Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

  Two hundred and seven men. And you, allowed to survive the carnage of Jutland, the terror of the Atlantic, to have you drown yards from the shores of home. Some people are saying the crew just made a mistake; others say they were drinking in the New Year, that they forgot the Beasts of Holm, until they crashed the ship onto them. But who can blame them, even if they were? They were just agents of John Gillies’s God.

  There were decorations up for you, bunting, men and women and children waiting on the pier to welcome you home, and instead we watched you die. I almost died too, did you know? Wading into the boiling water, into the gale. I dragged some of them out. But not you. Not you, my love.

  Dead men washed onto Sandwick shore like so many carcasses. When the sun rose, I crawled among them, among the screams and the wails and the sorrow. I looked into every dead, grey face. They can say I was shell-shocked when I found you and lay down on top of you, all of my body on yours. When I kissed your cold, soft mouth and put my hands in your sodden hair. The villages of Lewis are like places of the dead. The homes of the island are full of lamentation, grief that cannot be comforted. They can say I didn’t know what I was doing when I screamed for you, when I cursed God. But I can’t say. I can’t tell them what I’ve lost. They don’t know I would lie on your grave forever.

  Calum closed the email the instant he finished reading it, but even through his furious resentment, he could acknowledge the wild power and sadness of it. He’d been too horrified by the implications of the first message to register the name of the ship. But HMY Iolaire was a name like a trigger on Lewis—the worst peacetime disaster involving a British ship since the Titanic.

  Every graveyard on the island held identical headstones with a chain and anchor. Sailors who’d survived the terror of the Great War in the Atlantic, drowned in front of their families waiting to welcome them home. A thousand out of six thousand Lewis men who’d gone to war had already died. And then, after, when it was meant to be all over—that. There was a theory the Iolaire disaster had changed the Lewis character forever, like the Passover in the Old Testament.

  The emails read almost like poetry, though Gaelic translated to English often did. But poetry written from the mind of a man in love with another man.

  If they were real—original to 1919, when the Iolaire sank—they wouldn’t have been preserved.

  Someone would have burned them and washed their hands afterward.

  Fiction, then, sent to try to freak him out.

  But who knew about his old mistakes? Was it some sort of sick joke? Blackmail? Now, of all times?

  Who could have known Adam would be here? That Calum would be forced to acknowledge him again, because of a murder?

  Adam himself? Fuck, no. It had to be a coincidence.

  He glared at the dead screen, then stood and gathered his car keys.

  He really needed to stop pissing about.

  ***

  Stornoway police station was an unprepossessing two-story building of black brick and cream harling, set on Church Street, looking down to the masts of the boats in the harbor. To its advantage, Church Street also housed Indian, Thai, and Chinese restaurants, along with the chip shop Calum had gone to for the odd school lunch. No one at the station was ever short of a takeaway.

  Calum drove his Subaru into the small car park at the side of the building, with Angus in the passenger seat beside him—a stubborn, broken old man who’d refused to allow the chess piece out of his sight. Calum had tried to argue it was police evidence and Angus would be better going to the hospital to see Chrissie. But Angus spat, “It’s Chrissie’s birthright!” And Calum had seen that the need to protect it was all that was keeping the old man going.

  Ishbel had been worried enough about Angus to insist on going along too, to support him, and Calum hadn’t bothered to argue. Angus should have someone with him, even if it was the current SIO’s mother.

  Calum led them both around to the front of the building and up the wheelchair ramp into reception, but none of them were expecting the woman they found sitting there.

  Julia sprang to her feet the moment they entered. “Shen!” Grandad.

  Calum watched as she embraced Angus, knowing instinctively that he wouldn’t respond. Hugs weren’t a big part of island life.

  But Julia had always belonged somewhere else. Somewhere demonstrative, and fun, and glittering.

  Calum had known her on a vague basis all his life. When they both went to Glasgow, though—Calum studying Maths and History at Glasgow University; Julia a rising star, doing Drama at the Royal Conservatoire—they’d met on level ground, like expats abroad. They’d had a few wild nights together as lovers, but they worked best as friends.

  Then, one rain-lashed night, a lorry had slammed into Julia’s parents’ car—her father had been killed, her mother confined to a wheelchair, in need of constant care, and Julia had come back to Lewis. With unemployment levels as they were, she’d been lucky to find work as a care assistant at a home for the elderly, while she tried to support herself and the wholly dependent Seonag. And when Calum had finally followed her back to Lewis eight years later, Julia had grabbed on to him like a lifeline, though she could never comprehend why he’d actively chosen to return. They met up for coffee every week at a café in the Castle grounds.

  Julia hugged Ishbel, then Calum, and he hugged her back hard, ignoring the interested receptionist behind her glass screen.

  “I don’t understand, Orly,” Julia said. She never had lost her fondness for Orlando; never lost the habit of calling Calum that. “Uncle Tormod wouldn’t harm a fly.” Her cheeks were blotched with dried tears, her big hazel eyes reddened and swollen, but somehow she still radiated intrinsic glamour. She wore her mahogany-gloss hair in a chignon, showing off a long, slender neck and delicate jaw. Her mouth was full and pouting, and in her care-assistant coveralls, she looked like a major star inappropriately cast to play the role on TV.

  Angus seemed less than happy to have Julia there, but Calum led all three of them into the inner station and on to his bland, overheated office. There, he shed his fleece and cap and organized tea for them; then he headed for CID, gratified to find a whiteboard already set up, with crime-scene photographs attached, along with the names of interviewees and an initial list of tasks.

  CID on Lewis dealt mainly with the effort to stem the flow of illegal drugs onto the island, antisocial behaviour, and sudden deaths, caused most often by alcohol, drugs, or suicide. But, as the urgent purpose of a major investigation began to buzz in his blood, Calum was having to acknowledge that challenging detective work was something he’d missed like an addict would miss a drug high.

  Detective Sergeant Willie John Mackay was on him immediately. Willie John was an imperturbable man of medium height, in his early forties; a Niseach, from Ness at the far north of the island. His hair was prematurely grey and preternaturally neat, and though Willie John could wear what he liked in CID, Calum had never once seen him without a suit, a buttoned collar, and a neatly knotted tie. He’d done his CID training in Inverness and Edinburgh, but he’d made the same trade-off as Calum had, to come back home. Neither of them mentioned boredom or understimulation when they reminisced together about their old cases. There was no point.

  “We got access to the victim’s PC, sir,” Willie John announced. “His password was password.” Calum wasn’t surprised. Guile wasn’t a virtue here. “His emails are interesting. He received a series of threats.”

  Calum’s breath stilled. “Go on.”

  “He seems to have borrowed money. Money he wasn’t paying back. He replied to one message, claiming he didn’t know what they were talking about. But that made the threats worse.”

  Bingo.

  “Who?”

  “Trying to trace the IP, sir,” Willie John said, very obviously enjoying himself. But Calum could hardly throw any stones on that score. “The email mentions Glasgow. His documents show he did take a trip there last December, for an operation on his knee. M
aybe he borrowed the money then.”

  Calum sighed. “Why not ask a bloody bank?”

  “Not many banks are keen on handing out money to crofters with no other income.” The Lewis accent added a soft sh to the r sound in English. Croftersh. “We haven’t got into his bank account yet, but we can’t find any indications of another job or any income stream. Or any sign of the borrowed money. He seemed to be getting an agricultural grant, but that’s peanuts.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Very few emails from friends or family. And, uh…he was very focused on…um.” Willie John suddenly looked as uncomfortable as he ever got. “Jennifer Aniston.” Calum’s mouth opened and closed again. “You know…from Friends.” Calum nodded dumbly. “He was on message boards. Fan groups, and the like. He even had a username. Celticstud67.”

  Why did it all sound so much more ludicrous in a Lewis accent?

  Back out in the empty corridor, Calum stood and took stock.

  One of the first things he’d learned as a murder detective was that death uncovered surprises. That the cliché was true—no one really did know anyone else.

  But Tormod had been a background fixture of Calum’s life. Quiet, stolid, uninterested in anything but sheep and the croft and church. A stereotype of Calum’s blueprint for Lewis men of his father’s generation.

  And all along, underneath that facade, a useless passion for…Jennifer Aniston? It made Tormod both more human and more alien, and Calum wasn’t sure he knew what to do with that.

  He checked his watch, and his insides immediately completed a full roll. Less than ten minutes left. He stood in place, trying to control his nausea, then gave up and headed for the gents’.

  You’re fucking ridiculous, he thought as he glowered at himself in the wall mirror. But still, he checked his appearance as compulsively as a bride about to walk down the aisle, except he didn’t have the benefit of a veil.

  The black uniform T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, his pecs and biceps, his narrow waist. The trousers showed off his muscular thighs and his high, tight arse. He studied his reflection for a moment longer, then guiltily unzipped the neck of the T-shirt to expose his throat, emphasize the length of his strong neck. Because something in him needed Adam to see him at his best; show that he may have run away, but he hadn’t gone to seed.

  Adam, who’d once thought him beautiful. Adam, who’d loved him.

  Hell, perhaps Adam had lost his hair and gained thirty pounds. It had been…what? Six years… And Calum knew he’d romanticized Adam in some perverse way, by deliberately forgetting him. Frozen him as a perfect boy and buried him beneath his memory.

  Maybe he prayed that fat, bald man of his imagination was what Adam had become. Maybe that would finally purge the last of his old obsession.

  ***

  “It’s not up to me to say anything,” Angus said the moment Calum walked back into his office. “It’s up to Chrissie.” His tone held a querulous appeal. Sort it out for me.

  It took Calum a second or two to understand: Julia didn’t know about the supposed family heirloom or what her grandparents believed about it. Chrissie had deliberately only told Tormod and Angus.

  Julia looked between them with bafflement, but Angus folded his arms and turned away, the image of mulish old age.

  So Calum gestured with his head, and Julia followed him out of the room. He led her back toward reception.

  “What’s he talking about?” she asked as they walked. “I should sit with him if he’s being interviewed.” Her Lewis accent had been ruthlessly expunged in her couple of years of drama school. She spoke now with perfect Received Pronunciation, like a stage actor. “He looks destroyed.”

  “He wants to talk in private, Jools,” Calum said. “It’s up to him.”

  “But it’s okay to have your mum in?” she protested. “Is it something…personal about Uncle Tormod? I know more than he thinks! Uncle Tormod and I were close.”

  Calum frowned as he pushed open the door to the small waiting area. “He can choose who he wants to have with him. But if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll organize for someone to come and talk to you about Tormod? For background detail.”

  “How did he die?” she asked suddenly.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Calum said.

  Her expression firmed. “I see death every day at work, Orly.”

  Calum blew out a heavy breath. Okay. “His throat was cut.” Julia’s face lost what was left of its color. Perhaps he should have made sure she was sitting down first. “Shit…I’m sorry. I’ll get someone to take you to the interview room…get you some more tea.”

  She subsided with a thump onto one of Reception’s red-plastic chairs, her pallor alarming. But Calum didn’t have time left to do anything more than tell a passing PC to get Willie John to collect her.

  The whole thing was turning into a farce, he thought savagely as he strode back to his office and took his seat behind his desk.

  Why was he going along with Angus’s insane cloak-and-dagger secrecy over a family delusion? No secrets were kept in a murder investigation. No one could afford to be gentle. The chess piece was potential evidence, no more, no less.

  His landline rang. Calum answered, ready and yet not ready at all.

  “Mr. Patterson at reception for you, sir. He says he has an appointment.”

  “Right,” Calum said and replaced the receiver. He stood. “I’m just going to get…Adam.” His voice sounded far away in his own head. There was a spiky lump of panic in his chest.

  Hard to believe this was actually happening; reality, and not a bad dream.

  The wall between reception and the inner station was made of toughened glass panels, and as Calum approached, he could see a male figure in a dark suit, sitting on the far side of Julia. They were talking, heads together. Of course—Julia and Adam knew each other from their time in Glasgow, when they’d all been so full of hope. Calum had introduced them, in fact.

  He clenched his jaw, pulled open the door, and strode into reception.

  Adam glanced up and rose slowly to his feet.

  The shock was visceral.

  Adam hadn’t been kind enough to get fat. Or bald.

  He was as tall and fit and lovely as when Calum had left him, except that his light-brown hair was longer and layered, parted in the middle, off his brow. His suit was a narrow cut black pinstripe, and he wore a white V-necked T-shirt under it. Calum’s uniform suddenly felt stiff and ugly.

  Adam’s tanned skin was still smooth, his narrow jaw strong and sharp. Perhaps he had a few more lines around his eyes, but those eyes were a hooded, vivid light grey, taking in and assessing Calum in turn.

  “…your sea-grey eyes…”

  The treacherous echo of Calum’s threatening emails slammed him back to reality.

  Adam raised an eyebrow. He’d always had a tendency to act the supercilious bastard when he didn’t like someone. Now, that someone was Calum.

  Calum made himself hold out a hand. He felt sick. Adam waited a moment too long before taking it.

  “It’s been a while,” Calum said with what he hoped was an easy smile. “I appreciate your coming by.”

  “Not at all,” Adam said. That smooth, whisky voice that used to weaken Calum’s knees, when Adam whispered all he wanted to do to him. “I was just telling Julia I had to make the effort, after five years.”

  “Six,” Calum said. Shit. His heart was galloping. Ridiculous. But at least Adam had somehow known to be discreet about why he was there.

  “Julia just told me the terrible news about her uncle,” Adam went on. “That you’re investigating it. I can come back later if you…”

  He was playing it beautifully. A friendly visit which had been arranged before the investigation had begun.

  “No,” Calum said. “It’s fine. Come on through for a few minutes.” He met Julia’s innocent, anxious eyes. “Willie John’ll take you in for a chat, okay?”

  Julia nodded miserably.
“I want to talk to you, though.”

  “Willie John’ll take all the details.” Calum gave a reassuring smile. “I’ll come along if I can.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered, the moment the door closed behind himself and Adam. Cloak-and-dagger was not his strength.

  “She doesn’t know,” Adam observed coolly. “I gathered that her uncle had to be your victim. And since she didn’t mention the chess piece…”

  “Thank you,” Calum said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

  Sorry you despise me? How could he, when he wouldn’t mean it? Their destruction had been a necessity.

  Calum led the way, totally aware of how his uniform trousers fitted around his backside. Wondering if Adam was noticing. Furious and disgusted by his own thoughts.

  But it was all instantly there again. Proof of why he couldn’t be near Adam.

  Around him, he’d had no self-control.

  And incredibly, as attractive as Adam was, Calum had once had power over him too. Long ago.

  Calum’s name and title were on his office door. He was conscious of Adam taking them in, and then they were inside, and Ishbel rose to greet Adam like a long-lost member of the family.

  Adam had stayed at Calum’s parents’ house for a few weeks in their final year at university, while he did some research at Uig for his thesis on the chessmen and Viking influence on Lewis. Every day, Calum had driven him over there, and helped him measure things and take photographs and interview people and dig. And every evening they’d come back to the house, and Calum’s mum fed them far too much, and they’d watched TV, and gone to their separate rooms.

  Friends. That holiday had been pure. Because they were on Lewis, and Calum could not stand to even consider the remote possibility that someone might see them touching or kissing. Adam had respected it and hadn’t tried to sneak even a handhold, though Calum thought he saw it as regressive. Victorian.

  But it had changed things, that holiday. It had reminded Calum graphically that he was living a fantasy. That there could be no future in what he was doing. It reminded him who he really was, and what he owed, and what was expected, and how stupid and self-destructive and unfair he was being.