by Alex Gray
Across the marshy strand full of bog cotton and sweet-smelling myrtle sat a small white cottage. A swift glance showed him that there was no light on anywhere; the holiday folk were doubtless sound asleep, oblivious to the small drama being played out yards from their front door.
The sound of the splash seemed magnified as it disrupted the stillness, echoing over the bay. The young man heaved the oar again and again, each whack making his body stiffen with fear and a sort of bravado. If they were caught they’d lose both the net and the boat, a heavy price to pay for a night of fun and a good catch of sea trout, fish that fetched a decent price at the back doors of the best hotel kitchens.
Several times the boat was rowed up and down, followed by a series of splashes until the old man raised his callused hand to call a halt. Now it was time to wait and see if the fish had indeed been scared witless enough to swim towards their doom.
Once more the old man rowed along the line of corks, his son lifting the net to see if anything lingered below.
‘A beauty,’ the boy whispered, raising the net to reveal a good-sized sea trout struggling in the brown mesh.
‘Ten pounder at least!’ he went on, freeing the huge fish where its gills had caught and hurling it into a wooden box below his feet.
‘Be-wheesht and get the net up,’ his father hissed, though the grin on his face showed how pleased he was with their first catch of the night. The old man bent towards the struggling fish, his fist around the priest, a wooden club that had been in the family for generations. One swift blow and the fish lay lifeless in the box, its silvery scales gleaming in the night.
One by one, others joined the fated sea trout as the two men made their laborious way along the edge of the net.
‘My, a grand haul, the night, Faither,’ Young Ewan Angus exclaimed, his voice still hushed for fear of any sound carrying over the water.
‘Aye, no’ bad,’ his father agreed, a contented smile on his face. One of the middling fish would be wrapped in layers of bracken and left in the porch of Calum Mhor, the police sergeant. A wee thank you for turning his continual blind eye to the nocturnal activities taking place down the road from Craignure. Mrs Calum had guests staying and she’d be fair pleased to serve them a fresh sea trout for their dinner. It was universally acknowledged here on the island that the pink fish was far superior in flavour to the coarser salmon, particularly those that had been farmed.
‘My, here’s a big one!’
The young man staggered as he tried to haul in the final part of the splash net. ‘I can hardly lift it!’ he exclaimed.
‘Must be caught on a rock,’ the old man grumbled, his mouth twisting in a moue of disgust. If they had to tear the net to release it then it would take hours of work to mend, but the operation depended on being in and out of these waters as quickly as they could manage. Hanging about was not an option in case the Men from the Revenue had decided on a little night-time excursion of their own.
Suddenly the young man bent down in the boat, hands gripping the gunwales as he peered into the depths below.
His brow furrowed at the rounded mass swaying beneath the surface, rags of bladderwrack shifting back and forwards with the motion of the waves. Then, as his eyes focused on the ascending shape, Ewan Angus Munro saw pale tendrils that had once been fingers of flesh and one thin arm floating upwards.
He screamed, and covered his mouth as the sickness rose in his throat, then stumbled backwards. The boy flung out his arms, desperate to grasp hold of something solid to break his fall but all he felt under his hands were the wet bodies of slithering fish.
‘What the . . . ?’ Ewan Angus turned, an oath dying on his lips as the boat rocked violently, small waves dashing over the bow.
Wordlessly, his son pointed to the waters below.
Then, as the old man peered over the side of the boat, he saw the body rising to the surface, its passage out to sea impeded by their net.
Later, Ewan Angus was to feel shame, but then, under the eyes of twinkling stars, all he felt was a blind panic and a need to get away as fast as they could.
His son had blubbered a little, protesting as they’d manhandled the corpse over the side of the boat, his groans silenced by a wrathful look from the old fisherman. They had laid the boy on the grass, far enough from the water’s edge so that the incoming tide could not draw it back beneath its cold waves.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Young Ewan Angus had whispered, looking up at his father who had simply nodded, the sigh of regret stifled on his closed lips.
Then, as he’d pulled hard on the oars, putting distance between the land and their boat, he tried to assure himself that they had done the right thing after all. Someone would find him in the brightness of the morning light, he’d told the boy.
And what good would it do them to call the polis? They’d lose everything: fish, net, boat, the lot.
Yet, as Ewan Angus Munro made for the safety of his mooring several miles along the shoreline, his son still looking stubbornly astern, refusing to meet his father’s eye, he knew he had lost something far more precious.
Chapter Two
Maryka made a face as she entered the hotel kitchen. They still hadn’t found anyone to replace Rory Dalgleish and she wasn’t sure if she resented the red-haired boy more now that he’d gone. His constant talking had made her crash around the kitchen banging pots and pans, feverishly trying to blot out the sound of his annoyingly loud public school voice. He had been worse in the mornings after yet another night at the bottle, going on about how he was saving up to go to Thailand with his mates; a gap year before uni, he claimed. Though why a rich boy from Glasgow needed to have a summer job at all mystified her. Perhaps, Maryka thought cynically, his folks couldn’t stand his loutish behaviour either and had packed him off to this country house hotel on the island of Mull.
Anyway, he had disappeared two nights ago, to the consternation of the Dalgleish parents, if not to the Dutch girl who was now lifting plates out of the big dishwasher and stacking them on the kitchen table. Breakfasts didn’t begin for over an hour but she had plenty to do first. Laying the tables would have been easier the evening before but the dining room had been requisitioned by the local drama group for their weekly rehearsal, their laughter and singing continuing well into the night as Hamish Forsyth topped up their glasses, glad no doubt to have their custom. The hotel had not been full all summer and Maryka wasn’t surprised. The place needed a complete facelift, in her opinion.
Kilbeg Country House Hotel had been bought by the Forsyths twenty years back, Fiona, one of the local girls who worked as a chambermaid, had informed her, but necessary refurbishment had never taken place and the same old tartan curtains, faded by years of sunlight, still hung limply against the flyblown windows. It was the drink, of course. Everybody knew that Hamish had a problem but, in the way of country folk, it was rarely mentioned; there would be just a hint or a nod towards the big florid-faced man as he knocked back a large whisky, eyebrows raised in disapproval. Maryka felt secretly sorry for Freda Forsyth. She was a small woman, straggles of grey hair tucked untidily behind her ears, who sometimes drifted into the kitchen, a vacant expression on her face as though she had forgotten why she was there in the first place. Not all there, Fiona had said with a smirk, tapping the side of her head when she thought that Mrs Forsyth was out of earshot. Once or twice Maryka had caught a glimpse of Hamish’s wife standing on the terrace gazing out to sea as though in expectation of someone special arriving at their little jetty where the chef’s ancient boat lay at anchor, the man probably snoring in there still, last night’s session fogging his brain. But not a single other soul had ever landed there since the Dutch girl had begun working back in the springtime. Not even the fishermen who brought the fine sea trout in their wooden boats.
Maryka wiped her hands on the cotton apron that covered her uniform. Ewan Angus, the tall young fisherman she’d danced with at last Saturday’s ceilidh, had promised them some nice fish for di
nner, she suddenly remembered. I’ll just leave it in the pantry, he’d told her, meaning the wooden hut out the back that was a cold storage facility for various bits of game and fish that came mysteriously early in the mornings. Maryka knew better than to ask questions, the grin on Ewan Angus’s face telling her better than words that the sea trout was likely obtained in somebody else’s private waters. She was good at keeping secrets, Maryka thought to herself, as she glanced across at the chef’s old boat rocking gently on the jetty.
It had been a grand night, that ceilidh in Tobermory, the music and dancing fuelled by occasional nips from Ewan Angus’s whisky flask outside on Main Street. He’d whirled her around at the dancing until she was flushed and breathless then led her away from the upstairs hall, a wee twinkle in his eye as he patted the unmistakable shape in his hip pocket. ‘Time for refreshments,’ he had laughed. She’d had things of her own to offer after that, Maryka remembered, smiling her secret little smile.
Maryka had brushed her long hair smooth this morning and put on a bit of make-up before coming out of the caravan that she shared with Elena, the Romanian girl, creeping quietly out to see the lad once again, her lips curling in anticipation of enjoying some mild flirtation.
The girl strolled out of the kitchen onto a strip of sheep-nibbled grass that was still wet with dew, her eyes drawn to the flower-strewn machair that swept down towards the shoreline. Above, a mere speck against the pale blue, a skylark filled the air with his song. The Dutch girl stood for a moment, breathing in the mingled scents of clover and meadowsweet, glad to be here on this Hebridean island, happy to savour a few moments of peace before the day properly began.
Then, with a sigh, she walked the few paces towards the wooden pantry. Its old grey door creaked open as she slid the latch upwards, expecting to see the promised parcel of fish under its covering of bracken. Ewan Angus had left several such packages already this summer. Maryka made a face. She hated handling the wet scaly things, their tails bent stiff, cold eyes staring at her
As she peered into the gloomy shed, one hand was already on the skirt of her apron, ready to lift the slimy fish onto the white cotton and carry it back to the kitchen. Mrs Forsyth would settle up later, Maryka knew. She might seem a bit vacant at times but Hamish’s wife wasn’t stupid when it came to matters of dealing with her suppliers.
Maryka blinked. The shelf was bare. She looked around, eyes roving up and down the wooden slats piled high with boxes containing non-perishable foodstuffs. But there was nothing, not even a sign of freshly plucked green bracken hiding Ewan Angus’s spoils. The girl’s brow creased in a frown. Mrs Forsyth wouldn’t be best pleased: she had already printed out the menus for tonight’s dinner and Archie, the chef, had annoyed them all yesterday by rummaging through every cupboard in the kitchen, seeking out the ingredients for some special sauce. It was a wonder he managed to cook anything at all, the girl thought; the number of times she had seen him stoned late on in the evenings.
She started at a noise, making her turn and gasp and, for an instant, she expected to see the young fisherman striding across the grass, a grin on his handsome face.
But there was no one to be seen, just the pantry door swinging open, taken by a sudden breeze, its chill making the girl shiver.
Detective Superintendent William Lorimer stood at the open door of the cottage, a smile of contentment on his fac and a mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hand. It was just gone six o’clock, but habitual early rises in the course of his working life had set Lorimer’s mental clock to this quiet time of the day. Summer was never the same without a couple of weeks here at Leiter Cottage, Mary Grant’s little white house that nestled close to the curve of Fishnish Bay. They had been coming here for several years now, courtesy of Lorimer’s colleague, DI Jo Grant, Mary’s niece. It had become their favourite place to find some peace from the hustle of Glasgow, the quiet pace of island life perfect to restore their spirits.
Framed by oaks and willows lay the curving bay, where yachts occasionally anchored, the sweeping arm of pine forest on the furthest shore providing good shelter from sudden storms. Beyond was the stretch of water known as the Sound of Mull and the gently sloping hills on the mainland. It was a view that Lorimer never tired of seeing: the changing colours of the sky reflected in the waters, the activity of car ferries or smaller boats providing interest at different times of the day, sunlight shifting over the fields and hillside by Lochaline. It was a vista waiting to be captured by an artist’s skill, he often thought, but they had yet to find it in paint in any of the island’s galleries.
Lorimer drained the last of his coffee, tossing the dregs into the flower bed, and wandered across the extensive lawn to a narrow path that was hidden by reeds and long grasses.
His eye was caught suddenly by the activity of birds down by the shore; herring gulls and hooded crows. Their raucous squawks made Lorimer raise the high definition binoculars that hung around his neck, but all that he could make out were the thrashing wings as they swooped and pecked at some unseen thing. A dead sheep, perhaps? Or a seal, washed up on the shore? Curious, he allowed his feet to take him along the old path, across the main road and down onto the rocky beach. Beside a crumbling sea wall lay the remnants of an ancient boathouse, its timbers silvered by years of neglect. Once it had housed good clinker-built boats, Mary Grant had told them, her sing-song voice weaving stories of times past when her late husband and his brothers had fished the bay and hunted for deer and rabbits over the hill. But the men who had worked these waters were long gone, leaving only traces of a crofter’s life.
Lorimer wrinkled his nose in anticipation. If it were some dead creature the smell would certainly attract these sharpbeaked gulls and scavenging crows. The actual subject of their frenzy was hidden from view by a square black rock but the birds rose as one at his approach, with shrill calls of annoyance at this human intruding on their feast.
His feet slithered on the heaps of wet ochre-coloured seaweed as he came closer to the edge of the water. It was a high tide, he remembered. Had something been washed up from the depths and cast onto the shoreline? Here and there patches of spongy green turf made his progress easier, clumps of pink sea thrift waving in the morning breeze.
Lorimer stopped abruptly, his eyes refusing at first to believe what he saw. A sour taste rose in his throat but he swallowed it down, blinking hard as he looked at the naked body on the ground. The red hair was still wet, he noticed, trying not to stare at the place where the man’s eyes should have been. The birds had made short work of them, he thought disgustedly. One hooded crow, braver than the rest, hopped closer as if to test this tall man’s resolve. Without a moment’s thought, Lorimer waved his arm at the bird, flinging a curse as it took off.
Hunkering down, Lorimer examined the corpse, the professional policeman taking over now. There were other marks of course, predations by sea creatures, but the body was still intact enough for identification. No tattoos, though it was obviously a young man, the white skin smooth where the birds had failed to peck and claw at it. He paused for a moment, frowning. His legs were twisted under him, giving him a stunted look, the rounded knees scarred. One pale arm lay stiffly by his side, the fingers of his hand splayed as though he had been grasping at something at the moment of death, yet the other arm was folded behind his back. Lorimer frowned, trying to make sense of the body’s shape, his imagination seeing the young man struggling against the currents as he fell deep into the water. Had he landed on the sea floor, against a rock, perhaps? Was that why the body had taken on such an odd shape as rigor had set in?
There was something about it, something vaguely familiar . . . he closed his eyes and tried to remember but the shriek of a nearby herring gull disturbed the moment and he raised his hand to ward off the predator.
There was no doubt in his mind about who this might be, however. The island’s rumour mill had reached even the remote little cottage here at Fishnish Bay with tales of the missing student from Kilbeg House.
Giving a sigh, Lorimer rose to his feet, fumbling in his pocket, hoping against hope that the mobile would find a signal down here on the shoreline.
Then, as he dialled the number, he glanced across the bay, noting the little squall that had sprung up; dark clouds slanting shadows over the once quiet waters.
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About the Author
ALEX GRAY was born and educated in Glasgow. After studying English and Philosophy at the University of Strathclyde, she worked as a visiting officer for the Department of Health, a time she looks upon as postgraduate education since it proved a rich source of character studies. She then trained as a secondary school teacher of English.
Alex began writing professionally in 1993 and had immediate success with short stories, articles, and commissions for BBC radio programs. She has been awarded the Scottish Association of Writers’ Constable and Pitlochry trophies for her crime writing.
A regular on the Scottish bestseller lists, she is the author of fourteen DCI Lorimer novels. She is the co-founder of the international Scottish crime writing festival, Bloody Scotland, which had its inaugural year in 2012.
http://www.alex-gray.com/
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Also by Alex Gray
Never Somewhere Else
A Small Weeping
Shadows of Sounds
The Riverman
Pitch Black
Glasgow Kiss
Five Ways to Kill a Man
Sleep Like the Dead
A Pound of Flesh
The Swedish Girl
Keep the Midnight Out
The Darkest Goodbye
Still Dark
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
