There were compensations for being up early, she told herself. The morning was glorious – the air cold and the light so clear that every detail of the landscape was illuminated. Wherever her eyes fell there were contrasts of colour: here, grasses so pale they looked translucent; there, a patch of rushes the darkest of dark greens; there, across the sound, Priest’s Island, all browns, blacks and soft yellows and textured like tweed; and in between, the sea a shade of pale azure that Helen had only seen in holiday brochures. It was as if a shroud had been lifted during the night and dawn had revealed heaven on earth, Helen realized in sudden and unexpected wonder. Had she ever had such an experience before? Not when she was a child: her memories were of cold rooms, of foster parents with worried faces, of wanting to be loved. Not in adolescence when she lived through books, finding within their pages her only friends and her first romances (her later romances too). Nor in early adulthood: then, she dedicated herself to reading of a different kind, law for her first degree, criminology for her second. At every stage, she lived in a city. Not in all those years did she have a memory of being as she was now: alone, out of doors, among beauty, being dazzled by it, living in the moment. It was as if a private exhibition had been staged especially for her. She spun around, taking it all in, before carrying on along the road. At last she thought she understood why Cal lived as he did.
When she saw his pickup, she laughed. Instead of him sitting cross-legged on the bonnet appreciating the early morning, as she’d imagined, the windows were steamed up. He was inside, asleep. She knocked on a window and, when she heard a grunt, she knocked again and said, ‘Cal, I thought you’d be out in the fresh air.’ She breathed in and exhaled loudly. ‘Mm, it’s good! Better than where you are, that’s for sure.’
Cal mumbled sleepily from inside.
Helen heard him grunt something about her message. She looked at her finger scrawl in the dirt on the pickup’s near side. Underneath Cal had written,
DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS YOU’RE BRINGING COFFEE.
‘Sorry, you’ll just have to go to the Deep Blue like everyone else,’ Helen said. ‘Anyway …’ She banged on the pickup’s door. ‘Beacom’s been on the phone. A body’s been washed up on East Skerry, don’t know what yet. The fisherman who reported it thinks it could be human but he couldn’t take his boat in close enough to be sure. Beacom reckons it might be Ewan’s mysterious companion. Could be why Ewan hasn’t been talking except to say he didn’t kill Joss.’
The back door on the other side of the pickup swung open. Cal’s fingers gripped the edge of the roof. His head appeared, followed by his torso. He was wearing a creased black tee shirt and jeans, and held binoculars in his right hand. After looking at the sound for less than a minute, he said, ‘I thought so.’ It was as if he was speaking to somebody else.
‘Thought what?’ Helen said testily.
‘See those circling birds.’ He handed her the binoculars. ‘That’s East Skerry.’
‘Are they feeding on the body?’ Helen sounded shocked.
‘Don’t worry, it’s a dead pig.’
Helen stared at Cal. ‘How do you know?’
‘Look about twenty metres to the left of the skerry … in the water, see the orange buoy.’
‘Why does that make it a pig?’ Helen asked.
‘It just does.’
‘What’s going on, Cal?’
‘You’re better off not knowing – let’s say the pig has been assisting me with my inquiries. She’s been helping me work out whether the currents would have washed Max Wheeler’s body out of the sound. It appears they might not, in which case I wonder why Max didn’t end up on a skerry too.’
‘She? I don’t suppose the pig has a name.’
‘Millie. The pig’s called Millie.’
Helen shook her head. ‘Beacom’s not going to be happy.’
Just then a RIB with two police officers came into view. ‘I think I’ll let them break the good news about Millie.’ Helen handed back the binoculars. ‘Anyway, where were you last night?’
‘Out there …’ Cal nodded towards the sound and Priest’s Island.
‘Well, that’s specific,’ Helen said. ‘While you were out there, I heard something interesting. Bella MacLeod asked a reporter whether anyone was with Ewan when he was arrested.’
‘Did she?’ Cal stretched and yawned.
‘The reporter said Beacom told them Ewan was alone. Bella reacted in a very odd manner. One of the women in the tea room thought she was having a funny turn or a stroke.’ Helen paused. ‘Cal, Bella must know about Ewan being on Priest’s Island. She must know who he was with. But why doesn’t she say anything? Why doesn’t Ewan?’
Cal said, ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ He lowered himself into the pickup and reappeared holding a small cloth bag. ‘Here …’ He stretched across the roof. ‘I found this washed up. Be careful, it’s fragile.’
As Helen examined the bag, Cal said, ‘Open up the pouches. Inside you’ll find four broken eggs and one that’s intact. That’s what Ewan was doing – stealing eggs or helping someone else to take them. There’s a raven’s nest on the sea cliff. I climbed down and had a look. It’s been disturbed.’
Helen screwed up her face. ‘He’s a suspect in a murder investigation. Why doesn’t he say that’s what he was up to?’
‘His companion could be a difficulty. Ewan would have to produce him,’ Cal said. ‘Maybe he can’t. The man might not want that.’ He squinted at Priest’s Island. ‘Maybe something has happened that makes it impossible. Whoever was with Ewan isn’t there now and the eggs were dropped into the sea. When I climbed down to the nest I started to spin round. If there had been a strong wind, as there was when Ewan’s friend was there, I doubt I’d have been able to regain control and climb back up.’
Helen said, ‘You think he fell into the sea?’
‘The bag did.’
‘Can I take it away?’
Cal nodded.
‘I’ll photograph the contents when I’m back at the chalet and email the pictures to our people in wildlife crime. See what they say.’
‘Then what?’ Cal asked.
Helen thought for a moment before answering. ‘Why don’t you give Bella a shock – say you know she’s withholding information about Ewan? See how she reacts.’
Cal jabbed his finger towards Helen and mimicked Bella: ‘“You’re responsible, Dr McGill.” If she says anything, that’s what it’ll be.’
Helen continued, ‘Also talk to Catriona. Scare her. Tell her the police aren’t looking for anybody else. Tell her they’ll make the evidence fit. Mention Ewan being jailed for twenty-five, thirty years. Say you know Ewan didn’t murder Joss but you can only prove it with Bella’s assistance. Make Catriona think you’re Ewan’s last chance.’ She paused. ‘Tell her you don’t work for Wheeler any more.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘Beacom thinks it’s time you went independent.’
‘Does Wheeler know about that?’
‘His solicitor will be told this morning. He’ll be provided with the text of a statement which he’ll release in David Wheeler’s name. “Following the tragic death of Joss Wheeler, the investigation by Dr McGill has been overtaken by events … danger of duplication, possible confusion with the police inquiry …” – that sort of thing.’
Cal nodded. ‘I’m comfortable with that.’
Helen removed a piece of broken eggshell from the bag. ‘Show this to Bella. It’s time to shake her up a bit.’
Soon after opening, the tea room was full. The inhabitants of the township crowded inside as though a storm had driven them from their crofts. In a manner of speaking, it had. Every few minutes a new rumour blew in. If it wasn’t about the body on East Skerry it was about the investigation of Joss’s murder.
The police were searching Grant’s Croft.
Ewan was being kept in custody on the mainland.
A large sum of money had been found in Ewan’s possession when he was arreste
d.
Alistair arrived with a similar story. ‘Three thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes,’ he said. PC Dyer told him about it when they met on the road. The money had been in a bag on Ewan’s boat. Although Ewan was refusing to answer most questions, he told DCI Beacom the money had been his uncle’s. Donald Grant had buried it on Priest’s Island because he didn’t trust banks.
Dyer had asked, ‘Where did Donald get money like that?’
Like Alistair, the tea room thought Donald Grant might have buried whisky bottles for safe-keeping because he didn’t trust his neighbours. ‘He never had any money.’
Then someone wondered in Catriona’s hearing whether Joss had hidden money in her caravan. Had Ewan taken it from there? Catriona became so upset that Bella took her home and Isobel stood in behind the counter.
By mid-morning the tea room was in a state of heightened anxiety; it felt less like a place of refuge, more like a waiting room. Mugs of coffee and tea went cold. Cake was picked at or left uneaten. Isobel rang Bella from the office and told her to stay at home with Catriona. Since a few reporters were about and no one else was ordering anything, she could manage on her own. ‘Put your feet up.’
No sooner had she replaced the phone than a BBC cameraman asked for coffee and said Isobel should prepare for a rush. Everyone was coming back from watching the police RIB at East Skerry. ‘That body,’ he said, ‘was a pig’s.’
Isobel asked Mary-Anne to look after the Deep Blue while she went to Bella’s house. She found her in the kitchen. ‘It isn’t bad news,’ Isobel said in reaction to Bella’s worried expression. ‘The body on East Skerry is a pig’s.’
Bella picked up her apron and put it on. ‘How’s the chocolate cake, Isobel? Is it running out? I thought I’d make another one.’
Isobel stuttered, ‘I don’t really know.’ She watched her friend pick up a baking tray. ‘Bella, you did hear what I said about the pig?’
‘Oh yes.’ Bella seemed surprised at the question. ‘I’m not deaf, you know.’
Once Isobel returned to the tea room, Bella went upstairs to Catriona’s room. She stood outside the door. ‘Catriona, love.’
‘What?’ Catriona sounded angry.
‘I don’t know what came over me earlier.’ Bella’s voice was hesitant, doubting. ‘I haven’t been sleeping very well. Maybe that was it. That and everything else.’ She paused. ‘They’ve found a dead pig on the skerry. Did I tell you that already? I can’t remember what I said. Didn’t I tell you? I’m sure I did.’ And again: ‘I’m becoming so forgetful.’ She let out a little laugh. ‘I wonder where a pig drifted in from. Whatever next?’
Going back downstairs, Bella doubted she’d managed to fool Catriona, but that thought was chased away in the rush of other worries. Where was Pinkie? Had something happened? Why didn’t Ewan tell the police what he was doing? Better to be charged for stealing wild birds’ eggs than murder, surely. Should she make a statement about Ewan being on Priest’s Island, say she’d organized everything and that Ewan’s role was limited to being a boatman taking a passenger to the island. What stopped her was Pinkie – where was he, what could have happened to him? Was Ewan in some other trouble which Bella would make worse by talking? She’d contact Ewan’s lawyer and ask him to pass on a message: was there anything Bella could do to help? Ewan would know what she meant. As she was going into the kitchen, the bell rang. If it was Isobel or Mary-Anne they would have opened the door and called out her name. The doorbell rang again, longer and louder.
Cal stretched out his hand. On his open palm was the broken shell of an egg. It was convex, washed pink with red-brown blotches. Bella was about to speak but the words seemed to stick in her throat. Her mouth hung open.
‘I think we should talk, don’t you?’ Cal took a step towards her, pushing his hand closer. ‘Here, take it. I don’t need it. I’ve got other pieces. I found them washed up on Priest’s Island.’
Bella kept on staring at the shell and Cal said, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ The door banged shut and Cal pressed the bell again. ‘You know what Ewan was doing and who he was with, don’t you?’ His voice was measured, as though he was concerned about Bella, as if he wanted to help. ‘I think you know he didn’t kill Joss Wheeler.’ He jabbed his finger against the bell, a short, loud blast. He heard voices inside – Catriona’s and Bella’s. They were arguing but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Catriona sounded angry and accusing; Bella alternately exasperated and pleading. Cal shouted, ‘Ask your aunt where Ewan was. Ask her, Catriona.’
The door opened again. Catriona was staring at Cal. She was barefoot, in jeans and a green dressing grown. Her hair was wet. Cal saw Bella standing behind her. In the gloom of the hallway, she now looked like a ghost.
‘What do you want?’ Catriona asked.
Cal offered the eggshell. ‘Take it. Ask your aunt what it is. Make her tell you what Ewan was doing the night Joss Wheeler was murdered.’
Catriona looked at the egg and then at Cal. ‘What was he doing? Do you know?’
Cal nodded. ‘I think your aunt knows more.’
Catriona looked behind her. ‘Is that true?’
Bella hurried towards the door. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ she said, ‘he works for David Wheeler. He murdered Joss.’
Cal went on talking to Catriona. ‘The police aren’t looking for anyone else. Ewan will get life for a crime I don’t think he committed.’ Before the door slammed shut, Cal threw the eggshell inside.
Not moving, he said loudly, ‘I don’t work for Wheeler, not any more.’
The eggshell lay crushed on the hall floor. After Catriona had run upstairs, Bella knelt and touched the fragments with the tips of her fingers, as if feeling for answers. Where was Pinkie? What had happened to him? Was he broken, just like the raven’s eggs? She gathered up the pieces of shell and took them to the kitchen. After washing them away under the tap, she went to the foot of the stairs and called up. ‘Catriona, love, that’s me away to the tea room.’ She listened for a response and, when none came, she went to the door. Before opening it, she was struck by a thought. From now on she would be at the whim of the sea. The pig was a forewarning. Any morning she might wake up to Isobel ringing with news of another body being found on East Skerry or West Skerry or one of the islets. She would go to Catriona’s room and see the birds wheeling and fighting, their sharp beaks stabbing at Pinkie, ripping away at his flesh.
23
Mary-Anne was dithering. One moment she thought chocolate cake would be nice with her cup of tea; the next, a lemon muffin. ‘How very indecisive I’m being,’ she said apologetically.
‘Why don’t you take all day?’ Bella snapped. ‘It’s not as if I’ve anything better to do.’
Mary-Anne looked like she’d been shot. She managed to say, ‘Aren’t you a bear with a sore head?’ Afterwards she became flustered telling Isobel about the exchange. No one had talked to her as sharply for years. Nor could she recall when she’d last been so outspoken in reply. ‘Oh dear,’ Mary-Anne said, ‘I do hope Bella will forgive me.’
‘Forgive you?’ Isobel raised her eyebrows. ‘She should hope you’ll forgive her. It’s not your fault. She is like a bear with a sore head. Look at her now with Catriona. Those two haven’t said a civil word to each other all afternoon.’
But Mary-Anne was staring out of the window at the cars and vans by the harbour, the huddles of reporters and photographers, the uniformed policemen on duty. ‘Oh, don’t you wish we could go back to the way we were?’ She glanced at Isobel, looking startled. ‘Was that me speaking? Oh dear, I think it was.’ The right side of her throat flushed red and her head shook a little.
Isobel smiled consolingly. ‘I’m sure things will return to normal, aren’t you? When everyone’s gone and it’s just the township again.’
‘How? We’re all so changed. Haven’t you noticed?’ Once again Mary-Anne looked surprised at having spoken her thoughts aloud. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me.’ She
laughed nervously. ‘Perhaps I should have a piece of chocolate cake after all. Maybe that will settle me. You mustn’t pay me any attention.’
While Mary-Anne was at the counter talking to Catriona, Isobel thought about her odd behaviour, how out of character it was for her to disagree or to argue. Normally she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Like Bella, she must be feeling the strain. Weren’t they all showing it one way or another? Later on, Isobel thought Mary-Anne had a point about there being a change.
She noticed it when Beacom walked past the Deep Blue on his way to the Jacqueline. As on his visit the day before, the township was already assembled in the tea room. Everyone gathered at the window to watch. The talk was of Beacom’s shabby appearance – old leather jacket, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, black jeans and scuffed white trainers – and of the bad impression it made. His swept-back greasy hair which was overdue a cut also caused comment. So did his sharp face. Didn’t he look disreputable, even dirty and sly, not at all as a senior police officer should? Isobel thought so too. But as she drifted from one vantage point to the next, she overheard her neighbours speak to one another in asides. They sounded fatigued. Like Mary-Anne, they longed for the township to return to normal and they wondered whether it ever would. Isobel also picked up resentment which was expressed quietly, privately, unlike the loud complaints about Beacom. It was directed against Ewan. The bitterness surprised Isobel. Where did Ewan come by three thousand pounds? He must have been up to no good. If he didn’t murder Joss, why didn’t he talk to the police? It wasn’t surprising that Beacom thought Ewan the killer. Wouldn’t anyone? Ewan had brought trouble on himself. The township would be better off without him.
The Malice of Waves Page 20