Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  Time would tell.

  Roddie Drummond was ahead of her as she headed down the ramp and onto dry land, his shoulders slumped, a battered old sports bag held in one hand. He travelled light, she noted, an art she had never mastered. The inability to take only what was needed was something else she had inherited from her father. She could hear her mother now, setting off on family holidays. It’s not a taxi we should be getting to the airport, you two, it’s a removal van.

  Rebecca was dragging a case that was large enough to house a family of four, yet still feared she hadn’t packed everything she would need. She was glad she could pull it along, although the handle was ready to detach itself at any moment and one of the wheels was on the dangerous side of dodgy. She hoped nothing embarrassing would occur while she was bouncing over the rough surface of the ramp. Or on the harbourside. Or anywhere, for that matter.

  She made it off the ferry without incident, her eyes still fixed on Drummond. She wanted to see if anyone met him and was rewarded with the sight of a woman in her thirties waving to him from the side of a battered old Volvo estate. She was too far away to make out her features clearly, but Rebecca would bet her Robbie Williams collection that it was his sister Shona. They hugged—well, she did, he kept his arms at his side—spoke a few words and then he climbed into the passenger seat. As they drove off, Rebecca wished she could follow them, but that wasn’t possible. She was on foot and was soon manhandling the bag-cum-holiday home up the incline towards the Square.

  The hotel looked old-fashioned from the outside and it didn’t disappoint inside. The reception was panelled in dark wood and carpeted in dark green tartan. She carefully propped her case upright, the handle threatening to detach itself momentarily, then leaned on the rich polish of the reception. A Sikh with a blue turban was sitting behind the desk and gave her a wide smile. The face around that smile was warm and friendly and welcoming. She saw the handles of a wheelchair behind his shoulders.

  ‘Good morning, and welcome to the Stoirm Hotel. How may I help you?’ She heard more than a hint of Glasgow in the voice.

  ‘My name is Rebecca Connolly. I’ve got a reservation?’ She didn’t know why she made it sound like a question; she knew she had a room reserved, as did he.

  ‘Ah, yes, Miss Connolly. It’s all ready for you.’ He produced a sheet of paper from below the lip of the desk with a magician’s flourish, laid it in front of her and set a pen at its side. ‘If you could just sign this, please. Do you have a car?’

  Rebecca signed the form without reading it. ‘No, I left it on the mainland.’

  ‘Okay-doke.’ Another flourish and a key attached to a large wooden fob took the place of the registration sheet and pen, both of which vanished beneath the desk. ‘You said when you booked that you didn’t know how long you’d be staying?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, taking the key and wondering if the fob would act as a life-preserver if she fell into the water. ‘At least two nights, maybe more.’ She didn’t know exactly how long she would be on the island but felt some kind of answer was required.

  ‘Stay as long as you like.’ The smile widened, which was quite something. ‘As long as you pay your bill, of course.’

  She smiled back, instantly liking this cheerful young man. ‘Does that happen a lot?’

  ‘People not paying their bills? Not much, we’re on an island and it’s not so easy to slink off. My mother would track them down and give them hell.’

  ‘Your mum pretty fearsome, then?’

  He laughed. ‘She has made grown men cry. But my brother doesn’t like to talk about it. You’re on the first floor, nice room with a view of the harbour and the sea. You’ll be able to see the seals frolicking.’

  ‘They do a lot of that?’

  ‘Well, mostly they lie around on the rocks, but there’s an occasional frolic. How else do you think they make the baby seals?’

  He turned and wheeled himself out from behind the desk. ‘Forgive me for not taking you to your room. My brother is usually around but he is working the kitchen right now along with my sister, preparing lunches. We’re short-staffed at the moment.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  He punched a button on the doorway leading to a hall and it eased open with silent efficiency. ‘There’s a small lift down at the end of the corridor here, but the stairs are just on the left.’

  Rebecca thought about the dodgy handle on her case and decided the lift was a safer bet.

  ‘You need anything, just give me a shout,’ he said. ‘They call me Ash. I’ll never live down burning those potato scones.’ That smile again. ‘I’m kidding, it’s my name, short for Ashar. The phone in the room connects right to the desk here, just press zero and I’ll pick up.’

  She thanked him and, as she grappled with her case, glanced through the glass-panelled doorway to the Square. Outside, she spotted Sawyer talking to a man in camouflage gear and a baseball cap. His face had the florid look of a man who had been skelped too often by the elements and she could tell by the way he was jabbing a finger at Sawyer that something was getting his goat. The former detective’s face was set so tight you could bounce pennies off his jaw. He said something that made the man pivot and stride off out of her line of sight. Sawyer watched him, his face still grim, then picked up the bag at his feet and began to push his way through the hotel door. Rebecca took that as her cue to move away.

  As she vanished into the gloom of the hallway she heard Ash say, ‘Bill, good to see you again, mate. Have a good crossing?’

  She didn’t hear Sawyer’s response, but he had been greeted like an old friend. She didn’t know yet if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  10

  Campbell Drummond prided himself on the fact that there was nothing mechanical beyond his skills. Cars, trucks, lorries, tractors, motor cycles, quad bikes, fishing boats, even washing machines and lawnmowers—they held no mystery for him. He could repair them all. If it had an engine, he could take it apart and put it back together again. He could listen to their individual voices and hear whatever ailed them. His wife had believed in the whispers of spirits; he believed in the throaty rumble of cogs, gears and motor oil.

  He was bent over the open bonnet of a Vauxhall Astra when Shona appeared at his elbow. He didn’t need to look around to the open doors of his workshop to know that his son was standing there. So he didn’t bother. He continued to check the spark plugs without a word.

  He felt Shona’s eyes on him, waiting for him to say something.

  Finally, she broke the silence. ‘Dad, Roddie’s here.’

  He jerked a plug from its socket, inspected it with an expert eye. It needed to be replaced.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Aye, I heard you.’

  He laid the plug aside, worked at the next one.

  ‘Dad . . .’ Shona managed to inject both an appeal and a reprimand into that single word. Mary could do that, too. But Mary was gone. He heard his daughter sigh and he glanced at her, saw she had that familiar determined look on her face that told him she wouldn’t stop until he acknowledged Roddie’s presence. He wiped his hands on a rag and turned, raising his head slowly as if fighting a strong counter-force, and looked on his son for the first time in fifteen years. He was framed in the sunlight in the doorway, his travelling bag still in his hand.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’ Roddie’s voice was hoarse.

  Campbell nodded and Shona gave him a slight nudge with her arm to prompt him to say something. ‘You’ve put weight on,’ he said.

  Roddie nervously looked down at his stomach. ‘Aye. My diet hasn’t been the best the past few years. Too much fast food, too many quick meals.’

  Campbell stared at his son for a few moments. He felt he should say more. He wanted to say more. But he didn’t know whether the words would be of welcome or rebuke. If Mary had been here she’d have been in floods of tears and would have been embracing her prodigal, then fussing over him. Mary wasn’t here, though. If she had been, Rodd
ie wouldn’t be here. Campbell knew that. The boy had come back because his mother was no longer with them. He could not face her fifteen years before and he wouldn’t be able to face her now. Shame was powerful. Campbell knew that only too well, for he had felt it every day since that night. Every time he looked on his wife he’d felt it, but never discussed it with her. He dealt with it himself, ratcheted it down. That was his way. And so there were no words of welcome from him and no display of affection, only a curt nod and a few words. ‘You know where your room is. Your mother kept it as you left it.’

  He turned back to the engine. He understood it better than his own feelings. A few moments later he heard his son walk away.

  ‘For God’s sake, Dad,’ said Shona, her voice thick with exasperation. He knew he vexed her in the same way he had vexed her mother, but it was too late now for him to change.

  He said nothing, simply kept on working. He felt her staring at him for a long time, then she too walked away.

  * * *

  Rebecca didn’t bother to unpack, reasoning there would be plenty of time for that later. She also knew she would probably leave her clothes folded in her case until needed and throw the dirty ones into a corner until she stuffed them in a plastic bag. Her mother would be horrified at her going anywhere in clothing with even the barest hint of a crease, but her mother wasn’t there and what she didn’t know wouldn’t annoy her.

  She was eager to speak to the Reverend Fiona McRae about her father. As the ferry had docked, she had spotted the church on a hill above Portnaseil so it wouldn’t be hard to find. What she hadn’t banked on was the steep climb from town to the road that ran the length of the island. Once there, however, the walk was flat and easy, although her calf muscles griped so much she wished she had used her gym membership more often. The road offered a fine view down on Portnaseil and the harbour, and beyond it to the mainland, which looked clear in the crisp autumn sunshine. At this distance from Inverness she felt her worries about the office diminish. It would all work out, she convinced herself. It would all be fine.

  But that little voice in her head would not be still. A welcome. A warning. She was unsure which.

  She reached the notice that informed her Portnaseil Church was part of the Church of Scotland fold, and leaned against the black iron gate to stare at the gravel pathway weaving up the hill to the building itself. Willing her calf muscles to gird up their loins, she began the trek upwards again.

  When she reached the top, Rebecca paused to take in the view. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was really to catch her breath and let the breeze cool her flushed cheeks. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that she had a face like a well-skelped arse, as her dad used to say. She really had to do something about her fitness level. The climb hadn’t been steep enough to demand Sherpa guides but it made her wonder how any elderly parishioners managed it every Sunday.

  The path meandered through a graveyard that looked as though it dated back hundreds of years, with mossy stones and dark Celtic cross markers erupting from the ground in no discernible pattern. It ended at the small church building of plain grey stone devoid of any ornament. There were three large windows on the wall facing her, little more than slits, and a small belfry. The big double doors, painted green, were closed and, she discovered when she turned the large hanging oval handles, locked. She wandered around the side, her feet crunching on the gravel path, enjoying the late blooms in the lovingly tended flower beds.

  She was just rounding the far corner of the building when she almost collided with a plump woman carrying an empty basket containing traces of earth and a well-used pair of gardening gloves. Here, then, was the attentive gardener. She was of indeterminate age—anywhere between forty and sixty—with the ruddy face of someone who works outdoors much of the time. They both made the expected show of surprise—exclamations, hands to chests and a few steps back. Rebecca almost laughed at their pantomime. Or was it a ritual?

  ‘Och, lass,’ said the woman, her voice dripping good humour. ‘You almost put me in my grave!’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Not to worry—I wouldn’t have far to go, would I?’

  The woman jerked her head behind her towards a more modern cemetery carved out of the land, a more regimented place of the dead than the Hammer horror version at the front of the church.

  In the far corner two men were digging a fresh grave, one operating a small digger. The use of machinery for such an ancient art was jarring but Rebecca couldn’t say why.

  ‘I’m looking for the Reverend McRae, is she here?’

  ‘No, lass—she’s away off the island for a few days. Won’t be back for a day or two yet. For the funeral.’

  Rebecca wondered if it was Roddie’s mother’s grave they were digging.

  ‘She wasn’t expecting you, was she? Fiona, I mean.’

  Rebecca shook her head. ‘No, I’m over here for a few days. She’s . . .’ Rebecca wondered how to describe her. ‘An old friend of my father’s. He was born on the island.’

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ The woman was genuinely interested. ‘And what’s his name?’

  ‘Connolly,’ said Rebecca, feeling hope rise that this woman might’ve known him. ‘John Connolly. He left when he was in his late teens.’

  The woman was silent for a moment and then she shook her head. ‘Connolly,’ she repeated, turning her face away slightly. She might’ve been trying to recall her father, but Rebecca sensed something different. ‘No,’ said the woman, stepping around her. ‘I can’t say it rings any bells, dear. Sorry for the rush, but I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon. I’m sure Fiona will help you when she gets back, if you’re still here.’

  ‘I’ll still be here,’ said Rebecca, and the woman gave her a slight smile, more out of politeness than anything else, then moved quickly along the path, her feet slapping on the gravel like ragged gunshots. Rebecca watched her go, troubled by the change in attitude. The woman had been like a ray of sunshine, welcoming, open, helpful. But she’d detected a slight change as soon as Rebecca mentioned her father’s name. It was as if a cloud had passed over the sun.

  * * *

  Most people meeting Jarji Nikoladze for the first time thought he was Russian. Many of them continued to believe that and, even though technically they were correct, he did not think of himself as Russian. He was a Georgian and he was proud of his heritage, although he had left his homeland thirty years before, when he was ten, and was never likely to return, at least not while he was breathing. He liked Scotland. In Georgia his family had been little more than peasants but here they lived like kings. He was a tall man who kept his frame bulked out with regular exercise and close attention to his diet. His black, wavy hair was regularly and carefully cropped by one of the top stylists in Edinburgh. At the prices the man charged, he had better be one of the top stylists. Jarji was fastidious in his tailoring, nothing but the best was good enough for him. He was so clean he practically gleamed.

  The same could not be said for his companion. Tamaz always looked too big for his suits and no matter how much he tried he never looked smart. He was balding but he was resolute in his attempts to disguise the fact by combing what hair he had from the back of his head forward. It fooled nobody but they were not likely to comment on the fact. His name was derived from ancient Persian and meant strong and brave. Tamaz was both of those things and had often been called upon to exercise these attributes in service to Jarji and his older brother Ichkit.

  In Georgian, Jarji meant ‘herald’ and that was his function. He was sent by his brother to both deliver and glean news. Sometimes that entailed violence, hence the need for the particular skills of the strong and brave Tamaz. However, there was no need for any unpleasantness on this day. His visit to Stoirm was merely a formality, a way for his brother in Edinburgh to remind the man sitting across the large wooden coffee table that he had promises to keep. Henry and Jarji were old friends, but business was business, even when conducted in impress
ive surroundings. In Georgia Jarji would never have been allowed anywhere near such luxury. The spacious sitting room of Stoirm House had high ceilings and large windows that looked out on a perfectly mowed lawn curving down to the driveway. A mature burst of pampas grass erupted from the centre like a fountain. He had not been in this room for fifteen years but it had changed very little. The same old but comfortable upholstery; the same enormous paintings, a mixture of landscapes and family portraits. It impressed Jarji that Henry could trace his lineage back generations. Jarji could trace his only back as far as his great-grandfather, a soldier in the Red Army who died defending Stalingrad. Despite that, here he was greeted as an honoured guest, and by an aristocrat, no less. Money was a great leveller. Money and power. And a little bit of fear.

  Somewhere within the house was the sound of hammering and a power drill. Renovations. The view of the garden from this room was clear but elsewhere scaffolding allowed the workers to replace windows and repair brickwork, while above them the slates of the roof were being removed and new ones slotted in.

  He studied the folder on his lap, which Henry had presented to him at the conclusion of the social niceties. It contained the plans for the estate, including income and expenditure projections for the next five years and the cost of the work Jarji could see and hear being carried out already.

  ‘As you can see, Jarji, there is nothing to cause you or your brother concern,’ said Henry, his voice only barely showing traces of nerves. Jarji was used to that when conducting family business, particularly when Tamaz was standing behind him like a giant moon looking to eclipse somebody’s sun. Tamaz couldn’t help but exude menace, his ludicrous comb-over aside.