October Song

by Ru Pringle

  The shore slips by: a desert of orange-brown grasses broken by occasional lines of rotting fence posts. The only other signs of life are jellyfish and two scrawny gulls surfing thermals where the low sun hits flesh-pink tidal rocks, scouting for dead things amongst the strandline’s seaweed and plastic.

  Alistair’s gesturing. ‘Head just to port of those little islands.’

  Before long, the islands are gliding past, and the island of Iona hoves slowly into view.

  ‘Okay … Bear north when I say.’ He scans the view ahead, brow furrowed. ‘Be ready for the sails flipping to the other side. It’s called “gybing” when the wind’s astern. It’s more violent than tacking. If you’re not careful when the boom snaps round, it can take your head off.’

  He looks straight at her. ‘Not exaggerating, by the way!’

  He seems nervous. She does as asked, and the mainsail swings round with increasing momentum, stopping dead with a crash. Meanwhile, Alistair works the jib sheets until the jib snaps noisily full again on the same side as the mainsail.

  ‘Nice. Hold her there, will you? I’m going up front.’

  He scampers along the narrow strip of deck beside the cabin roof, leans nonchalantly against the forestay and peers ahead through his binoculars.

  From this angle, Iona looks too bare and insubstantial to support more than a handful of people. It’s barely five kilometres long, from what she remembers of the chart. She’s faintly ashamed she knows little of the place beyond its role in Britain and Ireland’s conversion to Christianity, and its recent reputation as a retreat for God-bothering hippies. Past Alistair’s legs she can make out the square shoulders of the twelfth century abbey, hunched above a straggling line of bright cottages.

  Alistair has been silent for a long time.

  ‘Something wrong?’ she calls out.

  There’s a long pause.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She thinks that’s all she’s getting, but then he adds: ‘Just a feeling.’

  She isn’t sure what to make of this. ‘What do we do?’

  A shorter pause. ‘Keep going for now. But be on the look-out.’

  ‘For what? Have you seen something?’

  He lowers the binoculars. Turns his head.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure.’

  THEY PUSH ON, the sound closing around them. Beneath the straining sails Coira sees houses of white paint and honey-coloured stone behind a necklace of beaches and tidal rocks. On the opposite side of the water, on the island of Mull, the buildings of the ferry village of Fionnphort are gradually coming into view.

  There’s something not right about the picture, but she can’t put her finger on it. She begins to wonder if there’s something Alistair’s not telling her.

  ‘Where are all the people?’ He calls back, in a kind of elevated whisper. ‘I can’t see a soul.’

  That’s it, she realises. Nothing is moving, on land or sea. The only visible boats are the ones drawn up on the shore of the island.

  In fact, now that she looks more closely …

  ‘What are all those vessels doing on that beach?’ She’s getting that premonitory tingle again. ‘It looks like a boat yard. Do you not think that’s rather a lot of boats for such a small island?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘How many people are meant to live here?’

  Alistair scratches his beard. ‘Bit under a hundred and fifty, last I heard.’

  He raises the binoculars again. Gives the shore a long, hard look.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘That is well weird. I count … Christ, there are at least forty boats lined up along the beaches there.’

  ‘Forty?’ This makes no sense. ‘A boat for, what? Every three or four people? Some of those look like they could carry a hundred or more.’

  She licks her lips.

  ‘Any of them look like migrant boats?’

  There’s a short pause. ‘Hard to tell. Some certainly look unseaworthy enough. Wait – aha, here we go. There’s one with writing in Urdu.’

  There’s something odd about this statement. How does he know it’s Urdu? She steers the boat away slightly, towards the middle of the channel. He doesn’t object. ‘So …?’

  ‘I don’t know, Coira. I don’t know.’

  It’s the tension in Alistair’s voice that worries her as much as anything. He lowers the binoculars and stands completely motionless, one hand on the forestay, the other at his neck.

  He springs suddenly to life.

  ‘Prepare to gybe!’ he barks, stomping back down the deck. ‘Give me the tiller. I’ll handle the mainsail. Be ready to gybe the jib.’

  Coira asks none of the questions leaping into her head. She just hinges the tiller up to his groping hand and slides herself to the cabin end of the downhill bench, out of his way.

  ‘Gybe-o!’

  Assuming this is another layer of sailor-speak, she starts feeding the jib sheet out around its winch, but he’s far less gentle this time, ramming the tiller over so hard that she’s almost thrown backwards.

  ‘Unwind it from the winch!’ he hisses as the horizon lurches round. ‘Just … pull the sheet clear and let go!’

  Flustered, she fumbles her sheet. Begins standing to make it easier.

  ‘No, don’t – watch your head!’

  The mainsail whips round above her like a guillotine, stopping with a bang as its sheet snaps bow-string taut against the traveller, lashing her across the arm. Stamping down the pain, she manages to yank the jib-sheet free. It whips out of her still-raw hands, and the jib begins thrashing with shocking violence. She half slides, half falls down the suddenly reversed slope of the cockpit, winds the opposite sheet round the starboard winch, slams the handle in the top, hauls the sheet in as far as she can and tightens the sail by cranking the handle like mad until Alistair yaps: ‘Stop!’

  She looks up, panting. Alistair’s gazing in the direction of the Abbey, which is now to starboard off the stern. His features are grim. The boat is pointed south-west. The apparent wind has increased markedly.

  ‘Nicely done,’ he murmurs. He proffers his binoculars. ‘Take these. Keep an eye on both shores.’

  She puts them to her eyes. ‘Might help if I knew what I was looking …’

  Words die in her mouth. The rush of adrenaline is visceral: she actually feels some gland contract and squirt something inside her.

  ‘Oh fuck.’

  For something so small, the binoculars are remarkably powerful. Their image is supernaturally clear, with an exaggerated sense of depth. On one of the beaches, tiny figures are moving with urgent purpose, pushing sizeable RIBs from hiding places between the larger boats down into the sea. It’s like watching a military drill. Alistair’s voice is tight as he adjusts the traveller for the mainsail. ‘How many boats?’

  ‘I see … three. No, four. Fuck. Five!’

  She sees his Adam’s apple move. ‘People?’

  She squints. ‘Um … Looks like … maybe four per boat. Twenty in total.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Oh yes. Plenty of those!’

  CHAPTER 33

  ______________

  Sidelined

  ‘LORNA.’

  Lorna looks up from the case update she’s compiling to find Sebastian’s face centimetres from her own. His robust features are taut, and there’s a look in his eyes which gets her radar twitching. He could do with brushing his teeth or sucking a mint. Around them, keyboards clatter. One or two of the team are on video links or ’phones. The air’s thick with the stale reek of people who’ve been cooped up together far too long.

  ‘A word,’ he says. ‘Five minutes. Normal place.’

  Then he’s gone.

  She studies what she’s written. A couple of paragraphs.

  She sighs and logs off.

  A COFFEE IS A MORE APPEALING prospect than waiting at her desk, so she makes her way to the machine. A smart
ly-suited, earnest young man from one of the other departments is already there. They sip from steaming cups in typical British fashion, studying ceilings and walls and generally doing anything necessary to avoid eye contact or engaging with one another other.

  But, no – she’s generalising, she realises. If this had been Glasgow she’d already know the guy’s football team, the names of his family, and their medical conditions.

  She checks her watch, bins her paper cup, and moves through the corridor maze, riding the lift to the top floor. Clanging metal stairs take her onto the roof. It’s a hazily bright day outside, positively warm in the low October sun. It was colder inside the building. Voices and footsteps waft up from the street. A lone seagull stands on the concrete parapet a few metres away, eyeing her and squawking conversationally.

  She shrugs off her jacket. Hangs it over the parapet as she joins Sebastian.

  ‘Everything has its benefits,’ he observes, watching her. ‘I can remember summers in London colder than this.’ He’s also down to his shirt. She can see patches of sweat at his armpits.

  ‘Say that in a month when the big storms start.’

  ‘I think we have a mole.’

  She looks up from her cigarette packet. Northwards, ghostly wind turbines on the distant hills of Fife turn slowly above the pale ribbon of the Firth of Forth. ‘Working for whom?’

  ‘That’s the big question.’

  ‘This is about the body, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s about everything.’

  ‘Oh, I do hate being right.’

  ‘Liar.’

  He turns, propping himself against the parapet as she lights up.

  ‘Let’s say, for sake of argument, that you’re some very well-resourced group who, for whatever reason, would rather Coira Keir just disappeared. You know MI5 is close to finding her. How would you make sure she wasn’t found?’

  Lorna pulls a face. Cocks her cigarette as she leans over the street. ‘You … put a mole in the investigating team. If you think you can get away with it. Use its own intel to sabotage the investigation.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s what I’d do too.’

  She takes a deep drag. Watches the smoke curl away above the street. ‘Very well, Sebastian, let’s run with this little thought experiment. See where it goes. By the way – if you’re concerned about moles …’

  He’s grinning, holding up a little device she recognises it as an EM scanner. ‘Taken care of.’

  ‘You mean no bugs, or that you’ve disabled them?’

  ‘None detected. There’s always the chance of something we can’t detect.’

  This isn’t a pleasant thought. ‘Who’d have better surveillance tech than us?’

  ‘That’s what I’m wondering.’

  ‘I don’t like where this is headed, Sebastian. If we’re assuming the investigation of the kayaker and Keir’s car was interfered with …’

  ‘Oh, they were interfered with all right. And don’t forget the house.’

  ‘But …’ she pulls a face ‘… it’s not subtle, is it? That would make whoever’s doing this either unfeasibly stupid, or …’

  She tails off. Sebastian’s nodding. ‘Yeah – and why so confident? So … arrogant? When we have the resources and powers of the Security Service at our disposal?’ His nostrils flare. ‘They’d be treating us with contempt!’

  He looks abruptly away towards Salisbury Crags. Against a sky tinged the faintest blue, the fossil lava flow looms darkly over the shanties of Holyrood Park. Lorna can just make out insectile figures spraying new messages along its base.

  ‘I don’t know yet what we’ve stuck our hand in,’ Sebastian continues in a low voice, ‘but we need to be super-careful. If we’re discovered going off-script …’ He puffs out his cheeks. ‘I mean, an air-strike, Lorna. What is Keir to them? Is she an accomplice? A witness? To what? These people have connections we can only guess at. And they’re not messing around.’

  ‘Any intel on who the mole is?’

  Sebastian bobs his head. ‘I’d prefer your unprejudiced opinion. But whoever it is, I’m starting to think they’ve known considerably more about both the bombing and Keir’s movements than we have.’

  Lorna narrows her eyes. She feels her mouth open. ‘My God … Andrew Campbell.’

  Sebastian’s trying hard to be inscrutable, but he relents. ‘That was my guess.’

  ‘Christ. First Coira and now …’ She blows cigarette smoke. ‘He’s a decorated chief inspector!’

  ‘You know what police screening’s like. He could have been a plant from the beginning. Or … police pay’s always been a sore point. He could have been recruited at any time.’

  ‘So who can we trust? Service procedure’s not perfect either. What if it’s someone on my team?’

  ‘Another excellent question, because I think we need a change of tactics. I feel vindicated that we chose to play the long game, but I don’t think it’ll be enough. If this group’s aim is to silence Keir, it’s not just her who’s under threat. So’s anyone she’s talked to.’

  Lorna feels her eyes widen as the full implications sink in. ‘Dear God – Sebastian, do you think they know …?’

  He holds up a hand. ‘We can’t assume anything, Lorna. The problem is, we’ve no way of knowing what they know. Our main weakness is lack of intel. Doesn’t it strike you as strange how we’ve been steered towards finding Keir? Who has run us ragged – and, if you ask me, is probably our lowest-value suspect? I know the police are capable and we’re stretched thin, but … effectively handing two manhunts out of three to the police? When we already have undercovers in local separatist groups? This should have been a co-ordinated operation! To me it feels like something more than straightforward resource allocation has been going on.’

  She flicks ash. ‘I’ve been thinking that for a while.’

  ‘Is it just me who also finds it pretty bloody suspicious there hasn’t been a peep about either McCoull or Sinclair-Kohli? Something isn’t right there. The police had leads on McCoull a week ago. I think we need to find out if those investigations are making the kind of progress we’d expect. In fact,’ he juts out his blockish chin, ‘I think we need to do more than that.’

  Lorna studies her cigarette. This really is a disgusting habit. Her pulse rate is up. It’s not the nicotine. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Have Tomlin and Planter got anywhere with that car?’

  She looks at the sky. ‘They’re following a lead, but it’s thin. Witness saw a car matching the description being towed.’

  ‘So – we keep Planter on the car. I’m not expecting him to find anything, if I’m honest, but it’ll keep him distracted. And you never know, whoever pulled the vanishing act might have seen it as just a precaution. Got sloppy.’

  ‘Okay …’

  ‘Meanwhile, we pull Tomlin in on the sly. Pair him with Bojko.’

  She considers this. ‘Planter won’t appreciate that. He and Tomlin are like twins now. They work well together.’

  ‘They’ll live with it. Then we send Tomlin and Bojko after McCoull.’

  Lorna is completely still for a moment. ‘You mean, off-book?’

  He nods.

  ‘Hell, Sebastian. Have you any idea how many toes that risks stepping on?’

  ‘My career’s on a sticky wicket anyway if I don’t pull a rabbit out of the hat after Craobh Haven and Oban.’

  ‘Nothing like a good mixed metaphor to cheer me up.’

  ‘Fuck metaphor. And don’t worry too much about what’s happened so far. As far as Thames House are likely to be concerned, the buck stops with me.’

  ‘That’s not the only consideration, Sebastian.’ She leans closer. ‘If you’re thinking your appointment here may have been a poisoned chalice …’ She frowns. ‘Have there been any influential people you rubbed up the wrong way? In your time at Thames House?’

  He grins, wolfishly. ‘A few.’

  Lorna chews her lip
. She’s feeling increasingly helpless. It’s like at some point she’s become mired in quicksand without noticing.

  ‘I’ve one or two local sources I can use,’ Sebastian is saying. ‘You? Anyone in the plod?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Don’t expect me to show all my cards.

  Sebastian knows her enough to see that she’s holding out. His eyes become entreating. ‘Look, Lorna. We need to go all out on this. I think there’s more at stake here than we know. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if this whole investigation is a diversion.’

  ‘Diversion?’ Lorna is genuinely taken aback. ‘Whatever the details, our suspects were involved in the murder of nearly fifty people! Faulkner’s going to be crippled for life, you realise that? He might not be PM again. I’ve a source at the hospital saying there’s still a chance he might not survive.’

  Sebastian’s eyes wander away from hers. ‘Well – that’s interesting, isn’t it? We’ve always operated on the assumption that Keir, McCoull and the others were responsible, because that’s what we were told.’ He turns back to her. ‘Have you seen any detailed documentation of the bombing? Eye-witness reports? CCTV footage showing who parked the car? Apart from demonstrating that a bomb went off, the TV footage doesn’t prove a thing.’

  He’s right, she realises. She shakes her head.

  ‘Funny. Neither have I. That’s partly because MI5 weren’t ever in the investigation.’

  She says nothing.

  ‘I’ve done a little digging in what I could humorously call my spare time, and it turns out the investigation was a closed cell of Edinburgh police supervised by a group of unnamed government employees. Even given the unusual security considerations, this seems pretty bloody irregular. Information’s been near-impossible to come by. From what I’ve been able to gather, most of those involved seem to be retired MI5 and MI6.’

  Lorna feels her mouth open. ‘My God. I’d assumed I was out of the loop because the investigation came directly from Thames House.’ Sebastian grins humourlessly.