Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘Hardly a smoking gun, is it? What happened to “It’s a fair cop, guv’nor”?’

  Sawyer leaned forward. ‘Look, darling, I don’t expect you to believe me. Christ, the jury didn’t. Bloody advocate depute wasn’t even going to lead as evidence. No corroboration. So I had to slip it in myself, on the stand.’

  ‘And help blow your case out of the water.’

  ‘Drummond had a clever lawyer and he made me look like a lying scumbag. Doesn’t mean I was lying.’

  ‘The jury didn’t accept it. You screwed up.’

  Sawyer looked over her shoulder as he thought about his next words. For the first time she saw something other than self-confidence in his eyes. Now she saw doubt. ‘Don’t you think I know that? Not in telling the court what I heard—I know what I heard and the fact that a clever lawyer made sure none of them believed me doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. We didn’t have enough, I knew it even if the AD didn’t. It was all circumstantial, his defence didn’t need to try hard to argue reasonable doubt. Innocent until proven guilty, right? Well, that bastard was guilty but we just couldn’t prove it. Not Proven. That’s what they handed down, and in my more reasonable moments—yes, I have them—I know that’s the correct verdict. He was guilty but we didn’t prove it. The blood on his clothes, the contact traces on her body, even his wounds could all be explained away. He’d tried to help her, he’d held her, he’d perhaps been too rough with her throat when he tried to revive her, he already had wounds after his encounter with Carl Marsh. The only thing we had was a trace of muck and bark on his hand that was similar to samples on the woodpile but the defence argued that he could have picked that up when he was working that night, or when he set the fire. We had no motive, no eye witnesses, no other suspects, we had nothing.’

  ‘So you made up the so-called confession to strengthen the case.’

  ‘No. He said it. If I made it up do you not think I’d come up with something more damning? He said it.’

  ‘Or you were smart enough to make it just weak enough to make it more believable.’

  He looked back at her. The doubt was gone and that old certainty was back. ‘Don’t be fooled by him, darling. Roddie Drummond killed that lassie, sure as we’re sitting here. And he sat in that room all those years ago and more or less challenged me to prove it.’

  29

  Donnie was swabbing the Kelpie’s deck when he became aware of a shadow falling across him. He looked up at the dock and recognised the tall figure of Henry Stuart etched against the low sun.

  ‘Can I come aboard?’ Henry asked.

  At first Donnie was tempted to say no, but he merely waved a hand and the man who had once been his friend swung round the ladder and descended onto the deck. He looked around him. ‘Not been on the old Kelpie for years. She’s looking fine.’

  ‘She’s hard work,’ said Donnie, although there was a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Old boat, one pair of hands.’ For a moment he let Henry study his surroundings, perhaps remembering happier times standing on this deck, then asked, ‘What do you want, Henry?’

  ‘We need to talk, Donnie.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, you’re breaking up with me.’

  Henry didn’t smile. ‘What’s your problem with the development?’

  ‘You know my problem. You wrap it up as a benefit to the island but we both know it’ll only benefit you and your investors. Sooner or later the islanders will be shafted.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know you and I know the kind of people you’re dealing with. Aye, I saw you this morning, talking to the Russian. I thought you would’ve learned after the last time.’

  Henry’s eyes were pained. ‘Let’s not talk about that.’

  ‘Why not, Henry? Maybe it’s time we did talk about it.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve been helping that reporter?’

  ‘Don’t know about helping her. I spoke to her.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I stuck with the party line. You’re safe.’

  ‘We’re none of us innocent, Donnie,’ Henry said, a hint of sadness in his voice. ‘Remember that.’

  Donnie knew that to be true. It was something he’d lived with all these years. Something they’d all lived with. There were times it had almost driven him back towards heroin, but he’d fought it. He was clean now and he would stay that way, even if his conscience wasn’t pristine. And that conscience niggled at him now as he thought of what he hadn’t told the reporter.

  Of the man in a coat. A coat with a splash of red.

  ‘This development is important, Donnie,’ Henry said. ‘To me, to the island. You have to trust me.’

  Donnie barked out a laugh. ‘Trust you? Henry, I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw this boat. You’re a user. You use people, you use this island.’

  ‘So this is about me and not the development?’

  ‘It’s about both. I think your fancy folk will come to the estate and they’ll spend their cash with you and you alone.’

  ‘What’s good for the estate is good for the island.’

  Donnie snorted. ‘Henry, I know you, remember? I know you don’t believe that.’

  Henry held his gaze steadily and Donnie thought he saw something there that he’d never seen before. He was astounded to realise it might be something very close to sincerity. ‘A man can change, Donnie. You get older, you see things differently. My father used to tell me the only thing that mattered was the land and the people, and you’re right, I didn’t buy into that, not then. I’ve made some mistakes . . .’

  ‘Mistakes that have lined your own pockets.’

  Henry conceded that. ‘Yes, I’ve made money. I’ve done well. But is that so wrong? When my father died the estate was on its uppers. There were debts, lots of them. I could’ve sold the place easily, cleared them off that way. There was a Saudi prince with his chequebook in his hand, Donnie, ready to pay over the odds. I didn’t sell. I cleared the debts myself. Because the estate is part of my family, part of my heritage. I realised that. The estate is the island, Donnie, and we all need to work together to preserve it. That’s why I’m doing this.’

  Donnie stared at him, tried to gauge whether he really was sincere. He still saw the young boy he played with and laughed with. That young boy had been capable of lies, just as they all were, but Henry had always been more adept. He often skated free of trouble, not just because his father owned most of the island but also because he was able to deflect blame so very easily.

  ‘It’s about planning for the future, Donnie. There’s always more money needed here, more expenditure, more work. That’s what this plan is all about. We need to make the estate pay its way. It needs to be self-sufficient.’

  ‘You know what worries me, Henry? It’s that you’ll get all the cake and the island will get the crumbs.’

  Donnie saw that his words had hurt but he didn’t care.

  When Henry spoke, his words came out carefully. ‘What if I promised you that you would get a slice of that cake?’

  Another explosive laugh. ‘You bribing me, Henry?’

  ‘A business proposition. You don’t stir up trouble, I’ll guarantee you a decent income. You wouldn’t need to scramble for customers, Donnie. They’d be served up to you on a plate. A silver plate. My clients will have wives and partners and many of them won’t want to partake of the sport on offer. Sure, the new spa will have its attractions but days out on the water, seeing the dolphins and the whales, will be something different for them.’

  Donnie sat down on the starboard gunnel and considered this. It would be a godsend financially. It would get him out of the hole, no doubt about it. Guaranteed customers with considerable disposable income. He looked over the side at the water, watched the surface undulate softly against the Kelpie’s keel, felt each slight lift and dip as it rode the gentle swell. He had come to know every inch of this boat. He had come to love it and would do anything to keep
it. He tilted his head to the sky, saw a tissue of cloud drifting from the west. He looked back at Henry, who was waiting for his answer.

  ‘I’ll take my chances, Henry. My own chances.’

  Henry looked genuinely disappointed, but Donnie knew he wouldn’t try to change his mind. They had been old friends, they knew each other very well. Just as Donnie knew that Henry put himself first, Henry would know that once Donnie had made a decision that was it. He was stubborn to the point of self-destruction. That was his way.

  Henry merely nodded then turned and climbed back up to the dock. There was nothing more to be said between them. Donnie climbed the ladder halfway to watch him walk across the quayside to where Carl Marsh waited in his Land Rover. He saw Henry shake his head and say something as he climbed into the passenger seat.

  Donnie stepped back onto the deck and returned to the gunnel. He tilted his head back, let the weak sun play on his face and felt the faint pounding in his ears that told him the weather was going to change.

  30

  Rebecca had suspected that Chaz was flirting with her a little that day and there was a part of her that had responded. He was a couple of years younger but he was easy on the eye, talented and good company. She had also learned he was compassionate and cared about his adopted island home, although he wasn’t blind to its failings. What she had gone through in the past year—the baby, Simon—meant she wasn’t interested in any kind of relationship but she found she was not averse to spending more time with him. As she rattled out a report on the public meeting and emailed it to Barry, she found she was looking forward to seeing him again. That meant there was more than a twinge of disappointment when she arrived in the dining room to see him sitting at the table with his friend Alan. She kept her smile in place, though. She’d become adept at that in recent months.

  Chaz stood up as she approached and gestured towards his slim, sallow-faced companion. ‘Alan’s joining us, hope that’s okay.’

  ‘I hope I’m not some kind of third wheel on this little bicycle built for you two,’ said Alan, his eyes smiling.

  Chaz blushed and flicked his napkin at his friend. ‘Behave.’

  Rebecca could feel her own face warming up, so she covered it by studying the menu. ‘So what do you do at the big house, Alan?’

  ‘Oh, as little as possible,’ he said, with a languid wave of his hand.

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Chaz. ‘He practically runs the place.’

  ‘I’ve told you a million times not to exaggerate, Chazer. I’m an administrator, that’s all.’

  ‘And what does an administrator on an estate like that do, exactly?’

  ‘Paperwork, mostly. Show me a pile of paperwork and I’ll administrate the utter hell out of it.’

  She could tell he really didn’t want to talk about his role in the estate. ‘So you work with Carl Marsh?’

  Alan’s lips pursed. ‘Mmm, indeed I do. Lovely man. Somewhere there’s a party wondering just what the hell happened to its life and soul.’

  Ash wheeled over to them and took their order. Chaz and Alan both ordered chicken, Rebecca went for the fish. As she watched Ash glide effortlessly towards the kitchen, she said, ‘Does anyone know why Ash is in a wheelchair?’

  ‘Car accident is what I heard,’ said Chaz. ‘Back in Glasgow.’

  ‘Not as simple as that,’ said Alan.

  ‘We don’t know that’s true,’ said Chaz, giving his friend a warning look.

  ‘I got it from Lee-Anne.’

  Chaz’s face wrinkled dismissively. ‘Lee-Anne’s a fantasist.’

  Rebecca asked, ‘Who’s Lee-Anne?’

  ‘Seasonal worker,’ said Chaz. ‘She lives over on the mainland but comes to the island during the summer, works as a waitress in the hotel and up at the big house when there’s a need.’

  ‘And what did she say happened?’

  ‘That Ash and his friends in Glasgow went up against some racist thugs,’ said Alan. ‘Ash came off worst. One of them drove his car right at him, pinned him to a wall. His family moved up here as soon as he was able to travel.’

  ‘No racists on Stoirm then?’

  ‘Oh yes, there are racists everywhere. Hatred is universal. There are no geographical barriers to narrow, bitter little minds.’

  Rebecca sensed that he was speaking from personal experience. He had kept his voice light but there was an acidity to the words.

  Chaz was still unconvinced. ‘Lee-Anne also said that George Clooney once gave her a lift from Inverness to Wick.’

  Alan gave the younger man the kind of look a schoolteacher gives an unruly pupil. ‘Who’s to say that gorgeous George didn’t offer a young lady a lift?’ He looked back at the menu, even though he had already ordered. ‘Anyway, just because she tells the occasional story doesn’t mean everything she says is a lie, Chaz.’ He smiled at Rebecca. ‘But that’s Stoirm for you. Stories and lies, with the truth hiding somewhere in between.’

  Alan’s words made her think about Mhairi and Roddie. She’d learned a lot since her arrival on the island and, coupled with what she’d researched beforehand, she was having difficulty separating fact from fiction.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ began Chaz, ‘what did you get out of Molly Sinclair?’

  Rebecca hesitated, and Chaz correctly guessed why. ‘I trust Alan. He’s on our side. He’s a gossip but that comes in handy sometimes.’

  Alan slapped Chaz’s arm with the back of his hand. ‘Hey!’

  Chaz smiled, waiting for Rebecca to talk. So she did. She told them what Molly had said, she outlined her conversation with Sawyer. She threw in details from Donnie Kerr’s interview. She filled in what blanks she could from the research she had done. They listened, occasionally dropping in a question or asking for clarification. They paused when Ash brought the food, but if he noticed he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he was used to it. As she talked, more diners filtered in. Hotel guests, an elderly couple who Rebecca thought she’d seen at the public meeting, a group of four people in casual clothes who talked about their boat in loud voices, saying they had heard there was weather moving in and they’d need to get back to the mainland in the morning, making her assume they had docked at the harbour for the night. And all the while, in addition to their questions, Chaz and Alan kept up their own banter, joking with each other, occasionally launching playful slaps and punches.

  Rebecca ate her food as if she hadn’t eaten for days, which is how she felt. It had been a long time since breakfast and a packet of peanuts and some crisps only went so far. If she hadn’t been talking so much she would’ve had her plate clear before her dinner companions had unfolded their napkins. She told Ash to put the food on her bill, shushed the protestations from the two men, and they all retreated to the bar. Two of Carl Marsh’s moron squad were there, manspreading around a couple of the small round tables while watching football on the TV. They stared at the three of them as they entered and Rebecca heard Alan tut loudly.

  ‘Speaking of small, bitter minds . . .’ he said.

  Chaz eagerly volunteered to get the drinks in, so Rebecca and Alan moved into the lounge area, which was empty. Once they had made themselves comfortable, and to fill in the awkward gap left by the absence of the one person that linked them, Rebecca asked, ‘So, how did you end up on Stoirm, Alan?’

  ‘Shipwreck,’ he said. ‘Washed ashore like David Balfour in Kidnapped.’ He smiled. ‘My parents finagled the job for me. Perhaps you can tell I’m not from these here parts. My father is one of those legendary figures—“something big in the city”—and when I left university, neither Oxford nor Cambridge, to his eternal chagrin, he feared I would wander aimlessly like a gypsy and get myself into all sorts of trouble. And he was probably spot on. So he prevailed upon Lord Henry to give me a position up here shuffling paper around. And it turns out I have an aptitude for it.’

  ‘It’s more than just shuffling paper around, surely?’

  ‘Oh yes, there’s email, too. I’m a secretary,
Rebecca, a noble profession, to be sure, but still little more than a serf at the beck and call of my superiors.’

  ‘You don’t enjoy it?’

  ‘I hate it. But it brings in a modest stipend. I have a nice little flat above a nice little garage that was once a nice little stable. It’s far enough away from the big house to give me the illusion of independence. And as superiors go, Lord Henry isn’t bad.’ He looked up as Chaz appeared from the bar with three glasses perched precariously in a triangle in his hands. ‘And, of course, the island does have its compensations . . .’

  Compensations. That would be Chaz. She had picked up the signals during dinner, now she knew for certain. Alan and Chaz were involved. So much for Chaz chatting her up—and it explained his curious comment about being a boy scout. Not in the way you think. For her part, there was disappointment but also relief. She really wasn’t ready. She didn’t know when she would be, but she knew it was too soon.

  Alan’s disdain for the moron squad suggested that he had experienced their bitter little minds in action, for they would be far too manly to accept a homosexual in their midst. As Chaz carefully laid the drinks on the small table and they each took their own, she wondered if he had suffered at their hands, too.

  ‘So, Jessica Fletcher,’ said Alan, ‘where exactly are we with the case?’

  Rebecca thought about it. ‘The only thing we can say for certain is that Mhairi Sinclair was murdered. The only person in the frame at the time was Roddie Drummond. He said he found her badly beaten and tried to help. Donnie had seen her earlier that night and she told him she was in trouble. That trouble was that she thought she was pregnant and Henry Stuart was the father . . .’

  ‘No surprise there,’ said Alan, his voice low. ‘Let me tell you, he’s had more women wafting through the corridors of that house than draughts. And there are a lot of draughts.’

  ‘Does his wife know?’ Rebecca asked.

  ‘Of course she knows, but she ignores it.’ He dropped his voice even further. ‘Apparently she’s prone to a little bit of extra-marital herself. Very fond of a sausage supper, if you know what I mean? Can’t say I blame her.’