by Owen Mullen
‘Stephen didn’t make friends very easily. Too shy.’
Though not too shy to start a darts team.
‘Tell me about the guns.’
‘Stephen is a sportsman. Shooting is one of his hobbies. Been doing it since before I met him. He was always cleaning those guns, getting oil on the carpet. I went with him a couple of times in the early days. He tried to teach me.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t like it. Hated it really. He wasn’t pleased.’
Patrick came back and she saw us to the door.
She said, ‘I appreciate what you’re doing, Mr Cameron, I really do. Finding Stephen is all that’s keeping me going.’
We were crossing the Kingston Bridge before I asked. High above the Clyde the city skyline was etched in grey. ‘What did you make of it?’
Pat Logue gazed at the river. ‘Wouldn’t want to go through it every day. Couldn’t handle it. Absolutely no way. Losing your only son’s bad enough, losing your partner as well...’
‘What about Christopher’s bedroom?’
‘A couple of boy band posters. No books. Didn’t come across any porn. CDs, classical stuff. All his clothes on hangers, socks and pants in separate drawers. Very tidy for a young guy. When I was that age my room was like the bottom of a river. Gail goes mental at our two. Makes no difference. They wait her out. She cracks before they do ‘cause they don’t care. Eventually she can’t stand it any longer and guts the place, then they complain they can’t find things. Every once in a while I hear her laying down the law: “while you’re under this roof... this isn’t a hotel...” all that crap. Nothing changes, nothing will until some girl comes on the scene. Then they’ll set up camp in the bathroom, we’ll be choking on aftershave, and their mother won’t know how to iron a shirt. Apart from gardening stuff and a couple of fishing rods, the garage was empty.’
Nelson Mandela Place brought us to the Square. I said, ‘Took his guns, left the fishing tackle. Not good news. It felt weird being in that house.’
‘So what now, Charlie?’
‘Fancy a game of darts?’
* * *
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* * *
Patrick showed the photograph of Stephen McNeil at garages near the house. I thought it was a long shot. It was. We hung around the office the rest of the day. He didn’t say much. At five I suggested we go for a drink and something to keep us from falling down dead. What I had in mind was coffee and toasted cheese sandwiches. Patrick downed three pints and crunched his way through two packets of crisps. Smoky bacon. The alcohol did its work. He stared into the bottom of his glass. ‘Gail’s leaving me,’ he said.
‘What’s the problem?’
He drew himself together. ‘We’ve been together for twenty-two years. Gail gets the credit for that. If it had been down to me the marriage wouldn’t have survived. But she’s changed, she’s not the same woman. The boys are growing up; they don’t need her the way they did. And there’s a clash of cultures, Charlie. She believes there’s more to life than enjoying yourself.’
He finished his drink and let the subject drop. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘You’re on point. Check it out. See if Stephen McNeil keeps his regular date. The guy I spoke to at Newlands will be there. I’ll stay in the car.’
I passed the photograph to him. ‘Taken seven or eight years ago. Think you can recognise him?’
He looked at it hard. ‘I’ll recognise him.’
‘There should be a gang of them, Newlands finest.’
‘Stephen McNeil’s a broken man. Is it likely he’ll be throwing for double tops?’ Patrick was back to being a detective. ‘He might not be in Glasgow, or even Scotland. A truck driver can get a job anywhere.’
All true.
‘Got a better idea? It’s a line of enquiry. We don’t have too many.’
At the weekend the El Cid would be packed with teenagers, Tuesday’s crowd was older. I waited in the car park, Patrick went inside. Ten minutes later the door opened and he slipped into the passenger seat. He said, ‘It’s pretty busy. Local teams playing each other. There’s a guy in the corner, don’t think it’s McNeil.’
He handed me the photograph of Christopher and his father. I put it in my pocket and got out. I hadn’t been in a pub on a darts night in a long time. A crowd of over-weight men hogged one corner. The marker called the scores and chalked them on a board, adding and deducting with a speed that was way ahead of me. A man in a checked t-shirt and faded denims steadied himself and leaned forward, head still, eyes fixed, lining up the shot. The darts left his hand, true and straight - single twenty, treble eighteen; the last one landed in double twelve. His friends whooped their congratulations. I knew the face if not the expression. There had been no smile in the office at Newlands’ yard. The others were strangers and Patrick was right, Stephen McNeil wasn’t with them.
Eleven
We arranged to have dinner on Wednesday. Nothing fancy, just pasta, and for that Fatzi’s in Bath Street was as good as any. Fiona was there when I arrived, beautiful as usual in white jeans and a cropped top. I kissed her cheek and smelled roses.
‘Hungry?’
‘Famished.’
The lasagne comforted the way only Italian food can. Sharing a panna cotta brought intimacy that had once been second nature. Fiona waited until coffee to tell me her news.
‘The funeral’s organised. Monday at eleven, Daldowie crematorium.’
‘Good. Whatever it costs I’ll pay.’
‘No need, it’s taken care of.’
I was excluded, as if grief belonged to her alone.
‘Five days, a long time to hang around, why don’t we go away? There’s nothing more to do in Glasgow. The police are handling the investigation. I kept your name out of it, by the way.’
She toyed with her spoon. ‘I don’t know, somehow it seems... disrespectful.’
‘Fiona, we’re talking about Ian. Ian Selkirk was the most disrespectful guy I’ve ever known. Nothing was sacred with him. Remember when we went to the Scotia bar to listen to some left wing poet?’
‘It was full of social workers and English teachers.’
‘Ian went on all night about the dignity of man. When we came out he ran across to Paddy’s market; a line of down and outs were asleep in cardboard boxes.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘He woke them up, every one of them. We tried to stop him. Remember what he kept saying.’
She was giggling, so was I. “CID. Get to fuck! CID. Get to fuck!”
A stout woman at the next table gave me a sour look. I was too far gone.
‘The dignity of man my arse.’
We were almost hysterical. I noticed the restaurant manager coming towards us. It was time to go. Out on the street we laughed so hard my stomach hurt: shades of times past. I said, “CID. Get to fuck!” and we were off again.
Across from the King’s Theatre we fell through the doors of the Griffin. The barman must’ve thought we were on something but he served us anyway. This was Glasgow.
Fiona said, ‘It was outrageous. And cruel. Those poor people.’
‘So don’t tell me about disrespectful, not in the same breath as Ian Selkirk.’
‘You’re right, why don’t we go away? What were you thinking?’
The truth was I hadn’t been thinking. There was no plan. I said, ‘Skye. Let’s go to Skye. Drive up, stay a couple of days and back for Monday.’
She was interested. ‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. Lunch in Fort William, dinner in Portree.’
‘Don’t you have a business to run?’
Mrs McNeil would have to wait.
‘Alright, you’re on.’
‘Pick you up around eight thirty?’
‘Fine. At the airport hotel.’
‘The airport? Thought it was Artto?’
‘I changed my mind, I’m not in the mood for people.’
On the pavement she turned to me. ‘We haven’t really talked...you know...about what
we’re going to do.’
I did know. I’d put it out of my mind. Ian had been murdered; the police were on it. Fiona was asking a question I hadn’t had the courage to ask myself. Was that enough? Perhaps a better question was why I was hesitating. An old friend had met a violent death; shouldn’t my response be to get involved? I found people who were missing, finding Ian Selkirk’s killer wasn’t much different. Yet I held back, maybe because I hadn’t forgotten how headstrong Ian could be. And how reckless.
The taxi pulled in to the kerb. Fiona kissed my cheek, maybe for just a little longer than before. Imagination was a wonderful thing. ‘See you in the morning,’ she said.
‘Bright and early.’
‘Lunch in Fort William, dinner in Portree.’
‘Sheep and Highland cattle, hardly any people.’
She waved through the window. I stopped myself from blowing a kiss. I was falling all over again, and there was nothing I could do about it.
The next morning, from the moment Fiona settled into the passenger seat, I sensed it was going to be a good day. We were visitors in our own country. I loved it and having her beside me made it perfect.
I’d spent two hours on the net gathering information for the journey. At Glencoe I got my chance to shine. The sky was overcast, the dark history of the place heavy in the air.
‘Easy to imagine what happened here, isn’t it?’
Fiona was unsympathetic. ‘Jacobite propaganda.’
‘You can’t be serious. Thirty-eight men were murdered, forty women and children died of exposure after their homes were burned down.’
‘I thought the soldiers helped the MacDonalds to safety.’
‘Some did, but it was a heinous crime. Murder Under Trust. The worst crime you could commit in the Highlands. The massacre was part of...’
Fiona interrupted me. ‘Can we stop for a bit, I’m stiff?’
The whitewashed Clachaig Inn near the site of the original village had a fine selection of real ales and malt whiskies. A notice at the door for the benefit of strangers said “No Hawkers or Campbells”. We ordered tea. Twenty minutes later we were heading for Fort William. This part of the world was mountains and glens, rivers and lochs. We went to Inverlochy Castle, a luxury hotel and gastronomic jewel in manicured grounds. Well-heeled foreigners made it their touring base. In the middle of the day we had the dining room to ourselves.
It was too good to last. Fiona articulated what was in our minds. ‘Don’t you think we should be doing more? I do.’
‘More?’
‘About Ian, shouldn’t we be trying to discover why he was in Scotland? Why he ended in the loch.’
‘The police are on it, Fiona.’ I’d had my fingers burned on the edge of a police investigation before. ‘And to be honest, it’s a bit out of my league.’
‘I’m saying a friend has been killed and asking what that means to us. Would it be so different from what you usually do? Haven’t you ever had a murder?’
‘A couple of cases turned out to be foul-play. I didn’t know that at the start.’
‘Otherwise?’
‘It would be a police matter.’
She went quiet, then said, ‘There’s a difference, Ian was your friend.’
‘So I’m emotionally the wrong person. It matters too much, I couldn’t be objective.’
‘Objective’s over-rated. Making a wrong thing right is what counts.’
A part of me didn’t disagree. I took her hand; it was trembling. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘we’re here to get away from everything. Let’s leave it for now, there’ll be plenty of time to decide after the funeral. I’m not against getting into it but I need to be sure it’s wise. Somebody stabbed him for a reason. I don’t want to rush into anything. That isn’t wrong, is it?’
She pulled her fingers from mine. ‘No, Charlie, that isn’t wrong.’ Her voice was flat, dismissive, she was angry with me.
On the surface we were in agreement, underneath the mood had changed. Ian Selkirk lay between us. I had hoped we could leave the ugly stuff behind, even for a few days, and of course I was keen to have Fiona to myself. It would be easy for me to agree to anything she wanted to make her happy. I would too. The reluctance inside me was hard to explain, but it was there and it wouldn’t go away. Fiona’s displeasure was a surprise. Whoever put a knife through Ian’s heart would do the same to me. I suppose I wanted her to show more concern. Instead she sulked.
Our destination was in the north of the island. The volcanic landscape distracted us; heather hills, dark purple in the evening light, and the deep clefts of the Cuillin twin peaks helped repair our differences. Skye was casting its spell.
Fiona said, ‘It’s magnificent, just magnificent. Where shall we stay?’
‘All arranged. The House Over-by.’
‘What a lovely name.’
She caught her enthusiasm and smiled. ‘I’m sorry for being ratty. Ian’s death was a shock. Guilty conscience. We parted on bad terms. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.’
‘Forget it. It upsets you, of course it does. Let’s see what the police come up with. If we aren’t satisfied we’ll consider our options. Fair enough?’
She didn’t answer.
The House Over-by was five star accommodation, split-level luxury suites on the banks of Loch Dunvegan, The last thing I’d done that morning before leaving was make a reservation. For two rooms. It was arguably the most romantic location in the Highlands; yards from shore, and next door to The Three Chimneys, one of the top places in Scotland to eat. Fiona was impressed. Tomorrow Skye would be waiting to entrance her, and put distance, albeit temporarily, between us and the mystery of how Ian Selkirk met his death. Tonight was about Fiona Ramsay and me or at least I wanted it to be.
We walked the short distance to the restaurant with the sound of the Atlantic Ocean lapping the rocks; across the water the island climbed in silhouette into the darkening heavens. ‘Who would’ve thought people would come here?’ she said.
‘Somebody thought it.’
‘They were right. It’s wonderful.’
Out of nowhere Fiona said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s to be sorry about?’
‘Thailand. I let you slip away.’
‘Ancient history. We’re here, nothing else is important.’
‘But I was wrong. I loved you, I just wasn’t ready. I suppose I was scared.’
I reached for her hand, this time she didn’t pull back. ‘I’m sorry too, I gave up too easily. I should’ve tried harder. Fought for you. You were so happy with life as it was. Talking about India. I made my own contribution to the way it ended. And regretted it ever since.’
She said, ‘I’d forgotten about India. Maybe Ian would still be alive?’
I rushed to stop the conversation going down that path. ‘You weren’t to blame, Fiona, neither was I. Each of us has to be responsible for ourselves. Whatever we talk about we won’t talk about Ian.’ I poured wine for us and raised my glass. ‘To new beginnings.’
She joined in the toast. ‘Old friends and new beginnings.’
In my bed she cried out, whispered words I’d longed to hear, and for a few hours Ian Selkirk was forgotten.
My eyes blinked open to strange shapes and moonlight. I lay still. Where was I? Then I remembered and my fingers reached for Fiona.
I was alone.
Panic gripped me, for a second I thought it had all been a dream, a blissful illusion and now my brain demanded I face the painful truth: I had lost Fiona, lost her forever on the beach at Koh Tao. Then I realised I was in the House Over-by and we were together again. I found her on the shore, gazing at the black water, thinking thoughts no one could share. She shivered in the pre dawn chill. I held her. Tears marked her cheeks and I knew our time, all too short, had run down.
Before she spoke I knew what she was going to say, just as I knew my answer. A second chance was a gift from God. Cecelia McNeil understood. That’s why she’d knocked on my door. I pushed the
thought of Christopher’s mother from me and resolved to do better. So far it hadn’t been my finest hour.
Fiona crushed against me. ‘I can’t get him out of my mind, Charlie. I’m sorry, I just can’t.’
‘Then don’t try.’
Her voice cracked. ‘I need it to end. I need to know what happened to him. I need to know.’
We hadn’t left Ian Selkirk’s violent murder in the south, it was with us still. Skye wasn’t far enough away. Nowhere would be. We carried him in our minds and in our hearts, in the past and in the present. There could be no escape. My futile attempt to outrun my responsibility ended as it always had to end, with a return to the city and my duty to a friend. Fiona was my conscience, the link to the part of me I would rather deny. And I was glad.
We turned our backs on the loch and picked our way through the stones to the road and the House Over-by. Making love was a quiet joy. I paid the bill, apologised for having to rush off, and thanked them for everything. We’d only had a day but for as long as it lasted it had been a sweet, sweet thing.
* * *
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* * *
It was early and still dark. Tumelty was driving. From the passenger seat Fulton glanced at his bald head, a silhouette in the early light, and wanted to cave it in. Tumelty was fresh; he’d slept most of the night. Fulton had let him, an easy decision; hearing him snore was preferable to listening to him speak. Anything was better than that. And if it meant landing himself with the whole watch, well, on balance no bad deal. Tumelty hadn’t even thanked him; the man was a moron. But the moron wasn’t sleeping now and every few minutes he whistled the same tuneless snatch of melody. Fulton turned away and swallowed his anger.
Outside, Skye slipped behind them. Ahead the car carrying Cameron and the woman drifted through a deserted Broadfoot and on towards the bridge connecting the island to the Kyle of Lochalsh and the mainland. Fulton’s tired mind wandered to what he had witnessed.
Sometime around four he’d seen the female walk to the shore and stand, looking out to sea. After a while her boyfriend joined her. They talked. He held her close. Maybe they’d had a falling out though judging by the kiss she gave him it didn’t seem like it. Fulton kept his eyes on them until they went back to their room, and at that moment he envied Cameron. They reappeared with their cases and got into the car. That was when he’d wakened Tumelty.
