by G R Jordan
Stewart knocked on the door and it opened to reveal a man of possibly Arabian origins who looked puzzled to see the white-faced Stewart before him.
‘Who are you?’ the man asked, his English slightly broken.
Stewart produced her warrant card and introduced Ross and herself and the man turned back to the house calling for someone. Soon a man in his early twenties arrived, the image of his father but with a much more confident tone and impeccable English, albeit with the twang of the Northeast.
‘Apologies, but my father does not have great English and he gets scared that he might say the wrong thing if speaking to the police. How can I help you?’
‘Well, sir, we are looking for the home of a Miss Angel Jones. We have her driving licence and it indicates this address. Do you know Miss Jones?’
The man shook his head. ‘But wait a minute and I’ll ask my father.’ The man returned again shaking his head. Stewart stopped herself from swearing in disgust at their dead end but Ross stepped forward.
‘Who did you purchase the house from?’
The man disappeared and brought back his father. ‘I wasn’t born but my father says it was from a white man in his twenties, Mr Davidson.’
‘And how long ago?’ asked Ross.
‘Twenty-five years.’
‘Did you get a forwarding address for him at all?’ Stewart watched the older man shake his head before there was a commotion in the background. There was chatter from a woman she could not see and then the older man shouted something back. ‘Is that your mother?’ asked Stewart. The young man nodded. ‘Can you ask her please if she remembers the man you bought the house from? See if she has any recollection.’
The woman remained out of sight but answered questions from her son in a brief but quickly spoken exchange. ‘She says she remembers him and his woman. They were not married which was a shock to her, as my mother had only just arrived in the country from home.’
‘Does she remember the moving address? Anything that could give us a clue about where they went to?’
There was more chatter and then Stewart could hear the woman disappear into the depths of the house before coming back in an excited fashion. A hand passed something to the son, and he held it up for Stewart. On the paper was an address for Carl Davidson.
Taking her notebook, Stewart made a copy of the address and then began to thank the family for their help, but she noted the younger son was looking over her shoulder. Glancing round, she saw a blue mini and a woman getting into the car. With the door open, the interior light was on and the tight top and large earrings of the woman were obvious. And then the head turned, and Stewart saw the woman’s face. It was Debbie MacPhail, the woman who had attacked her and killed Simon Green.
‘That’s MacPhail’s girl’ shouted Stewart and Ross turned and ran but the car was away up the street at a crazy speed. ‘Number plate?’
Ross shook his head. ‘She’s gone, Stewart. Come on, we’d best get to this address in case she knows it as well.’
Chapter 20
Macleod sat with the various maps before him on his desk but in truth the images were starting to swirl, his eyes becoming blurred, probably from fatigue. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he wondered where Hope had got to. How long can a woman take in the shower? And then he thought of Jane—she could take forever. A smile came to his face. She was not shy about him entering the bathroom when she was in the shower either.
And then he thought of where Jane was. Earlier today she had been busy with Mackintosh, sitting with the woman as they prepped her for the operation. Exploratory, but there was definitely something to remove—they just were unsure of the amount. Cancer seemed to affect so many people, he thought. It would not have been an easy day for Jane and he deeply wanted to be with her because in reality, it was his colleague, no friend, under the knife. But being the woman that she was, Jane had stepped into the breach without complaint or demand.
If Hope was taking her time, then a phone call would not be remiss. And anyway, his eyes were shot through and needed a rest. Picking up his mobile, he pressed the image of Jane’s face and spun his seat around so it faced the rear wall. He was not sure why he did this in a room with a closed door, but he felt a deep need for privacy and, for some reason he could not fathom, there was not enough in this office.
‘Seoras,’ said a quiet voice on the other end, ‘you needn’t have called, love. Hazel’s out from it, asleep and apparently doing okay from what they have told me. But that’s not been a lot since I’m not a relative.’
‘How are you?’ Macleod asked his partner.
‘Fine. Tired and sore, and sick of the damn tea here. I was going to wait for Hazel to wake up but the doctor says she’ll be unlikely to rise before tomorrow. There’s a room near here where he said I could sleep.’
‘Why don’t you go back to the hotel, love? Surely, you could do with a rest. Have a lie in and see Hazel mid-morning or lunchtime.’ Jane went quiet and Macleod could hear her swallowing.
‘The doctor said he’d like me here when she wakes. It’s breast cancer, Seoras and they have had to remove a large amount of it. She was scared stiff about this, about not looking, well, she said like a woman.’ Jane sniffed. ‘She’s going to need someone. I’ll be here.’
‘You’re a good woman, Jane.’
‘Stop it. Tell me that when you see me.’ There was a silence and Macleod wondered what was wrong. ‘Do you know how much Hazel thinks of you?’ asked Jane.
‘She’s just a colleague, love. We’re the oldies in the team so she just migrated to me as I think she doesn’t have anyone else.’
‘She talks in her sleep, Seoras. I know you don’t mess me about, so don’t take this as an accusation, but Hazel sees you in a very’—again a brief silence—‘primitive way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Man and woman, primitive. Like you see me.’
‘I don’t see you just like that!’ Macleod felt let down.
‘I know but you do see me like that. And that’s good, Seoras. And I see you like that too. But that’s how Hazel sees you. She really is a lonely woman behind the façade of her professionalism. I’m just warning you because she’s going to need someone when she goes back north. Just be aware.’
‘I will, love. And thank you; can’t be easy knowing she feels like that.’
‘Like she can pull you away,’ laughed Jane, but it was hollow.
‘Got to go,’ said Macleod. There was a knock on the door. ‘I can hear Hope outside.’
‘Now that’s the one I fear,’ said Jane. ‘She’s got youth, figure, and struggles to find the right man. She could snap you up in an instant.’
Macleod almost spat down the line about how untrue it all was but stopped himself. This was Jane, always making a joke in the darkest moments, anything to keep the chin up. ‘Well then, I’d better get ready for a night of wild passion.’
‘You’re learning, love; take care.’
‘And you. I meant it when I said you’re some woman.’ Another knock.
‘Not simply good but some woman. I like that.’
‘Come in,’ shouted Macleod at the door. ‘Hope’s here, I’m away.’
‘Be gentle with her.’
Macleod stopped himself from laughing as he turned around to Hope. Jane’s greatest talent was picking him up, keeping him going in rough times, and she’d been at her best in her present situation. She should have been a platoon leader, standing, smiling, encouraging all as they were under fire. She’d be picking up the weaker ones, carrying them on her back, sorting everyone out.
‘Sir?’
Macleod snapped back to the present. He was definitely tired if he was drifting off in front of people. ‘Hope, I’ve been looking at these maps and frankly I can’t see anything anymore. Spend a while and see if you can see something I’m not.’
‘Don’t we still need Dusty’s Harbour? I thought we couldn’t do anything without the reference point.’
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br /> ‘If there are smaller treasure pockets then maybe we could find one from this map. We might find one of these, might find our killers there, searching. A long shot but we need every shot we can get.’
‘Yes, sir. And what about you?’
‘I’m taking a walk. I won’t be more than ten minutes. Can’t see the wood for the trees, Hope. I’m also praying Nakamura will find us something from Kisimul, too. I don’t know what but maybe they dropped something in the struggle.’
‘Well, she should be back soon. She called me about getting dinner later.’
‘Is she okay?’ asked Macleod. ‘It’s a big case for her to operate as lead. Clever woman but she doesn’t have Mackintosh’s experience.’
‘Jona’s fine. The case work isn’t a problem; it was the struggle on the beach that got to her.’
Macleod nodded, got off his seat and offered it to Hope before stepping out of the station and taking a deep breath. The sea air caught his nose and he felt the drizzle. In the darkness, he stared at the occasional streetlight that lit Castlebay into a kind of gloomy fog in the misty spray that the clouds provided. It’s like a Dickensian London in a lot of ways.
Mackintosh came to mind and he thought of his first meeting with her on the shores at Nigg, when she had some rebuking words for him. And she was right, but he had not seen the warmth for him then which she would keenly display later. When he thought about it, she did have a pride in her appearance and this news would devastate her on that front. Actually, maybe it would be more personal than that. It was hard to know how people would feel when you had not been through such a thing.
Staring from his place by the shore, he looked at Kisimul castle, and saw lights returning in a boat from the island. Nakamura must be wrapping up, he thought. There’s always a next man up. Or woman. The job goes on no matter what.
Footsteps from behind alerted him before the cry of ‘Sir!’ Turning, Macleod saw the local constable and ran towards him.
‘Vatersay. Just had a call. Someone on the beach digging.’
‘Get a car and let’s go!’
The pair ran back towards the station and Macleod saw Hope emerging from the station. ‘McGrath, get a detail and lock Vatersay off. I don’t want anyone coming off that island.’
With that, Macleod jumped into the marked police car and the local officer drove off, switching on his lights.
‘No! Keep it dark but go quick. We don’t want to warn them the cavalry’s coming.’
The car raced out of Castlebay along roads that would be mocked in Inverness for their lack of markings and sheer narrowness. But there was little traffic and as the car crossed the causeway onto Vatersay, Macleod thought about how they would catch this pirate. If indeed it was one of his suspects and not simply a tourist or glory hunter. The real culprits were dangerous, and he was not feeling sharp, although the adrenalin was starting to pump and his eyes beginning to focus clearer than they had before.
As the car wove its way across Vatersay taking the one road that swung along the coast, Macleod wondered which beach the suspect was on. They drove up the middle of the stretch of land adjacent to where MacPhail’s body had been found but the car continued straight over before driving into the small village of Vatersay itself. There were a number of compact houses but the constable took a hard turn in the village and drove towards the eastern beach, the one opposite to where MacPhail had died. They were heading for the south end of that beach and Macleod leapt from the car as it came to a halt.
Before him, Macleod saw a pier, but to his left stretched out the full length of sand and he saw a figure there with a spade. Calling his local colleague to follow him, Macleod ran towards the figure, his feet fighting to lift from the loose sand at the top of the beach. The tide was high and there was not much room to play with but the man on the beach simply dug as they approached.
‘Stop, Police!’ yelled Macleod, as he approached. The figure was a man in his younger years and he was wearing a dark raincoat that stretched to his knees. Macleod was only ten feet from him and slowing up when the man unzipped his long raincoat. The darkness made it hard to see what was being taken from the coat, but Macleod saw something long and cylindrical. Maybe it was instinct because he threw himself to one side as a flash of light and a deafening shot ripped into the night. There came a second bang and Macleod knew it had been a shotgun. He heard the cry of his colleague and tried to scramble to his feet. Get to the man before he can reload.
But the man was off, running hard past Macleod and his prone colleague. Standing, Macleod ran to the constable and saw that he had been shot in the shoulder. Grabbing his mobile, he dialled for Hope and ran after the attacker.
‘Officer down, I need ambulance and backup on the beach east side of Vatersay. Vatersay village, end, near the small pier.’
He did not wait for a reply but instead ran as hard as he could, feeling his thighs burning as he worked through the soft sand. Once he reached the road again, he realised the man had made his way to the pier. Racing through the drizzle, Macleod reached the pier’s edge and saw the man in a two-person rib with an outboard which he was trying to start. Macleod did not stop at the pier edge but threw himself off it, dropping the few feet into the water and flung his desperate hands onto the side of the rib.
If the boat had been wooden, then he might have had a better grip but instead his hands slid off the side and he descended into the water. Fighting his way back up, he surfaced and grabbed a rope on the side of the rib, lifting himself up from the water. But his suspect stopped pulling the cord of the outboard and instead delivered a punch to Macleod’s head which forced his hands to slip and he fell back into the water.
As he struggled to surface, he felt the outboard propeller start and briefly water rushed past with an array of bubbles. And then all was still under the water. Arms stretched out, he tried to float and as he calmed himself, he began to surface. Once Macleod had managed a few gulps of air, he turned himself over and swam for the steps of the pier. Having dragged himself from the water, he sat there. What was that all about?
‘Sir, are you okay?’
Macleod heard the officer calling him but he only raised a hand. He was unclear how long he had been sitting there but he was clearly in some sort of shock. His mind thought about hitting the water, about the feeling of immersion and the bubbles passing his face when the boat departed. And then a shiver ran up his spine. The other officer, he had been shot.
‘How is . . .?’ He could not remember the man’s name. He was sure he had heard it, used it. A local man brought up here, he had mentioned it at one point during these last days. It was gone. Macleod began to shiver and then realised that there was no longer an officer talking to him but a paramedic, the green uniform slightly wet from attending to Macleod. A silver blanket was placed around him and he was slowly led back along the pier to the car he had come in. Around him were officers he knew, coastguards in their blue uniforms.
Why out here? It’s not right; why did he drag us out here? Macleod tapped the person beside him on the shoulder, but he couldn’t form the words and was placed in the back of an ambulance. The journey was a blur, but soon he was sitting in the small hospital that served the isle of Barra and began to feel himself warming up.
‘How is he?’
The nurse looked at Macleod quizzically. ‘How is who?’
‘The police officer who was shot. He shot him with a shotgun, nearly hit me. How is he?’
‘He’s in the best place, on a helicopter and making his way to the mainland. Last I heard, he was stable. And you’re talking, which is good. Can you tell me your name?’ The woman before him was dressed in blue scrubs and had long blonde hair that was tied up behind her in a ponytail. Macleod did not know how they indicated ranks of seniority with these practical uniforms as there were no epaulettes but he reckoned she was a senior nurse by how she carried herself, and the fact that she looked like a maturing woman, maybe mid-thirties. It was strange how he always
seemed to rank people. Maybe that was the job talking; you made a mental note of someone in a way that you could describe them over the radio in a few simple lines.
‘Detective Inspector Macleod, ma’am.’
‘And your first name, Inspector?’
‘Seoras. I’m from Lewis.’ Macleod was unsure where this sudden familiar tone he had learned had come from, but it seemed to please the nurse.
‘You look like a Lewis man, Seoras. You’re in a bit of shock but otherwise you’re okay. We’re going to keep you here tonight as we don’t know if you’ve swallowed any water. Do you remember?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Macleod stared at his feet and found himself looking at the design on his shoes. ‘Do you do coffee?’
Hope had seen Macleod packaged away in the ambulance and was watching Jona and her team move in with their huge spotlights to start examining the area in the dark. The poor woman seemed to just race from one place to another and they had struggled to meet in the last hours for a pre-arranged yoga session.
Things had got hectic with Macleod’s phone call and when she had arrived on scene, there was an officer down and a medical evacuation to deal with as well as organising some boats to try and spot the suspect. But in the dark it was all to no avail and Hope had no idea where he had run to.
Macleod was also in a state of shock and Hope believed it must have been the water that did it for she had never known Seoras to react this way to an attack on him. And the water had so many connotations for him, starting with his wife’s suicide and then the rescue at Stornoway on their first case together. He’d be all right, she was sure, but for now he was not functioning like himself.
Hope saw Jona on her mobile phone, not speaking but listening intently. But she had a frustrated face as if no one were speaking. After a few moments, she walked over.
‘Hope, can you get your officers back to the community hall. I can’t get Gregory to answer his mobile.’