love to.”
I followed her up the stairs, through the door marked PRIVATE and into a narrow, dark hall.
“How did you like the black houses?”
“Oh... we never got there.”
“What did you do then?”
“I watched the sheep-herding demonstration.”
She laughed. “That’s a crowd-pleaser. It’s Dad’s bread a
nd butter.” She looked over at me. “How’s your investigation coming along? Any new news?”
I didn’t have to answer beyond a vague shrug because we were at the apartment. Lisa swept open the door with sisterly unconcern for privacy.
“Feasgar Mhah. Seo Lisa agus Christine.”
Mairi was sitting in an armchair with the infant suckling at her breast. Her greeting to me was warm, but with a drop several degrees towards Lisa. She said something in Gaelic, the meaning of which was clear when Lisa ostentatiously returned to the door and knocked on it.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think my sister was born in a barn,” Mairi commented to me.
“How’s Anna?”
The baby had fallen asleep replete with milk, a tiny drop caught on her upper lip. Mairi gazed down at her. “She’s latched on all right. She wants to feed non-stop though. I’ve no had time to even go to the loo.”
‘“Here, let me take her and you go pee,” said Lisa.
“She’s sleeping. Don’t wake her up.” Mairi handed over the baby.
“And I won’t drop her either, relax. Don’t hurry. Why don’t you get in a shower?”
Mairi got to her feet stiffly and shuffled off in the direction of the narrow hall at the rear of the living room. Lisa started to rock back and forth gently, in that instinctive way all we women seem to have with a baby in our arms. She started to croon to the sleeping infant. She was singing in Gaelic, but something most peculiar happened. I understood what she was saying. Less than a week ago, I would have sworn on a Bible that I’d never heard Gaelic in my life. Now, some strange atavistic memory was starting to surface like artifacts that had gone down with a ship and were now floating upward.
Considerably agitated by this sensation, which I both liked and disliked, I resorted to my old training. Have a look around. Get impressions. Take mental notes. It didn’t matter this wasn’t a case, that mental activity had become second nature. The grey, dreary afternoon had settled in, and the lack of light didn’t help the general appearance of the apartment. Two small windows faced out to the street, but the remainder of the rooms were located at the rear where Mairi had gone, which meant there wasn’t much natural light. She hadn’t switched on a lamp either. None of the furniture matched, and at the moment the room was messy with baby gear, including a large playpen that Anna wouldn’t be needing for some months yet. As if picking up on my thoughts, Lisa flicked the light switch on.
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