Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘But you’ve no idea who?’

  ‘Of course I do. She wouldn’t have slept with just anyone.’

  ‘Then who?’

  Molly was very still as she debated with herself whether to say. Eventually she said, ‘Henry Stuart.’

  Rebecca wasn’t surprised. It had to be him. They’d been friends since childhood. ‘Do you think Roddie could have known?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Rebecca paused before she spoke again. ‘If you had told the police about this, if you’d said it in court, then perhaps the outcome would have been different. The lack of motive was one reason why the jury returned a Not Proven.’

  ‘That’s what has tormented me all these years. I should’ve said something about it, but I didn’t. I really thought they had enough evidence. He’d admitted it to Bill Sawyer. He was the only one with her that night. He always had a temper, that boy. Oh, such a temper. And when he was acquitted I knew I should’ve said. But it was too late. Even if I had spoken up, what did it prove? Nothing. No one witnessed what Mhairi told me. The post-mortem didn’t show any pregnancy. And by saying something after the trial it could have just been dismissed as lies, a grieving mother trying to get back at the man they said killed her daughter. Anyway, Scotland still had that double jeopardy rule back then. Even if what I said was enough, they couldn’t retry him.’

  ‘But you’ve not shared this with Lord Henry?’

  ‘I don’t speak to him at all. I never took to him. There was always something . . . off about him. He was polite and courteous but he was . . . untrustworthy. He would come into the shop and steal things, little things, but stealing all the same. He could afford to pay for the sweets and the comics but he liked to simply take them as if it was his right. Of course Roddie took the blame. Roddie was always there at his tail and he protected his great friend. But we knew it wasn’t him, so we’d let him off with it. Once we called the police, really just to throw a scare into the boy. It was all arranged with Jim Rankin. Hector and Campbell were friends back then, you see, and we didn’t want Roddie to get into any trouble, not really. They’re not friends now. They don’t go out together drinking or shooting. Hector doesn’t go anywhere now, not really. Down to the shop, of course. To church, if he feels like it. The only time those shotguns come out of the cabinet is for cleaning.’

  It was no surprise that the friendship had died, Rebecca reflected. ‘Mrs Sinclair, why have you decided to tell me?’

  Molly considered this, trying to understand herself why she had opened up. ‘Because I had to tell someone after all these years. Because you have island blood. Because I know you will not print it if I ask you.’

  ‘Are you going to ask me?’

  The woman stared directly at Rebecca. ‘Yes. Use it as . . . what do you call it? Deep background. Is that right?’

  It was a bit All the President’s Men but it would do. Rebecca stared down at her notes, then reached out and clicked off the recorder. ‘Here’s what I can promise. I’ll do my best to keep it out of any story—if there is a story. But if I feel it has to be included, then I’ll speak to you first and explain my reasoning. I will not use it unless I absolutely have to.’

  Rebecca knew that if she did do a story, then there was no way she could keep it out. Molly knew it too. She’d known it as soon as she began to talk. But this way she could tell herself that she was tricked. Rebecca studied her face as she nodded.

  Rebecca had one more thing to ask. ‘Mrs Sinclair, what did you mean when you said that I knew about keeping secrets?’

  ‘Because of your family. The Connollys. Your father.’

  ‘Did you know my father?’

  ‘Not personally. He was younger than me.’

  ‘But you know why he left the island? Do you know why he would never discuss it with me?’

  A pause. ‘He’s never told you?’

  ‘We lost him, a few years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Molly’s sympathy was genuine. She’d known heartbreak too.

  ‘He refused to speak of Stoirm. You must know why.’ Molly rose, picked up the empty mugs and carried them to the sink. ‘Please, Mrs Sinclair. I’d really like to know.’

  ‘I think I’ve said enough already.’

  ‘You’ve not said anything, not about this.’

  Molly began to rinse out the mugs. ‘It’s not my place. It’s not my business.’

  Rebecca felt cheated. She felt confused. And then she felt angry. ‘What the hell is going on here? Why do people clam up when it comes to my father and his family?’

  ‘Because it’s a family matter. And I told you, on the island family is everything. Your father didn’t want you to know, so it’s not anyone else’s place to tell you.’ She placed the mugs on the rinsing board and turned, wiping her hands on a towel. ‘It’s all in the past now. Talking about these things merely gives them life again.’

  ‘Talking about what things?’

  ‘Things that are better off dead.’

  Rebecca wanted to say more, and she would have, had Hector Sinclair not appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Hector,’ said Molly, ‘this is . . .’

  His face was dark and hard. ‘I know who she is and she’s not welcome.’

  Sawyer had certainly got around. ‘Mr Sinclair, I’m here to help.’

  He gave her a sharp little laugh. ‘Aye, right, that’ll be the day.’

  ‘Mr Sinclair—’

  ‘Look, dear, I know you have a job to do, but you’re not doing it here.’ His words may have softened but his tone and expression had not. ‘The coals you’re raking over are best left cold, understand? No good will come of it. Our lass is dead and there’s no bringing her back. Now, I’d appreciate it if you left now and please don’t bother my family again. Leave us alone. Leave my lass alone. Let her lie in peace.’

  Rebecca knew she would get nothing further from Molly Sinclair while her husband was around. Perhaps not even in his absence. She had said her piece. She had unloaded the knowledge she had hoarded for fifteen years and what she knew of the Connollys was not going to be shared. Rebecca had come tantalisingly close to answers, but then the island had shut her down again. She gathered her notebook and her recorder, dropped them in her bag and left. There was nothing more to be said.

  * * *

  Henry sat back in bed and watched Viola dressing. After all these years he had never grown tired of looking at her body. Perhaps if they had married each other he might have become used to it but as it was they saw each other only a few times a year, when he was in London or she was in the area on constituency duties. She had kept herself very trim, but then again, so had his wife, but he was never the kind of man to be satisfied with one woman. Viola had always shown she was of like mind, even at university. He suspected there might be other men, too, but that didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t the jealous type.

  She was leaving on the late afternoon ferry so he’d ensured he got back to the house for lunchtime, so they could say goodbye in a physical way.

  Their friendship meant more than sex, though. She had helped him in many ways, guiding him through the political morass when needed, beating a path through the jungle of red tape and bureaucracy. He ensured she was well compensated for her trouble, the payment disguised so as not to raise any red flags. He also valued her advice, and that was another reason he’d wanted to speak to her before she left, without anyone being able to hear. With Jarji around he hadn’t had the chance, and then he’d had to spend the morning on the estate, so this was his opportunity, in the small cottage he gave her during her infrequent visits to Stoirm.

  ‘You have to do something about that fellow Kerr,’ she said, as she buttoned her blouse, looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror.

  ‘He’s one voice,’ said Henry.

  ‘One voice can become many,’ she said, echoing Jarji’s words earlier that morning.

  Henry shook his head. ‘The islanders want this development to go throu
gh. They know it’s good for the island, good for the economy in the long run. Donnie’s just speaking out against it because he doesn’t like me.’

  She turned to face him, smoothing her skirt. ‘Speak to him,’ she said.

  ‘He won’t listen.’

  ‘Pay him off.’

  He thought about that. ‘It might work. Donnie’s always struggling for cash. But he’s also pretty damn stubborn and that will make him dig his heels in. That and his intense dislike of me.’

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘What happened between you two? You used to be friends.’

  ‘Used to be is a long time ago,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  A vision of Mhairi Sinclair flashed in his mind. They had all been hopelessly in love with her—him, Donnie, Roddie. Other young men on the island. She was the ideal to which they all aspired. Beautiful, smart, funny, sexy as hell—and she knew it. Then she fell pregnant to Donnie, who promptly abandoned her. When he came back he was next to useless. Even so, Henry had tried to involve him in some business he had going, though it turned out Donnie was too far gone to be of any practical use. Donnie’s father, Lachlan, had to step in on one particular occasion.

  That night.

  Henry put it out of his head. He didn’t want to think of that terrible night.

  ‘What can I say? Things change. Shit happens. The world turns.’

  She gave him a reproving look. ‘Henry, listen to me. You need this development. You have investors who would be somewhat less than forgiving if it fell through. You have one very vocal detractor and from what I saw last night there are others who would easily be swayed to his side. And you have a reporter on the island.’

  ‘I’ve dealt with that.’

  ‘The press is unreliable, Henry, and fickle. When you see her on a ferry and leaving the island, then you will know you’ve dealt with it. Until then, she’s like Schrödinger’s cat, both dealt with and not dealt with. As for Donnie Kerr, sort it and sort it now. His kind of trouble has a habit of making friends.’

  26

  Rebecca decided to face Sawyer down. Her encounter with Hector Sinclair had left her bruised and angry, not the least because she felt she had been close to some answers about her father. She was convinced she would’ve talked Molly round, but her husband’s appearance had put paid to that. Sawyer had warned them in advance about her presence on the island and it had got in her way. And who else had he spoken to? She was convinced he had been with Carl Marsh earlier and had followed them to Thunder Bay. Sawyer was worried she would find something out and she was angry enough at that moment to confront him about it.

  Ash was at his usual station in reception and told her Sawyer was in the bar. She found the former detective perched on a stool, a mug of coffee and the remains of a sandwich resting in front of him, reading that day’s Herald. The barmaid was replacing a bottle of whisky on the overhead gantry. The woman gave her a smile and asked, ‘What’ll you have, hen?’

  Even though it was just before three, Rebecca said, ‘Gin and tonic, please.’ Then she had another thought. ‘No, make that a whisky.’

  The barmaid nodded. ‘Want anything in the whisky?’

  ‘Another whisky,’ said Rebecca.

  The barmaid smiled. ‘A double Grouse okay?’

  Rebecca nodded. At that moment she felt the need for something tough and Scottish.

  Sawyer’s face was blank as he looked up from the newspaper. ‘Hard day?’

  She gave him a cold look. ‘You would know.’

  He swung round on his stool. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. I’ve felt your eyes on my back all day.’

  Amusement glinted in his eyes. ‘Is this some kind of feminist paranoia?’

  Her lip curled. ‘What?’

  ‘You thinking I’ve been looking at you behind your back. This one of those “Me Too” situations? All men are after you, right?’

  Rebecca’s anger had barely been under control when she’d entered the bar; now, she couldn’t hold it back any longer. ‘Tell me, do you practise being a dick in front of the mirror or does it just come naturally?’

  He didn’t seem offended by her words at all. He said nothing as the barmaid came back with Rebecca’s drink, took her money and returned with the change. Rebecca gave him another stiff look, then took a mouthful of whisky, felt it slap her tongue awake and burn all the way down. His eyes still sparkled as if they found the whole situation funny, and that pissed her off even more.

  ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about, Detective Sergeant Sawyer.’

  He corrected her. ‘Former Detective Sergeant . . .’

  ‘Yes, former Detective Sergeant William bloody Sawyer. You’ve been following me, haven’t you? And when you’ve not been doing that, you’ve been warning people not to talk to me.’

  He looked momentarily puzzled, but then the eyes smiled again. No, not smiled, they smirked. Rebecca had never seen anyone smirk with their eyes, but Sawyer could patent it. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘The accused pleads guilty to the second count on the indictment but not guilty to the first charge.’

  Rebecca took another mouthful of whisky. It hit her empty stomach like lava. ‘So you’re saying you didn’t follow Chaz and me out to Thunder Bay this morning?’

  ‘Not guilty, m’lud. I’ve seen Thunder Bay before. Don’t need to see it again.’

  She studied his face for any signs of a lie, but saw none. But then he would be an expert liar. ‘But you did warn the Sinclairs about me.’

  ‘I thought it only fair they know that you’re intent on opening everything up again.’

  ‘You told them not to talk to me.’

  ‘I told them they didn’t need to talk to you.’

  She took another drink, a sip this time. She was beginning to calm down. If he wasn’t the one with Carl Marsh on that ridge, then who was it? ‘What are you so afraid I’m going to find out?’

  He expelled a sharp, breathy little laugh. ‘Nothing at all, darling . . .’

  ‘I’m not your darling.’

  A slight sigh, then ‘Fair enough.’

  She picked up her glass again, then thought better of it. The spirit was having an effect, she could feel it. Sawyer plucked a packet of dry roasted peanuts from a cardboard display at the side of the bar and dropped them in front of her. He pulled some coins from his pocket and clattered them on the bar, nodding to the barmaid. ‘Get them down you,’ he said to Rebecca. ‘You look as if you need something in your stomach.’

  Rebecca stared at the packet as if it was something unpleasant. Without looking at him, she asked, ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘You mean here on the island, or is the drink making you all philosophical?’

  She looked at him then, a withering glance that told him to stop being a smart arse. He smiled, sipped his coffee. ‘I came for Mary’s funeral. She was a decent woman, didn’t deserve a scumbag like her son. Also, you earwigged on the boat when I had my little chat with your pal Roddie. I knew he would come back and I wanted to see him.’

  ‘To wind him up, you mean?’

  ‘No, that’s just an added benefit. Eat the peanuts. They’re not poisoned.’

  She didn’t touch the packet. ‘Why do you hate him so much?’

  ‘Because he got away with murder.’

  ‘There’s no real evidence that he killed Mhairi.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. Eat your peanuts.’

  She took another sip, a very small one. She didn’t really want it but it was there and it was a small show of defiance. ‘You lied in court.’

  He looked back at his newspaper. ‘I wasn’t believed. Not the same thing.’

  She dragged a stool closer to her because she felt she had to sit down. She wasn’t drunk, although the whisky was singing its way through her bloodstream; it was just that she was suddenly so tired. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over. The Molly Sinclair interview,
the disappointment at coming so close to getting answers about her father, Hector Sinclair’s polite antagonism and the now dissipated rage against Sawyer had all taken their toll. And she was hungry. She tore open the foil wrapping, tipped out a handful of peanuts and shovelled them into her mouth. Sawyer made a show of turning the page and not looking in her direction.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said once she had chewed and swallowed.

  He gave her a jerk of the head in acknowledgement. ‘What are you looking for on the island, Ms Connolly?’

  Answers, she thought. About Roddie Drummond and her father. ‘The truth,’ she replied.

  He made a smacking sound with his lips. ‘Funny thing about the truth, sometimes it’s not what you want to hear.’

  ‘For instance?’

  He looked back at her again. ‘I’ve already told you—Roddie Drummond is guilty.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘Because he told me.’

  27

  DS William Sawyer

  Fifteen years earlier

  The first time I set eyes on Roddie Drummond he was in the sole interview room of the wee police station here. Me and Gavin Burke, a Detective Inspector so new to the rank the ink wasn’t dry on his new warrant card, had been sent over on the first ferry that morning. We knew a young woman had been murdered. We knew her live-in lover was found beside the body, his hands and clothes covered in her blood. It seemed to me from the off we had what the Americans would call a slam-dunk. A case barely open before it was shut.

  DI Burke said he wanted to keep an open mind, but I’d been in the job long enough to know that the most obvious culprit in a case was usually the one responsible. All that mystery crap was for the telly. If a man is found standing over the body of his girlfriend, then chances are he is the one who put her on the ground, simple as. No different here.

  Drummond had agreed to attend voluntarily and had signed the form to that effect. He had allowed them to take his clothes and swabs of his fingernails. He hadn’t contacted a solicitor—good luck with that anyway, I thought; there wasn’t one on the island and none of those bastards could get themselves over from the mainland as fast as us. Instead he’d phoned his mother, who had shown up with some fresh clothes. He didn’t want to see her, though. I spotted the woman sitting at the public bar as I passed through, waiting.