Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  He studied her, trying to gauge how much she really knew. Finally, he spoke, but something in his tone suggested he was merely reassuring himself. ‘You don’t know anything, Miss Connolly.’

  She paused just long enough to let it sink in that she may, indeed, know quite a lot. ‘Maybe not,’ she said. ‘Questions will be asked. Not by me, because I have no evidence and, anyway, I don’t know anything.’

  His eyes searched her face for some clue that she was fishing. She remained as impassive as she could. He took a step closer, dropped his voice. ‘You’re playing a very dangerous game, Miss Connolly.’

  A tingle of fear hit her for the first time. She had wanted her moment with him, to somehow puncture that arrogant air of his. And she had. She had seen it in that tiny flicker of his eyes, in the tightening of his jaw, in the darting lick of the lips. It had been a spur of the moment decision to confront him and she hadn’t properly thought it through. Whoever these Russians were, they wouldn’t baulk at the thought of killing a journalist. She took a moment to reason it out, then said, ‘Not really. Other people also don’t know what I don’t know. And it’s already gone beyond them. The word is out, and if something unfortunate was to happen to me, they will know. So, unless you and your friends are willing to go on a killing spree and draw even more attention, then my advice to you would be to keep your head down and your arse up.’

  She turned away, her knees weakening. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she walked towards the doors and she hoped she could get out with her head held high. This had been a mistake, a big mistake, but she had to bluff it out. What she said wasn’t quite true—it hadn’t gone further than Donnie, Sawyer and her. But she would pass it on to as many people as she could—old friends of her dad’s, Barry and his contacts, perhaps even a lawyer or two—just to keep herself safe. Sawyer had already said he would steer it to his former colleagues. In the end, though, she knew nothing would happen to Lord Henry or his old chums. As Sawyer said, there was no proof, just the word of an ex-junkie who was strung out at the time. Lord Henry would work that out for himself.

  Even so, she was almost in the open air when he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘I’ll sue, if you do print anything.’

  She stopped. Turned. Forced a smile. ‘Of course you will. That’s why people like you win. That’s why you always win. Because you have the money and the connections to make sure everything is locked down tight. But blood stains, your lordship. And you’re steeped in it.’

  They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time, then she walked away.

  Now, standing on the quayside, she smiled. Fear aside, she had to admit it felt good. Of the five childhood friends, he was the one who had emerged unscathed and he was the one who least deserved to. The perturbed look on his face had gone some way to make her feel almost better about her visit.

  ‘Will you come back?’ Fiona McRae’s voice startled her and she turned to see the minister smiling at her.

  Rebecca gave Portnaseil another look, her smile fading. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  Fiona accepted the finality. ‘The past is a living thing here on Stoirm. The past we talk about, that is. But once you get on that boat and you reach the mainland, it’s all just stories.’

  ‘And the past we don’t talk about?’

  Fiona laid her hand on Rebecca’s arm. ‘It’s dead. Gone. Never happened.’

  She thought about Lord Henry again. She thought about Hector Sinclair and Roddie Drummond. She thought about her father and Roberta Connolly. ‘I wish it was that simple.’

  ‘It is, if you want it to be. Don’t let the past ruin the present and haunt the future. You had no hand in it, you are not to blame. I tried to tell your father that, on this very spot. That’s why he never spoke about it, Rebecca. He wanted it to die and so must you. Sometimes you just have to let the past die.’

  The ramp clanged down and the foot passengers began to move. Fiona gave her a hug. ‘If you ever need to talk . . .’ They promised to meet up in Inverness for lunch. Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn’t. The future, unlike the past, is not certain.

  Rebecca dragged her one-wheeled case down the ramp and onto the ferry, hauled it up the steep stairway to the lounge, where she found a seat looking away from the island. She didn’t want to see it again. She looked across the Sound at the dark-blue bulk of the mainland. She’d be back home soon enough, she told herself. She’d write up something to keep Barry happy, ask enough questions to put Lord Henry’s plans in doubt. But perhaps not. She couldn’t write everything she knew about Stoirm and its many little deaths. There were secrets to keep.

  Her mobile rang and she glanced at the name on the screen. Simon.

  She reached out to answer, then stopped.

  Sometimes you have to let the past die, Fiona had said.

  She let it ring.

  Acknowledgements

  I’ve stated before that authors don’t work in a vacuum when creating a book and this one is no exception. Although the actual writing is a solo effort—one person alone at the keyboard, except for their insecurities—there is a host of people figuratively at their back, or virtually at the other end of a cable.

  Special thanks go to Denzil Meyrick for his unswerving support and guidance. Also to those authors who read this in its various stages: Caro Ramsay, Lucy Cameron, Theresa Talbot, Michael J. Malone and Neil Broadfoot. Thanks for putting in the time, and your advice was not just welcome but spot on. As well as Neil, I also have to give a shout out to the remaining members of the Four Blokes in Search of a Plot team—Gordon Brown and Mark Leggatt—who are always on hand for a word or a choice insult. The Tea Cosy of Inspiration also had a role to play.

  Gratitude also goes to Jenny Brown, who graciously spent time with me and gave me pointers both before and after the first draft was completed.

  Thanks to Alison Rae and all at Polygon for seeing the value of the book and to my editor Debs Warner for keeping the tale on track. And catching my errors. Also to designer Chris Hannah for what I think is a stunning cover.

  I am indebted to Iain MacPherson for his assistance with the Gaelic phrases and David Kerr for his local knowledge. Also to Stephen Wilkie and Dr Sharlene Butler for their help.

  And then there are the book bloggers and booksellers and librarians, without whom we could not function. The list has grown considerably over the years and space here is limited, but you all know who you are and I appreciate everything you do, not just for me but all authors.

  To festival organisers who have invited me to attend—thank you so much. And please have me back.

  Similarly, friends who have supported me, shared posts, attended events and generally kept me something approximating sane, thank you. Again, you know who you are, and I won’t list for fear of missing someone out, but you are all important to me.