Cal asked, ‘What does this mean?’
‘They sailed on.’
‘And left him in the water.’
Mr Mackenzie nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘To die.’
‘Yes.’
‘My God.’
Cal read the pages again. ‘Where have these come from?’ he asked when he’d finished.
‘Hector MacKay deposited them with my company in November 1942.’
‘And you’ve been keeping them secret?’
‘My grandfather, who was the senior partner at the time, didn’t know they were there until 1945, the year after Hector’s death. His widow, Mary, found them when she came to my grandfather’s office to go through her husband’s effects. According to a note my grandfather left, she’d put it off and put it off but what with the ending of the war and the island being abandoned he persuaded her it was time for her to put things in order, if you understand me.’
‘Didn’t they realise what these pages meant?’
‘Oh yes, they did. Mary MacKay wept – cried for a month according to my grandfather. She had to revise her view of her husband, a man she and everyone else for that matter held in admiration. It was painful for her. She asked my grandfather – and my grandfather agreed, to his discredit – to keep the pages secret. You see the widows and the families had nothing left of their husbands and fathers but their reputations and their bravery. They were destitute, forced to leave the islands, and their only hope was help from the Norwegian government and the money from a public appeal. My grandfather and Mary MacKay agreed it should be kept secret for the well being of the community.’
Mr Mackenzie coughed with embarrassment. ‘You have to remember these families were my grandfather’s clients. He thought it his duty to protect their interests.’
‘So was my family.’
‘Yes indeed, though the Sinclairs had left the island before then. My grandfather’s view, if I can speak for him, is that your family were former clients. He told my father that he’d wanted to make it public after Mary’s death but by then the myth of the ‘Brave Men of Eilean Iasgaich’ had taken such a hold that it had become impossible. It was easier to let the lie go unchallenged, though there was a caveat. My grandfather told my father, and my father told me when I took over the company, that if ever again the story of Uilleam Sinclair attracted public attention we had a duty to reveal the truth. My grandfather wrote a simple account of the events, setting out the circumstances of Uilleam Sinclair’s death and this afternoon it was put up on notice boards in the village.’
He passed it to Cal who said, after reading it twice, ‘They murdered him, didn’t they?’
‘In a manner of speaking they did, even if they didn’t strike a blow. They left him knowing he would die, and the two Germans with him.
‘My grandfather’s view, told to me by my father, was that young Sandy MacKay’s death broke them. He was the boat’s talisman. They wanted to avenge him, and the others who had died, and your grandfather was the target of their desire for revenge. As you probably know, the Sinclairs and the Raes and the MacKays had been at odds for years.’
‘But they continued hating him even though they killed him.’
‘In my grandfather’s view …’ Mr Mackenzie weighted his words with lawyerly gravitas. ‘… Their loathing of Uilleam grew after his death.’
‘But why?’
‘They’d made themselves hateful for what they did to him. The manner of his death ate away at them and as time went by they despised him all the more for it. They passed it on to their wives and their children, but not the reason for it. Your grandfather was a wronged man, Mr McGill, a brave man.’
Chapter 27
Detective Constable Jamieson was woken by the beeping of her digital alarm at 6am. She sat up, ran her fingers through her hair and went to her wardrobe. Her winter overcoat was on the hook behind the door. She slipped it from its hanger, put it on over her pink silk pyjamas, slid her bare feet into some mules on the bottom shelf of her shoe rack and took a £20 note from her purse on the dressing table. Her flat was a block from the 24 hour store. Half way there two labourers nudged each other and pointed to the pink pyjamas showing beneath her coat.
One of them whistled and the other shouted ‘any time you’re lonely.’
She wriggled inside her coat, trying to pull it down, and pushed open the door of the shop. The newspaper stand was beside the counter. She took one of each title, glancing at the front page headlines as she put them by the till. A middle-aged man with sandpaper skin and bad teeth came to stand behind her. ‘Empty day ahead, luv?’
Jamieson turned to give him a piece of her mind but thought better of it. She paid the shop manager and returned to her flat, where she kicked off her shoes and fell on to the sofa, the newspapers still in her arms. The headlines were different from the Italian editions she had read on the internet. They put the stress on anti-mafia police rolling up a counterfeiting and trafficking gang, whereas the British papers went strong on Cal McGill assisting the Italian police to solve the mystery of the severed feet. The Telegraph’s front page splash heading was ‘Amateur ocean detective solves severed foot mystery’ with a sub deck ‘Scottish Police humiliated by PhD student in custody for theft.’ Jamieson scanned the other front pages. Rosie Provan had by-lines in all of them. Most of the papers also ran inside pages of coverage: the story of Cal McGill’s grandfather left to die by his crewmates also made it big in the tabloids. Jamieson was reading the details with a growing sense of outrage when her phone rang. It was Ryan’s number, the call she’d been expecting.
‘Have you seen the papers, Jamieson?’
‘Yes sir, just reading them. I was going to ring you. It’s bad for you isn’t it sir?’
‘This is your fault Jamieson. I blame you. …’
‘Well, I did suggest we use McGill sir.
‘Don’t mess with me Jamieson …’
‘No sir.’
‘You’re way out of your league.’
‘Am I sir?’
‘You’re finished Jamieson.’
‘I sent you a memo sir.’
‘What?’
‘Joan put it on your desk sir. Perhaps it was under some other papers and you didn’t see it. I’ve got a copy if you’d like one.’
‘What are you talking about Jamieson? What memo?’
‘The one about McGill, sir, where I proposed using him to prioritise our investigations sir.’
‘Are you trying to fuck with me, Jamieson?’
‘Definitely not, sir.’
‘Your career’s going nowhere, Jamieson.’
Ryan cut the call.
Neither is yours sir.
Ryan slid open the glass door to the balcony outside his bedroom. He leaned against the frame and took a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his white towelling dressing gown. He lit one and drew the smoke deep into his lungs before letting it leak away in short puffs from the side of his mouth. Jamieson had pulled a stroke. He hadn’t seen that coming. He inhaled again before dropping the cigarette on the decking and going back inside.
The Eilean Iasgaich bumped against the tyres hanging from the side of the pier. Red MacKay threw a rope and one of the reporters waiting for the Rib’s scheduled sailing to the island from the nearby slipway said, ‘Want a hand?’
‘Thank you, could you tie it round that post?’ Red collected his bag and climbed out.
‘It’s a lovely day.’
Red looked around as if he hadn’t noticed until then. ‘So it is. Going to the island?’
The reporter nodded. ‘I thought I might as well see the scene of the crime.’ Red pursed his lips. ‘Have a good trip.’ He walked into the township, clutching a brown envelope in his right hand. Janice, the physiotherapist, saw him as she was going into Rae Family Stores and held back for him. ‘We’re not used to seeing you twice in a week.’
Red smiled. ‘Things to do,’ he said and walked on. Janice stared after him as he went i
nto Mackenzie’s, the lawyers. She’d never been able to make him out. Nice enough man, though a bit odd living alone like that.
Audrey was at her desk, engrossed in the Eastern Township chat-room on the internet. She wanted to let Mr Robin know what people were saying about him but he would only give her one of his looks and say ‘Mmh.’ Audrey was becoming outraged by all the cruel comments, on Mr Robin’s behalf. Interfering busybody was the least of the insults being levelled at him. Some people, clients among them, criticised him for bringing disgrace on a fine group of men who died for their country. ‘Betraying them like Judas,’ said one. Others were alarmed at the effect on the local tourist industry and one accused Mr Robin of cruelty of the worst kind, raking over old coals and bringing suffering to all those fine families. Audrey was contemplating writing under a pseudonym to defend her employer when the bell on the door went. She sighed with irritation at the disturbance. Then she saw who it was.
‘Mr MacKay, isn’t it?’
‘Is Mr Mackenzie available?’
‘I’ll inquire.’
She tapped in Mr Robin’s number. ‘Red MacKay is here to see you Mr Robin.’ Red could hear Mr Mackenzie’s weary reprimand. Audrey flushed and glanced up at Red with embarrassment before speaking into the phone. ‘Mr Hector MacKay is here to see you Mr Robin.’
She put down the phone. ‘He’ll see you now Mr MacKay.’
An hour and twenty three minutes later – Audrey kept the precise time as usual – Mr Robin put his head round the door.
‘Cancel my appointments this afternoon, Audrey, and ring a car hire company would you?’
‘Yes Mr Robin.’
‘Tell them we’ll need a driver too. Give them my mobile number and I’ll tell them when and where.’
‘What’s the destination Mr Robin?’
‘Edinburgh.’
Mr Robin returned to his office closing the door behind him and Audrey made a note to deduct 34 seconds from Red MacKay’s bill because, strictly speaking, her conversing with Mr Robin wasn’t ‘client time’. Twenty six minutes and 22 seconds later Mr Mackenzie opened the door, and held it for Red. ‘Mr MacKay and I have an appointment out of the office Audrey. If anyone wants me I won’t be available until tomorrow.’
‘Yes Mr Robin.’
Red MacKay had his woollen hat in his hand. Audrey hadn’t seen his hair before. It was blond and curly and made him look rather dishy. She smiled at him but he didn’t seem to notice her. At lunchtime in the hotel bar, Audrey was telling her story of Red MacKay’s hair when the group of reporters and photographers in the table by the window began running for the door.
‘What’s up?’ Audrey asked the short scruffy one in jeans and black corduroy jacket who had offered to buy her a drink the day before.
‘Dunno yet, but something’s going on at the police station. McGill’s lawyer is holding a press conference in the car park at 2.30pm.’
‘Mr Mackenzie?’ Audrey asked.
‘Yup that’s the bloke.’
‘He’s my – ’ But before Audrey could finish the sentence the door slammed shut.
The reporter who had gone to Eilean Iasgaich made it back with ten minutes to spare. Mike nosed the rib up to the slipway, registering surprise that Red’s boat was still moored at the pier and wondering what had kept him. It was unusual for him to spend much more than an hour or two in the township. At 2.30 Mr Mackenzie, in his tweed suit and with a severe expression, came out of the police station accompanied by Chief Inspector Donald Findlay. Mr Mackenzie waited for the reporters to settle.
‘I will read out a short statement and then the Chief Inspector will also read out a short statement. I will answer no questions.’
He coughed and composed himself. ‘My client Mr Cal McGill was released without charge this afternoon after new information came to light. Thank you.’
One of the reporters shouted, ‘What information? Either he broke into the museum or he didn’t.’
The Chief Inspector stepped forward and held up his hand. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen …’
‘I have a short statement to make and like Mr Mackenzie here I will not be answering questions. The charges against Mr McGill have been dropped. As of this time police inquiries into this incident are at an end.’
He put his arm round Mr Mackenzie to guide him back to the police station door. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’
The reporters did not notice a chauffeur driven hire car with a male passenger leaving the back of the police station and taking the road to Whale Back Beach, or an old fishing boat steaming up the Kyle, a man in a red hat in the wheelhouse.
Before 4pm, when Audrey went to post some letters, the story was beginning to be pieced together. Red MacKay had been seen going into Mr Mackenzie’s office by Janice, the physio. There had to be some connection, particularly as Red never came into the township more than once a week. Not until today.
A crowd had gathered in the post office and when Audrey appeared through the door the questions came at her thick and fast.
‘I don’t know anything, I swear.’
Someone shouted ‘Leave the lassie alone’ and they resumed their discussion among themselves.
Mr Mackenzie returned to the office two minutes before 5pm. Audrey was locking up.
‘Are you going home early, Audrey?’
‘My watch says 5pm Mr Robin.’
‘The office clock is the clock we work by Audrey.’
‘Yes Mr Robin.’
She didn’t know whether to go or to sit at her desk. Instead she said, ‘Mr Robin?’
‘Yes, Audrey.’
‘People are saying …’ She hesitated because she knew what Mr Robin thought of ‘tattle’ as he called it. ‘Mr McGill will want his grandfather’s name carved on the memorial now that he’s a hero too.’
Her employer frowned. ‘I cannot imagine it, can you Audrey?’
‘No Mr Robin, I wouldn’t want my grandfather’s name to be on the same memorial as the people who left him to die.’
‘Quite so, Audrey.’
That evening, the hotel bar was fuller than usual. The drink and the gossip were flowing. Laura, one of the bar staff and the sister of a police officer, told the manager, in hushed tones, that Red MacKay had letters proving he was still the legal owner of his grandfather’s log. He’d told the police he wouldn’t be pressing theft charges against Cal McGill. Indeed, that very morning he’d asked Mr Mackenzie to transfer ownership of the log to McGill. ‘You can’t steal your own property can you?’
Jimmy Probert, an incomer who lived on the other side of the Kyle, was huddled in a corner with a reporter.
‘That’s worth another drink son. It’s gold I’m giving you.’
His ‘woman’ was a cleaner at the police station. All the cops were talking about it, how Ellie Rae had gone against her husband Douglas. ‘There’ll be trouble in that house tonight, there will.’ According to Jimmy, Ellie Rae had visited the police station that morning and had spoken to the Chief Inspector. ‘She’s a trustee of the museum,’ Jimmy explained. ‘There are only two of them, Ellie and Douglas.’
‘So what?’ the reporter said.
‘Well she told the police she’d take the stand for McGill if he’s tried on a charge of breaking into the museum.’ Jimmy hadn’t known this but descendants of the islanders had always been allowed special access to the museum. It had been opened up on a number of occasions outside normal hours. Apparently Ellie Rae had told the Chief Inspector that as far as she was concerned the same rule applied to Cal McGill, even though he hadn’t sought permission in advance and had entered through an open window.
‘The cops gave it up after that. The trial would be a farce, Douglas and Ellie Rae quarrelling from the witness box.’
Jimmy tapped his empty glass on the table top.
‘Ok, Jimmy, you’ve earned it. What’ll you have?’
Jimmy smacked his lips together, ‘A whisky would be grand.’
Back at the bar, the manager ca
me from the office with a print out of a BBC Scotland story. He told Laura about it. ‘McGill’s offered to loan the log back to the museum on condition that it is kept open at September 29, 1942, the day his grandfather’s death was recorded incorrectly by old Hector MacKay, and that the three missing pages are displayed beside it.’
Chapter 28
They were the verbal equivalents of old-fashioned mile marker stones on the road south. Every minute or two, the driver would offer up a comment to tempt Cal into conversation. ‘Haven’t had such excitement round here for years. Not that you found it exciting I suppose.’ After each remark he would glance in his rear view mirror and study his passenger’s reaction. Cal didn’t respond until the driver said, ‘You’ll be in line for compensation I wouldn’t wonder.’
Cal snapped back, ‘Look, why don’t you pretend I’m not here and I’ll do the same for you?’
‘As you wish,’ the driver said, his jaw tight with offence. He added ‘Sir’ as an afterthought and loaded it with disrespect.
From the police station, the car had taken Cal to Whale Back Beach, named after the long curved hump of rock at its northern end which resembled a cetacean on its way down after breaching. Rachel, according to Mr Mackenzie, had asked to see him there. ‘Not the hotel?’ Cal had asked, but Mr Mackenzie informed him that old Mrs Rae and Douglas had banned him from all their properties in Eastern Township, including the hotel. Anyway, Mr Mackenzie continued, feelings were running high in the local townships, both for and against Cal. In Mr Mackenzie’s considered view, it would be judicious of him to leave the area as soon as possible ‘to let tempers cool’. Under the circumstances, he continued, the beach was as good as anywhere if ‘what you require is a quiet discussion without unwanted interruptions or perhaps some hostility’. Cal didn’t know what Rachel had in mind, so he said nothing.
The driver parked in a turning circle at the road end. From there, the beach curved in a shallow crescent towards the north. Cal saw Rachel immediately. She was alone, walking below the tide line, occasionally stopping to pick up shells. When she saw Cal approaching, she stopped. The shells fell from her hand on to the sand. Cal waved, but she didn’t wave back. Then she turned away from him and Cal worked the Mary’s Bean between his fingers, like she used to, feeling the patina of its woody surface, wondering if she would accept it back as a token of friendship, now that there were no secrets between them.
The Sea Detective Page 26
