Black Cathedral (department 18)

by L. H. Maynard

  Well, good luck to them. She shuddered at the thought of the island. There was nothing on earth that would induce her to set foot on Kulsay. She’d heard the rumors and stories over the years, and preferred to keep her feet firmly on the mainland. But she knew there would be someone who would be intrigued by this latest twist. She picked up the phone and dialed a local number.

  The phone was answered on the second ring. ‘Bayliss,’ a voice said. Whisky and cigarettes gave the voice a sandpaper timbre.

  ‘Hi, Nick. It’s Fiona, from Cleeves.’

  ‘Fiona! How’re you keeping?’ The slurring of the words was barely noticeable.

  ‘I’m good. You know you told me to let you know if there were any more developments regarding Kulsay. Well, something’s developed.’

  In the cluttered living room of the flat he was renting on the outskirts of town, Nick Bayliss listened carefully to what Fiona Whyte was telling him. When she’d finished he said, ‘Interesting. Listen, Fiona, be an angel, get me their names.’

  ‘I’ll get the register,’ she said. ‘Hold on.’

  The line was silent for a few moments. Bayliss rummaged through the piles of paperwork lying heaped on the table he was using as a desk. He found an empty legal pad and a pen and waited, poised to write down the names. This was an unexpected but very welcome development. He’d thought the MOD investigation marked the end of official involvement in Kulsay. The book he was writing about the island had stalled since that ended so inconclusively. Maybe this new investigation would kick-start it again. He really needed to finish it. His publisher’s deadline was looming and he was fast using up his advance. The small pieces he was writing on psychic phenomena for a few of the trashy tabloids and magazines were keeping him in bread, but there was no jam to sweeten its flavor. He was just a week away from throwing in the towel and heading back to his apartment in London.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Fiona came back to the phone.

  ‘Waiting with bated breath,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. Jane Talbot, Raj Kumar…’

  He scribbled the names down as Fiona read them out to him. ‘Did you say Robert Carter?’ he said when she finished.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, and told him what she’d just witnessed.

  ‘Well, it is raining rather heavily. If he’d been for a walk he would have got soaked.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But there was pond weed hanging from his clothes and, as far as I know, that doesn’t fall out of the sky.’

  ‘Fair point. And you say they’re going across to the island tomorrow?’ He poured himself another whisky.

  ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘Is your brother still running the pots?’ A plan was hatching in the lower recesses of his brain. The whisky only served to fuel his creativity. The more he drank the better his ideas.

  ‘Of course. Lobsters are still his life…poor bugger.’ Fiona had a sour opinion of much of life’s rich pattern.

  ‘Do you think he’d take me across to Kulsay again?’ The island held no fears for Bayliss; that was another consequence of copious amounts of whisky.

  ‘I doubt it, after the last time? Those Ministry people got quite heavy with him. Threatened to revoke his license.’

  ‘But you will ask him?’ Overeager, but Fiona wasn’t sharp enough to spot it.

  There was the slightest hesitation. ‘You’re a bastard, you know?’

  ‘They were on my case too, you know?’ The MOD had cast a wide net of suspicion in their quest to keep unwelcome questions at bay.

  ‘I’ll ask him. Are you coming to see me then?’ There was a fragment of hope in her voice, and eagerness of her own.

  ‘Oh, I think so. I’ll be there first thing. You’ll be on duty, won’t you?’ It would be easier if she were there to smooth the way with her brother.

  ‘Nick, I’m always on duty,’ she said, the sourness spreading out like spilt milk.

  ‘Breakfast would be nice.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  He hung up the phone and switched on his computer. Minutes later he was surfing the Internet, running Google searches for the names and writing notes on his pad. He didn’t bother to search for Carter. That information was already on his computer’s database, filed under Bobby Hinton.

  He felt a small knot of excitement beginning to curl in the pit of his stomach. He had a feeling that the next few days were going to be very interesting indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The early morning air was heavy with the smell of fish as a dozen boats unloaded their cargoes of mackerel and cod on the quayside of the harbor. A watery sun broke through the blanket of gray and glinted off the wet and slippery docks.

  ‘Could be a fine day,’ Raj said, looking up at the traces of blue showing through the clouds as he lifted a large cardboard box from the back of the Land Cruiser and carried it down to the waiting motor launch.

  ‘The sea looks calm enough,’ McKinley said as he took the box from him and stowed it on board. The boat rocked gently under his feet and the motion combined with the heavy stench of diesel from the boat’s engine was enough to bring on the first stirrings of seasickness. He hated being on the water and was dreading the crossing to the island. He watched as more boxes were unloaded, everyone lending a hand to get the equipment onto the boat as quickly as possible.

  This morning there was a real need within the group to get underway as soon as they could. All except McKinley had passed on breakfast, preferring to travel with empty stomachs, but whether this was due to the fear of sickness or the fact that appetites had been dampened by the anticipation of what awaited them on the island Raj wasn’t sure. In his case it was a mixture of both. He’d slept badly, the night filled with disturbing dreams; vivid and frightening images had woken him half a dozen times. Now in the daylight the images were hazy and unformed, but the echoes of them were still doing their best to unsettle him.

  When the last of the boxes had been loaded everyone climbed aboard. Jane went to talk to the pilot, a large, unshaven man called Jimmy Cowan. Cowan’s plaid work shirt was stretched over a prodigious beer belly, straining at the buttons. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to the elbows, revealing gaudy tattoos on heavily muscled forearms.

  ‘All loaded and ready to go,’ she said as she entered the cockpit. ‘How long is the crossing?’

  Cowan made some adjustments to the satellite navigation unit to the right of the wheel. ‘Hour and a half, give or take,’ he said, not looking up from the unit. His accent was thick and the words sounded like nothing more than a guttural growl.

  ‘Right,’ Jane said, uncertain that she’d understood him. ‘Good.’

  Cowan finally looked round at her. ‘You’re sure about this?’ he said.

  Easier to understand this time, probably because he was now facing her and she could see the patterns his lips made. ‘About what?’ she said.

  ‘About going across to the island?’

  Jane frowned. ‘It’s what we’re here for. Why?’

  Cowan shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘Your funeral, lassie,’ he said and went back to what he was doing.

  Jane resisted the urge to ask him what he meant. She left the cockpit and went back to join the others.

  ‘Not much of a conversationalist, is he?’ Kirby said as Jane slid onto the wooden bench beside her.

  ‘Just a little ray of sunshine, that one,’ Jane said as the engine started with a deep rumble. Moments later ropes were cast off and they were pulling away from the quayside.

  ‘And so the adventure begins,’ McKinley grinned.

  Jane looked around at the faces of the others. Anticipation, excitement mingled with apprehension and fear. Only Carter’s face was unreadable. He was staring over the side at the gray-green water passing under the launch. He hadn’t said two words all morning and his face looked ashen. There were dark half moons under his eyes, giving the impression that he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

  She
moved in next to him. ‘Everything all right, Rob?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Shouldn’t it be?’ He glanced at her before turning his attention back to the white-splashed water.

  Jane took his arm and squeezed gently. ‘You look dreadful. Bad night?’

  ‘I’ve had better.’

  ‘I thought I saw you. Last night. Out by the fountain.’ She weighed the words carefully, almost as if she was reeling in a fish.

  ‘Really?’ A bland, noncommittal response, as if they were at a dinner party discussing mortgage rates.

  ‘During the storm,’ she prompted. She was used to patience; the girls had taught her that.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Her voice became more forceful, demanding he tell her.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Jane.’

  That was as near an admission as she was going to get. ‘Something happened?’

  ‘I said I didn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I think you should.’ She said it with a friendly tone, but he could not mistake the steel beneath.

  ‘Maybe later.’

  On the starboard side of the deck Raj groaned and threw up over the rail. McKinley cheered. Kirby’s face took on the color of freshly kneaded dough and she hung her head over the side.

  There was a change in Carter, that was all too apparent, especially as Jane had known him so well, or thought she did. The story about Sian Davies, her disappearance and how it affected him seemed to be very true. He was much more intense than she remembered, much more withdrawn; like something was churning inside him waiting for release.

  She didn’t think David knew about the affair, but she had changed during and since, to the extent that he must have suspected something was happening. It wasn’t planned, these things rarely are. They saw each other, on and off, for a few months in London, but never stepped over the line; not until Paris. An assignment in Europe that appeared on the face of it to concern the Department. The trip concluded in Paris and a drunken meal in their hotel ended with only one of their rooms being used that night. In the morning expecting embarrassment Jane was astonished to open her eyes and find Robert already awake. They made love again in the glistening dawn and found themselves speaking of feelings far deeper than a mere work trip coupling.

  Jane found Carter to be far more sensitive than she expected, and her own emotions hoodwinked her as she told him things about herself and her life that she hadn’t even told her husband.

  They had three more days in Paris, and two more glorious nights. Room service in this romantic city didn’t blink an eye as they delivered to one room one night and the other the next. It was on the last afternoon, as they talked about how they could continue when they returned home that Jane saw the darker side of Robert Carter. In retrospect, as she settled back into some kind of normality with her husband and children, she told herself Carter was just being sensible, was even being a gentleman in allowing her to escape back to reality without any baggage. It hurt all the same.

  That afternoon, with bags packed, and clothes scattered around them he told her he cared for her but they should end it now. He didn’t use the clichés of not wanting to hurt her, or it being for the best. He was economical with his words, careful but decisive. Apart from working assignments, Jane hadn’t seen him since.

  From his position on the quayside Nick Bayliss lifted the binoculars and watched the progress of the boat as it negotiated its way out of the harbor. He’d arrived at the hotel a little after seven, had a light breakfast of toast and coffee in Fiona’s office, received a brief but satisfying blow job, and then gone down to the harbor to scout out the best position for observing the group as they readied themselves for their trip to Kulsay.

  His interest in Kulsay Island began years ago. Raised by his grandparents in a tenement on the east side of Edinburgh, his childhood had been colored by wild tales about Scottish mythology fed to him by his Glasgow-born grandfather. And the tale about the strange disappearance of the inhabitants of Kulsay was one of his favorites. His grandfather imbued and embellished the facts with mystery and intrigue, hinting at dark forces and witchcraft. They were stories that fired the young Bayliss imagination and stirred within him an insatiable curiosity about the unexplained and unexplainable.

  The old man’s yarns infuriated Bayliss’s grandmother who was a staunch Catholic and thought such tales bordered on blasphemy. She was quick to counter her husband’s stories with some of her own; but these took the form of dire warnings about meddling in occult matters, designed, he was sure, to steer him away from such a course and to reinforce the need for strict Christian principals.

  His grandfather died when he was eleven and left a void in his life that he filled with endless visits to the local library where he devoured any book he could find that could further perpetuate his grandfather’s storytelling legacy. The books helped ease the loss of the old man and temper the increasing dominance of the Catholic Church in his life brought about by his grandmother. He found the countless masses and enforced trips to confession repressive; they only served to pique his interest in the strange and unusual.

  The older he grew the less hold the Church had over him. Born with a naturally enquiring mind, and a strong cynicism inherited directly from his grandfather, Bayliss eventually eschewed his grandmother’s church and its teachings, preferring to formulate his own beliefs, and Kulsay Island was a major piece in the philosophical jigsaw he was constructing.

  When the Ministry of Defense held their investigation earlier in the year he’d gone across to the island, hoping to spy on the team the Ministry sent over there. He’d holed up in one of the deserted cottages on the south side of the island but he was discovered after a couple of days and kicked off the island without having the chance to learn anything useful. This time he’d be more careful. A small knot of excitement was forming in the pit of his stomach. Soon he would know the truth about Kulsay Island. If his grandfather’s stories were even half true, then Robert Carter and his people were in more danger than they could possibly imagine.

  As he watched the small launch disappear into the distance he took the binoculars away from his eyes and walked back to the hotel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Land Rover was waiting for them when the launch tied up at the island’s jetty. The driver, a young man in jeans and a tie-dyed tee shirt introduced himself as Mark Wallis and dropped a bunch of keys into Jane’s hand. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said.

  Jane’s eyes registered surprise. ‘You’re not driving us up to the house?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not in my contract,’ Wallis said easily, sweeping a blond bird’s wing of hair away from his face. ‘Meet you here, hand over the keys. That’s all I’m instructed to do.’

  ‘Fair enough. Do you have a map?’

  He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, creased and dog-eared. ‘There you go,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘You’ll find the keys to the place on the bunch I’ve just given you.’

  She unfolded the paper. Scribbled on it in pencil was a rudimentary map, showing the jetty and a torturous route of winding paths and tracks. Red ink arrows gave the directions. ‘And we’re supposed to find the place using this?’ Jane said.

  ‘I did. It’s more straightforward than it looks.’ Without a further word he threw her a smile and jumped aboard Cowan’s boat. Cowan cast off and went back to the wheel-house. Propellers spun, kicking up a spume of water and the craft edged away from the jetty heading out to sea.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ Jane said to Kirby, who was hoisting a large backpack onto her shoulder. ‘We’re on our own.’

  Kirby smiled nervously. ‘Better get this in the Land Rover,’ she said, jerking her thumb at the backpack, seemingly reluctant to talk.

  ‘Feeling better now?’ Jane said, pressing her.

  Kirby grimaced. ‘Hollow,’ she said. ‘I mean, just how many times can you throw up in ninety minutes?’
r />   ‘You’ll feel better once we get to the Manse and get the kettle on. I, for one, could murder a cup of tea.’ She turned to McKinley who was stowing the last of the gear into the Land Rover. ‘John, take this and see if you can make heads or tails of it.’ She handed him the map.

  He studied it for a moment. ‘Magical Mystery Tour,’ he said with a grin, then folded the map again and slipped it into his pocket.

  John McKinley drove the Land Rover, singing softly to himself — an old Bob Marley song. Kirby sat in the passenger seat, taking the harmony part in her lilting little-girl voice. She held the map out in front of her and paused her harmonizing occasionally to offer directions.

  Raj took snapshots of the passing scenery. He framed a shot of some particularly ragged-looking sheep grazing at the side of the road, but didn’t take the picture. Instead he put the camera down, closed his eyes and sat back in his seat. He couldn’t shake off the sense of gloom that had enveloped him the moment he’d stepped off the boat. He saw his feelings reflected in the eyes of the sheep; a deep melancholy hinting at a darker, deeper despair. He was starting to wish he hadn’t come.

  Carter had a notebook on his knees and was scribbling sentences in his convoluted spider scrawl, occasionally glancing out at the passing scenery. As he wrote he whistled Mozart tunelessly, the noise providing a jarring counterpoint to McKinley and Kirby’s singing.

  Jane sat next to him in the backseat of the Land Rover. ‘Do you want to talk about it now?’ she said quietly.