‘Harry, how are you?’ she said stiffly.
‘Just fine and dandy, ma’am,’ replied Chappell, his Cockney accent still strong. ‘Long time no see. Mind you, no wonder with you up in the wilds here.’
A faint smile was the best she could muster. She didn’t know what Chappell had told his colleagues about her, but was relieved to note that Bale and the other officers appeared friendly, with none of the little glances and whispered asides she’d been expecting. It was early days, though.
‘Now, I’ve spoken to your ACC. We’d like you to stay on the island for a couple of days, to get us up to speed. Not our usual patch, as you know, Carrie. May I call you Carrie?’ asked Bale.
‘Of course.’ Symington was off her stride. She had expected to take the first available ferry back to Kinloch once she’d briefed the specialist team. ‘I have a lot on, so if we can make this as brief as possible, I would be obliged, Commander Bale.’
‘Your boss tells me that he has your duties at your division covered. This is a tricky one, from what I’ve been told. There’s a spook on his way from Whitehall. I want to get all of our ducks in a row before he arrives.’ Bale looked around the room. ‘How do we get coffee in this place, or is it just single malt on offer?’ His team chuckled at the notion.
‘I’ll come with you and you can show me what’s what,’ said Chappell with a grin. ‘We’ve a lot to catch up on, Carrie.’
She wasn’t sure whether she’d imagined it, but she thought she’d caught one of the detectives giving her a knowing smile. ‘Sure. It’ll be good to hear what you’ve been up to all this time.’ She jutted out her chin, shook Bale’s hand, and left the room, Harry Chappell in her wake.
Outside the incident room, she jumped when he grabbed her wrist.
‘Nice little display in there, Carrie. Cool as a cucumber, as always. Come here and let me get a proper look at you.’ He tugged roughly at her arm, forcing her to turn her face into his. She could smell his breath as he looked her up and down. ‘Isn’t this nice, ma’am? Me and you in this romantic little hotel.’
She flinched as specks of his saliva hit her face. ‘Fuck you, Harry. I’m not surprised that you’re here, by the way. I knew you were part of the team. So, if you think you have me at a disadvantage, you’re mistaken.’ She yanked her wrist from his grip, a defiant look on her face.
‘I’m not bothered about having you at a disadvantage, love. Just having you will do nicely.’ He stroked her cheek.
‘There you are, ma’am,’ said the familiar voice of Brian Scott. ‘Eh, sorry, hope I’ve no’ interrupted anything.’ He cleared his throat awkwardly.
‘No, not at all,’ replied Symington. ‘Harry here has just been sent out to get the coffee. Haven’t you, Harry?’
Iolo Harris looked out at the London traffic from the back of the car taking him to Gatwick. ‘How long now?’ he asked the driver, who informed him it would take at least another hour.
He reached across the back seat and lifted the aluminium briefcase onto his lap. He removed his laptop and typed in his security code. Soon, he was looking at a map of the island of Gairsay. He zoomed in on the satellite image of Achnamara farmhouse. He could see the pattern of the fields and the outline of the coast nearby, the shade of the sea deepening further out.
With his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the screen, making the farmhouse disappear as he accessed the large-scale map. He looked at the Kintyre peninsula, snaking down the west coast of Scotland. Pulling the map to the right, the Antrim coast of Northern Ireland came into sharp focus. He noted how close Gairsay was to Rathlin Island – only a few short sea miles.
He stared out of the window without taking in much of what was passing. Of all the tasks he’d undertaken in his twenty-odd years in the service, this promised to be the strangest, with more potential to blow up in his face than any other.
He took his mobile phone from his pocket, pressed the name he wanted, then waited as his call connected.
‘Good morning, County Hotel, Kinloch. How can I help you?’
‘Yes, I’d like to book a room for tonight, for a couple of nights, actually.’
‘Yes, of course. Wid it be a single or a double you’re after?
‘Single, please. The name’s Harris, Iolo Harris. I’ll be arriving on this evening’s flight from Glasgow.’
With his room booked, he sat back, put the phone in his pocket and contemplated the satellite map on his laptop.
His driver cursed and sounded the horn at some errant road user as they made their slow but steady way to the airport.
21
Carpoch Farm, near Blaan, 1945
‘You ken fine you’re for the market, big fella,’ said Dugald Kerr to the wild-eyed Ayrshire bull lumbering around the paddock. He looked across the farmyard to the young man clad in muddy dungarees and rubber boots ambling towards him. ‘Andra, get yourself o’er here wae a bit mair urgency! I’ve an appointment in the County Hotel, as you well know, so we need tae get this big bugger up and intae the float.’ He took off his cap and scratched his head as Andra shrugged his shoulders and imperceptibly hastened his progress.
‘Haud your horses,’ he said under his breath as he neared the farmer.
‘I’d rather you were hauding my bull, sonny Jim,’ replied Kerr. ‘I might be getting on, but there’s naething wrong wae my hearing. Get a move on. You’re lucky you’re no’ at the toeend o’ some sergeant major’s boot. If I’d no’ given you a place here, you’d be in the army, you ungrateful bugger.’
‘Whoot dae you want me tae dae?’
‘You bring doon the ramp and I’ll get a haud o’ him. I want tae lead him straight oot the gate and intae the float, so be on your mettle. You ken fine whoot happened tae Tommy Tait last year, so I’d rather you and me didna get crushed like he did, regardless o’ you being a lazy swine.’
The farmhand walked over to the float, and on his tiptoes unhooked both sides of the rear ramp, which also served as the door, lowering it slowly to the ground, groaning with the effort.
‘Ach, come on, it’s no’ that heavy,’ said Kerr as he put a foot on the second bar of the paddock gate. The animal snorted and stamped towards him, the whites of its eyes flashing. ‘Aye, but you’re a bad-tempered bugger, right enough. I’ll be heartily glad tae see the back o’ you. Right, Andra, when I get a grip o’ the chain, you get the gate, and I’ll fire him up the ramp.’
The farmhand sauntered towards the five-bar gate, ready to lift the latch to enable Kerr to lead the bull from the paddock, up the ramp and into the float, using the heavy chain which was attached to a ring in the animal’s nose.
‘Right, are you ready?’ shouted Kerr, pushing his cap to the back of his head.
On hearing a grunt from the farmhand, he leaned over the gate, tongue poking between his teeth with concentration. With a swiftness of movement and timing born of many years of handling livestock, he caught the chain, jumped to the ground, and pulled the bellowing bull towards the gate that the farmhand was now swinging open.
Kerr tugged at the chain again, and soon the bull was free of the paddock and had taken its first lumbering steps up the stout wooden ramp, which creaked alarmingly with its weight.
‘That’s it, big fella, jeest you keep going,’ said Kerr. He moved quickly, threading the chain through a ring in the float and bringing down a large iron keeper that would hold the animal securely in place as they travelled the few miles to the market in Kinloch. He sidestepped the beast and began inching his way out of the container as the animal snorted and stamped, making the float rock in protest.
Such was the effort and concentration the farmer had put into getting the bull secured, he was only vaguely aware of the encroaching darkness as he tried to jump clear of the beast. But, before he could exit the float, the ramp had been raised and slammed shut.
‘Andra! What the fuck are you doing?’ he shouted, the panic evident in his voice as he heard the external latches being forced into place. ‘Andra!’
he screamed as he felt a hefty blow to the back of his leg, which sent him tumbling to the floor with a sickening thud.
His screams were silenced in his throat as the bull brought its right hind leg down on his head, over and over again, sending the bloody pulp of his brain splattering up the side of the float.
Daley looked at the sinister black rocks poking through the waves and the squall of rain passing across the sea, making patterns in the dark water. It was here that Urquhart had found the dead sailor’s body amongst the wreckage of the German motor cruiser. He tried to picture the scene as the inspector made his gruesome discovery; the dark clouds added to the brooding atmosphere, and he could visualise his predecessor bending over the remains of the dead man.
He shivered as a sudden cold gust of wind whipped some sand from the beach into his face. Winter wasn’t ready to hand its crown to spring just yet. For an instant, he could see Mary, wrapped up against the cold, staring into his face as they stood on the roadside near Blaan, looking at the fire on the hill in the darkness. Part of him wanted the season to remain; it echoed the perpetual winter he had in his heart.
‘Does it help you tae picture things in your mind, Mr Daley?’ asked Hamish, breaking the mood.
‘Yes, sometimes. It’s such a long time ago. I can only imagine how different things must have been just after the war.’
‘Aye, they were that, fae whoot I can mind o’ them at any rate, which isna much. I can still see my faither, mark you, as plain as day in my mind’s eye.’
‘You’ve never talked about him much.’
‘No. Och, he wisna the man he’d been towards the end of his life. Times got tough at the fishing, and he resorted tae the bottle as a soulmate. Mind, I’ve been known tae sink a few mysel’, so I’ll no’ haud that against him.’
The two men made their way back along the beach, Daley turning to take one last look at the scene described so well in Urquhart’s diary. He had that familiar feeling again: the hunch that said something wasn’t right about this situation, the tiny, nagging voice he could not ignore – had never been able to ignore.
‘I wonder, this McColl, is he still with us, if you know what I mean?’
‘He was the last time I saw him,’ replied Hamish. ‘I used tae go up there tae visit an auld friend of mine. He’s deid noo, died nearly a year ago. But Mr McColl was as bright as a button then. Great for his age, in fact.’
‘Right, let’s go and pay him a visit.’ Daley strode off across the machair as Hamish tapped his pipe on the back of his hand, sending ashes flying across the beach and into the restless sea.
Kinloch, 1945
A hush descended on the County Hotel bar as Urquhart walked into the smoke-filled room and sat down. He checked his pocket watch; he was early for his meeting with Kerr. He felt as though he deserved a drink. He liked the calming effect of alcohol at the end of a working day; more often than not he would nurse a solitary malt in his lodgings, using the time to take stock of his day and plan the next – weighing up the many challenges and frustrations he had faced and would face.
For the inspector, the social aspect of having a drink with friends was something to which he couldn’t connect – well, not for a few years, at least. He had an unbreakable rule of not entering into friendships within the police, and his role as a police officer meant he was at arm’s length from those outside his working world. In any case, those whom he had thought of as friends were either dead or lost in this war that had enveloped the world, each making his own sacrifice in a desperate effort to bring order back to society.
The barman nodded to him while pouring a glass of beer for another customer. There were a few bottles of whisky on display. Kinloch had many distilleries, and though their output had been restricted by wartime rationing on barley, they still managed to keep a smile on the faces of local drinkers by supplying the pubs and hotels with uisge beatha – the water of life. The black market in illicit whisky was rife, but in the main the police were advised to turn a blind eye unless business became overt. The much-needed morale engendered by the soothing notes of the amber liquid was more important than the enforcement of a law that the locals would have ignored or found ingenious ways of evading.
For this reason, as well as the fact that few of them had anything seriously criminal to hide, the initial reticence elicited by his unaccustomed appearance in the premises was quickly replaced by a welcoming bonhomie. It soon became clear that the detective’s visits were driven by leisure and relaxation, and not duty.
Urquhart had worked in many places since leaving the army and joining the civilian police force, but he hadn’t encountered a community as close-knit as that of Kinloch. Everyone appeared entirely at ease with each other. The population of the town was more like an extended family than a group of people who only had their place of residence in common. He had been amazed and strangely heartened by the huge numbers who turned out for local funerals. It seemed as though the whole town wished to pay its respects to fellow citizens on their final trip to the afterlife. It was the way things used to be, Urquhart mused, and none the worse for it.
Also, the good people of Kinloch had coped well with the influx of the military – mainly the Royal Navy – who had more than doubled the population of the West Highland town. Everyone seemed to rub along relatively well. Of course, there were fights between local lads and their uniformed counterparts, but none of the blatant resentment he’d witnessed in other places.
‘Can I help you, Inspector?’ The barman was wearing a claret-coloured apron over his white shirt, with the name of the hotel embroidered upon it, the sleeves of his shirt held back from his wrists by silver armbands. His bow tie matched the colour of the apron, and his hair was slick with pomade.
‘Just a bottle of beer, please, no preference.’ Urquhart had realised that it was best to accept what was on offer, rather than to try and find a favourite brew. The barman reached under the counter and held up a bottle of dark beer with a light blue label – a local brew the inspector had enjoyed in the past.
‘No’ on the hard stuff the day, Mr Urquhart?’ asked a stout fisherman with whom he had a passing acquaintance.
‘No, Jamie. Just a beer or two will do me.’ He smiled and watched the barman pour his beer into a glass, leaving a perfect head. The latter turned to press the big brass keys of the wooden till, which sat alongside a bust of Winston Churchill, staring out grumpily. A wooden plaque bearing the crest of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, the local regiment, took pride of place in front of a small Union Jack tacked across the rear of the serving area.
There were ranks of photographs, too: monochrome, some sepia, but almost all of young men in uniform, either smiling at the camera and holding up glasses of beer or staring earnestly. These were images of the young men of Kinloch, off fighting around the globe. Urquhart thought it a nice touch, as he scanned along the images and remembered his own youth in the army.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said the barman as Urquhart handed him a few coins. ‘Great tae see folk wae the right money, so I don’t have tae go footering aboot wae change.’
‘You’d take a scabby goat as payment, Colin,’ shouted the fisherman. ‘I mind auld Duncan had a great night oot a couple o’ weeks ago wae the three rabbits he brought you.’
‘I’m sure the inspector doesna want tae hear aboot that,’ replied Colin, clearing his throat by way of emphasis and turning swiftly to attend to the next customer.
Before he could take a seat to wait for Kerr, an old man tapped him on the shoulder. ‘They’re telling me that you found a boatful of deid sailors up on the west shore the day, Mr Urquhart.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ he said in reply.
‘Jeest after they poor buggers on that submarine, tae. An awful business.’
‘That wisna a submarine, it was a U-boat, Erchie. Hell mend them’s whoot I say,’ replied Colin, even though the comments had not been directed at him. ‘They were oot tae sink oor boats and
condemn all on them tae a watery grave. You shouldna have any sympathy.’ This was accompanied by a general murmur of agreement.
Erchie, though, was unbowed. ‘You’ll likely never have seen a drooning man, Colin. No’ wae you being in the hotel trade, an’ a’.’
‘Aye, maybes not, but I’ve seen my fair share of dying men. Mind, I served in the last conflict, an’ no’ as a barman, neithers.’
‘Well, I’ve been at the fishing for a long time, and seen mair than my fair share of tragedy. An’ as far as I’m concerned, there’s naething worse than dying in the sea. So I’m no’ bothered if these men was fae Germany, Glesca or darkest Africa, they deserve oor respect. Mind, it wisna them who started a’ this war buggeration.’
Urquhart was surprised how quiet the bar became, but soon realised why: he was living at the heart of a fishing community. Wars would come and go, but the sea was always the enemy for many of the townspeople who made their living in search of fish. In his short time in the town, a number of lives had been lost – not as a result of enemy action, but in the atrocious weather in which fishermen regularly risked their lives.
The silence persisted as Urquhart settled into a seat near the back of the room, as far away from a couple of young sailors as he could get. Kerr had implied confidentiality, so whatever secret he was about to impart, Urquhart reckoned it unlikely he’d wish to share it with the rest of the County Hotel’s clientele.
After twenty minutes he looked at his watch. Kerr was now late. However, he reassured himself, this was Kinloch, where folk appeared to operate in an entirely different time zone to the rest of the nation. The old rules of the country still held sway here. The town of Kinloch was surrounded by countryside and the sea; the nearest sizeable centre of population was more than fifty miles away. In places like this, time wore another expression, more imperturbable.
At five thirty the door swung open to reveal a young man in filthy dungarees. ‘Gie me a large whisky, please, Colin,’ he said, sitting on a stool by the bar. His face was pale, and he looked agitated, Urquhart noticed.
Well of the Winds Page 14
