She had stared at the grainy black-and-white shot, trying to find something in the eyes that told her this was the man who had beaten her mother to death. She saw nothing but sadness, and something more. It was the look of a haunted man.
And as she sat in the cab of the truck, watching the ruined jetty merge with the darkness, she resolved to ask the man who everyone said had murdered her mother if he truly was guilty.
She would know if he was lying.
Of that she was certain.
13
Johnny Newman sat on the small stage of the town hall making a studied attempt not to notice that he was being noticed. Wearing a tweed shooting jacket, tweed trousers and a tweed cap on his close-cropped head, he was the very epitome of a southern trendy trying to blend into the Highlands. He looked ridiculous, Rebecca thought, there being such a thing as too much tweed.
Rebecca knew a little about Newman, even though she wasn’t in the habit of watching his TV show or any of the low-budget Brit flicks he’d made. He liked to pretend he was an Eastender born and bred, but in reality it was the Home Counties. He’d once had the accent to match, but he’d dropped it and a few consonants in favour of projecting a man-of-the-people image. Not tonight, though. Tonight he was going for lord of the manor.
The actual lord of the manor, Lord Henry Stuart of Stoirm, was by his side. He was a good-looking man, far more attractive than Newman, with dark hair laced with grey and a face that benefited from foreign suns and a careful skin regime. In his younger days Rebecca could visualise him all in black and delivering a box of chocolates to some model or other. The jawline was beginning to sag, though, and there was a weakness in his mouth that Rebecca found off-putting. There was something in his smile that she didn’t like. Tall and slim, he towered over the diminutive actor, and he kept his voice low and well-modulated, unlike Newman, who wanted to make sure everyone heard his tortured vowels. Each was putting on as big an act as the other.
Rebecca made herself as comfortable as she could on the hard foldaway chair. There were about fifty of them set out in rows in the small hall, which was painted the same hard-wearing, indeterminate colour as many such venues. The walls were covered in children’s artwork and public service posters—crime prevention (Lock up your homes, there’s a thief about), health warnings (Get your flu jab now)—as well as notices of impending events—a ceilidh for that weekend, a play by someone she’d never heard of to be presented by the Stoirm Players, a trip for senior citizens to Inverness. A row of frosted-glass windows lined the top of the walls. The stage wasn’t too high but was large enough for the am-drammers to present their plays. A large pull-down screen ran the length of the back wall to allow films to be screened. As she looked around her, she imagined picking up the hall and dropping it in any small town or village in Scotland and seeing if it looked out of place. It wouldn’t.
Chaz had begun herding the platform party of Lord Henry, Newman and Viola Ramage, the constituency MP, for a group shot, so Rebecca sat by herself on the very back row of foldaway chairs. She wasn’t there officially, so she wanted to keep as low a profile as possible, but Chaz had said that he expected the meeting to be attended by many of the key names in the story. In addition, the plan for the estate was a hot ticket item on the island and she wanted to have coverage of the meeting tucked away in case Barry found out she was there.
The hall was filling up, as expected. She saw Sawyer enter alone and stand at the back near the door, his eyes scanning the room. They found her and he gave a small nod of recognition. She wondered how much he’d heard of her conversation with Roddie on the ferry, and who it was he’d been having such an earnest conversation with outside the hotel.
Four young men dressed in camouflage pants and thick weatherproof jackets sauntered in as if they owned the place. They were all of a type: powerfully built, cropped hair (though one was completely bald), broad faces sporting eyes that carried the shadow of contempt for everyone around them. They leaned against the wall close to Sawyer, but there was no sign of acknowledgement. The youths laughed among themselves, pushing and jostling each other. One had fired up a cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the ‘No Smoking’ notice directly above his head. Just then a woman passing by said something to him and pointed to the sign. He stared at her for a beat, took a long drag, then in a leisurely manner craned round, as if to read it for the first time. His pals were watching, grins widening their faces even further. The smoker took the cigarette out of his mouth briefly, then put it back between his lips. His mates found this incredibly funny. The woman said something more, but the young man waved her away like a minor annoyance.
Sawyer stepped in at this point, said something terse and apparently forceful, because the young man plucked out the cigarette again, dropped it on the wooden floor and ground it out with his boot. He stopped when Sawyer said something further, then grudgingly stooped to retrieve the squashed remains and thrust them into the pocket of his jacket. Sawyer gave them all a well-practised policeman’s glare before he took up his position again beside the door. The young men were subdued, once or twice darting glances at the former detective, but he paid them no further heed.
As she studied the locals filtering in and finding seats, Rebecca speculated which, if any, could be her cousins. She searched for traces of her father in the faces but saw none. Chaz had asked his parents but they didn’t know of any Connollys. That didn’t mean anything, she’d convinced herself.
One face stared back at her, but looked sharply away when their eyes met. The woman she had spoken to at the church then leaned closer to the person beside her and whispered something in her ear. Her neighbour’s eyes flitted in Rebecca’s direction and then darted away again. Chaz and his family didn’t know of any Connollys, but Rebecca had the nagging certainty that the older generation recognised her name.
A slim young man wearing a stylish brown jacket and matching waistcoat entered and glanced around the room, as if searching for someone. He was good looking in a studious sort of way. His hair was fashionably cut, his white shirt offset by a red tie, and his denims were clearly designer. He was the epitome of smart but casual. Rebecca saw the four young men smirk and snigger and nudge each other. The young man must have heard what they were saying because he half-turned and gave them a withering stare before he resumed his scan of the room. He saw Chaz on the stage, then he found Rebecca. A little half-smile appeared on his face. He walked straight towards her and took the empty seat at her side.
‘You’ll be Rebecca. I’m Alan, Alan Shields,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m a friend of Chaz.’
Given his look, and slightly effete southern English accent, Rebecca was surprised to find his grip quite strong. ‘How do you know I’m Rebecca?’
He smiled. ‘Chaz told me you were a stunning redhead, so it was easy. And you’re a fresh face in a sea of locals. Tourists are unlikely to be looking in on a meeting like this.’
She felt herself flush at Chaz’s description.
‘And here’s the man himself,’ said Alan.
Chaz headed their way from the stage, thumb-flicking his way through the shots on his digital camera. His face brightened when he saw Alan sitting beside her. ‘So you two have met?’
‘Yes, Rebecca was just as you described her.’ He turned to Rebecca and lowered his voice. ‘I think he’s quite smitten with you.’
Rebecca felt her cheeks redden once more. Chaz gave her a shy smile. ‘Behave yourself,’ he said to his friend.
To cover her discomfiture, Rebecca asked, ‘What’s Viola Ramage’s interest in this?’
Chaz looked up at the MP on the stage. ‘She’s an old friend of Lord Henry’s.’
Alan grinned. ‘Oh yes, she and his lordship are very good friends.’
Rebecca caught the emphasis. ‘Really?’
She studied the politician with renewed interest. She was of a similar age to Lord Henry, early forties, and if politics really were showbiz for ugly people then she was the excep
tion to the rule. Her hair retained a blonde sheen that could not possibly be natural and the lines that come with maturity actually looked good on her. She kept herself trim and obviously did not buy her clothes from the high street, unless it was one of those stores where you had to undergo a credit check just to window shop. Rebecca had covered many meetings and receptions the MP had attended and learned the woman was extremely adept at recognising those who could be of use to her and those who could not. She could size up a room with a practised flick of the eye—as she was doing right now, seeking out those in the audience who were friends and those who were not. Her eyes settled on Rebecca briefly, then moved on. The MP was so well-versed in hiding her thoughts that Rebecca couldn’t tell whether she’d been recognised.
She leaned closer to Alan. ‘How do you know they’re very good friends?’
Chaz had turned his attention back to his images and answered without looking up. ‘Alan works at the castle. And he likes to gossip.’
Alan affected outrage. ‘I do not! I am the very picture of discretion. If I am told something in confidence it remains with me.’
Chaz didn’t even glance at him. ‘Then why are you telling Rebecca about Lord Henry and Mrs Ramage?’
A little smile that could only be described as wicked tickled Alan’s lips. ‘Because some things are too tasty to be kept secret.’
‘How long has this been going on?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Apparently they were very good friends in uni,’ Alan said. ‘And they remained very good friends after she married.’
‘But Lord Henry’s married, too, isn’t he? Some fashion designer or something?’
‘And your point is, caller? Her Ladyship is hardly ever here and Mr Viola is some kind of merchant banker who doesn’t like to leave his money alone too long. And of course, our wonderful MP simply has to come up here as often as she can to deal with constituency affairs, if you know what I mean?’
Rebecca smiled. This was interesting. She was not professionally interested in the extra-marital activities of the rich and shameless, but she tucked the nugget away. As her old editor would say: You just never know what will be useful in the future.
‘Who are those young guys up the back?’ she asked.
Chaz followed her gaze and she heard something rumble in his throat. ‘That’s Carl Marsh’s moron squad.’
‘Carl Marsh?’
‘The estate manager, or gamekeeper if you rather. Apparently he was the one who gave Roddie Drummond a beating a few days before Mhairi’s death.’
Rebecca recalled mention of previous wounds on Drummond from the newspaper reports. She hadn’t found any mention of an altercation with another islander. ‘Why?’
It was Alan who provided the information. ‘There was talk that Carl went all Old Testament when he found out Roddie was having a fling with his wife, Deirdre.’
Rebecca considered this. ‘While he was going with Mhairi?’
‘No, no. I’m told he stopped the affair when he took up with Mhairi.’
Chaz frowned. ‘We don’t know if all this is true . . .’
‘Oh, it’s true,’ said Alan.
‘You weren’t even on the island at the time.’
‘But I talk to people. And I listen. And there’s been a lot of talk since it got out Roddie was coming home. A lot of talk. And it’s a fact that Carl used Roddie as a punch bag.’
Rebecca looked back at the young men. ‘And that lot work for this Carl Marsh?’
Alan nodded. ‘Yup. They help him on the estate, act as beaters on shooting days, generally do the donkey work. The rest of the time they’re very busy being Portnaseil’s village idiots. Said function they perform remarkably well. They and Carl are well-suited, and . . . Speak of the devil!’
Rebecca’s attention turned to the man standing at the door. She recognised him immediately as the person Sawyer had been talking with outside the hotel. He gave the ex-policeman a curt nod. Sawyer, who was still leaning with his arms folded against the wall, acknowledged him, but nothing was said. Marsh then spotted his young helpers and began speaking to them.
He was obviously an outdoor type, very much like Sawyer, but a few years younger. Rebecca placed him in his mid-forties, his hair line a horseshoe of grey clinging tenaciously above his ears and at the back of his head like moss on a tree. He wasn’t tall and his sturdy frame was packed into a green combat jacket with a plethora of pockets. As he talked, he scrutinised the crowd with what looked to be a permanent scowl.
‘That’s him,’ said Chaz. ‘The woman with him is his wife, Deirdre . . .’
Rebecca hadn’t even noticed her at first. She had slipped in at his back like a shadow. Her dark hair was lined with white, and her face was thin and pale, but it was her eyes that Rebecca really noticed. They were sad. No, worse than that. They were defeated. Rebecca thought Deirdre Marsh had probably been an attractive woman in her day, but it was as if something had drained what beauty she’d had and kept it for itself. Maybe that something was her husband . . .
By now, most people had taken their seats and were talking among themselves. Rebecca tried to tune into conversations, but she gleaned very little of interest. She thought she heard the name Roddie Drummond once or twice but may have been mistaken.
‘No one from Roddie Drummond’s family here?’ she whispered to Chaz.
Craning round in his seat to check the faces of the audience, he nodded. ‘Campbell, his dad. Back row, far corner.’
Rebecca waited a few moments, then casually glanced across the room. She saw a tall man with tough bristles of white hair that had been shaved close to his scalp. He sat alone, bolt upright and face forward, wearing a black suit and white shirt, the two seats beside him and one in front empty, as if no one wished to be near him. His expression was as tight as his haircut, the lines carved out of his weathered cheeks like crevasses on a rockface. Rebecca knew he was a car mechanic and owned Portnaseil’s only garage, but he also worked a croft on the island, so he had the sturdy look of a man who had faced life just as he’d faced the elements—unflinching, unbowed, uncompromising. It was a strength she suspected he’d had to draw on many times.
The chatter of voices stilled as Viola Ramage called the meeting to order. All eyes moved to her.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming here tonight.’ Her accent was closer to her natural Scots than the bastardised tones she used in Westminster. ‘You will all be aware that Lord Henry Stuart has unveiled ambitious new plans for the estate and the island. You may not be acquainted with the extent of the changes and how they will, I’m sure, improve life here on the island.’
Way to be impartial, Viola, thought Rebecca.
‘And that is why Lord Henry thought the best and easiest way to explain what will be happening is to hold this public meeting, to allow you to hear from him personally. And so, without further ado, I’d like to ask Lord Henry to come forward and outline his vision for the future of Stoirm.’
Staccato applause met the local laird as he rose from the chair and stepped to the microphone. It came from those who either supported him, were trying to curry favour, or were simply too polite not to clap.
‘Thank you, fellow islanders,’ he began.
Rebecca listened to the grumbles of disagreement. ‘Fellow islander, my arse,’ she heard a man mutter in the row behind. Rebecca stole a glance at him. He had a broad face and a thick head of brown hair, threaded with grey, curling round his ears. One of those ears sported a silver stud. He wore a denim shirt and faded blue jeans and had a thick woollen jacket draped across his knees. His face was weather-beaten and deeply lined, even though she estimated he was only in his early forties.
‘Must think he’s talking to his Bermuda pals,’ answered a woman.
Rebecca smiled. For years, Lord Henry had spent very little time on Stoirm, preferring his London flat or his exotic hideaway.
Lord Henry ignored the grumbles. ‘You all know that when I inherited the castle and the
estate from my father ten years ago it was considerably run-down. My father had let the business side of Stoirm go to seed and I saw it as my duty to amend that situation . . .’
‘Aye, and the first thing you did was raise the rents,’ said the same man, louder this time, and his words were greeted with much nodding and murmurs of agreement. He looked around, as if thanking people for their support.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Lord Henry. ‘And it was with a heavy heart that I did so . . .’
A ripple of mocking laughter spread through the audience.
‘Aye, right,’ said the man again.
‘Who’s that?’ Rebecca whispered to Chaz.
‘Donnie Kerr.’
‘Mhairi’s ex?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Please,’ said Ramage, stepping forward again, ‘if we could let Henry finish, then discussion can follow.’
Donnie Kerr stood up now, and Rebecca saw he had a strong, powerful body under his denim shirt. He’d been something of a wreck at the time of Mhairi’s death, an addict and a petty criminal. He’d obviously pulled himself together in the fifteen years since.
‘I don’t think we need to hear what Lord Henry has to say. We all know it,’ he said, waving his arms around the room. ‘We know he increased the rents right away and he’s bumped them up every year since. We know him and his people have encouraged folk to give up their crofts on the land he wants to run the deer . . .’
‘The rents were increased only in line with the Retail Price Index, as stipulated in the leases,’ said Lord Henry, trying his best to remain unflappable but the smile he flashed the room seemed to Rebecca a bit forced. ‘And those crofts were unsustainable. Those tenants who moved—and we’re only talking three crofts here—came to me and told me that they could no longer work it. No one was forced off the land and those who wished to stay on Stoirm were assisted by the estate to find suitable homes.’ There was a quiet rumble of agreement from a few in the audience, some of whom had earlier supported Donnie Kerr. Lord Henry sensed this and his smile loosened. ‘Donnie, this isn’t some new kind of Clearances here. These are improvements.’
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