The Blackhouse l-1

by Peter May

  ‘Jesus.’ Fin had not expected this.

  ‘The DCI sent two uniforms to Ness to bring him in for questioning about an hour ago.’

  Fin slipped off his stool. ‘I’m going to the station to talk to him.’

  Gunn grabbed his arm. ‘With all due respect, sir, you’ve been drinking. If Mr Smith smells alcohol on your breath, you’ll be in even bigger trouble than you already are.’

  They heard the distant chanting of protesters on the quayside. Kill-ers, Kill-ers, Kill-ers.

  ‘That must be the Purple Isle leaving port,’ Fin said, and he crossed to the window. But he couldn’t see the Cromwell Street Quay from there.

  ‘Are they going to An Sgeir tonight?’

  Fin nodded. ‘And Fionnlagh’s with them.’

  ‘Well, then, he’s not going anywhere fast in the next two weeks, is he? And you can talk to Donald Murray in the morning. I don’t think he’s going anywhere very fast either.’

  Out in The Narrows Fin said, ‘Thanks, George. I owe you.’

  Gunn shrugged. ‘The reason I came looking for you tonight, sir, was to say that my wife was able to get her hands on a bit of wild salmon, just like I thought. Plenty for the three of us. She said she would grill it for us if we wanted.’

  But Fin was distracted. ‘Maybe another night, George. Tell her thanks, anyway.’

  Gunn looked at his watch ‘Aye, well, it was getting a bit late, right enough. And to tell you the truth, sir, I prefer my salmon poached.’

  Fin caught his twinkle. ‘Me too.’ He handed Gunn his car keys. ‘She’s in the Cromwell Street car park.’ He walked with him down to North Beach, where they shook hands and Fin watched him head off towards the car park. The Purple Isle had already turned south at the end of North Beach Quay and was out of sight somewhere between the Esplanade and Cuddy Point. Fin retraced his steps over Castle Street, across The Narrows and down to South Beach. Streetlamps shone miserably in the rain all the way along the front to the deserted bus station at the far end, and the lights of the new ferry terminal. The old pier at the near end was shrouded in darkness.

  Fin stuck his hands deep in his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the wet and the cold, and walked out on to the deserted pier. There was a tanker tied up on her east side, but not a soul in sight. He saw the lights of the Purple Isle as she motored into view, ploughing her way through the choppy swell and into the bay towards Goat Island. He could see figures moving about on deck, but it was impossible to tell who they were, just yellow and orange smudges.

  He had no idea what to feel any more. What to believe or to think. But he knew that the boy who was his son was taking with him a secret on board that trawler, sailing through treacherous seas to a desolate rock in the North Atlantic where eighteen years earlier Fin had almost died.

  And it troubled him to think of the boy on the rock, amongst the slaughter and the fiery angels and the wheels of dead meat. Whatever his secret might be.

  SEVENTEEN

  I

  Low cloud shaved the tops of the hills, propelled across the island by a strong westerly. Baskets of colourful hanging flowers all along the front of Stornoway police station swung dangerously in the wind. Litter blew about the street in gusts and eddies, and folk leaned into the breeze, hunched against the unaccustomed August chill.

  Fin made the weary hike up Church Street from the harbour, a woollen sweater beneath his parka in place of the bloodstained shirt he had left soaking in the washbasin of his hotel room. He had dozed off and on through the hours of darkness, but sleep had eluded him. Real sleep. The kind that wraps all thoughts in black and lowers them gently to the bottom of a deep, dark well. Several times he had considered calling Mona. But what could he have told her? That they had no need to grieve any longer for the loss of Robbie? Because he had found another son he didn’t even know he had?

  He went through the car park and entered the police station by its back door. The duty sergeant was leaning on the charge bar filling in forms. The pervasive institutional perfume of toilets and disinfectant that lingered in police cells everywhere was ameliorated by the smell of toast and coffee. Fin glanced up at the CCTV camera above the charge bar and showed the sergeant his ID.

  ‘Is the Reverend Murray still here?’

  The sergeant nodded down the hall. The gate to the cells was lying open, and most of the doors were ajar. ‘First on the right. It’s not locked.’ He saw Fin’s surprise. ‘He’s still helping us with our inquiries, sir. Hasn’t been officially detained. Would you like some coffee?’

  Fin shook his head and walked down the hall. Everything was clean and freshly painted. Cream walls, beige doors. He pushed open the door of the first cell on the right. Donald was squatting on a low wooden bench below a small window high in the wall. He was eating toast, and a mug of steaming coffee sat on the bench beside him. He was still wearing his dog collar beneath a jacket that was crumpled now and creased. A little like his face. He looked as if he had slept as much as Fin. There were dark shadows around panda eyes, hair uncombed and unkempt, falling forward across his forehead. He took in Fin at a glance, and barely acknowledged him.

  ‘You see that?’ He tipped his head towards the corner of the cell to Fin’s left. Fin looked down and saw a white arrow beside a capital letter E, painted on the dark red concrete floor. ‘Points east. To Mecca. So that Muslim prisoners will know what direction to pray in. The sergeant tells me he can’t ever remember a single Muslim prisoner in here. But it’s regulation. I asked him if he could give me a bible so that I might find comfort in the midst of this hell. He apologized. Someone had misplaced the bible. But he could give me a copy of the Koran and a prayer mat if I wanted.’ He looked up, his face full of contempt. ‘This used to be a Christian island, Fin.’

  ‘Aye, with Christian values, like truth and honesty, Donald.’

  Donald met his eye very directly. ‘I didn’t kill Angel Macritchie.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘So why am I here?’

  ‘It’s not my call.’

  ‘They say I was in Edinburgh at the same time as some other murder. So were half a million others.’

  ‘Can you account for your movements that night?’

  ‘Several of us were staying at the same hotel. I think we had dinner together. They’re checking it out with the rest. Of course, that doesn’t account for my movements after I went to bed — since I was on my own.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. They say the number of prostitutes in Edinburgh increases every time there’s a General Assembly.’ Donald gave him a sour look. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Your DNA sample will clear you of killing Macritchie when the results come through. God’s bar code.’

  ‘Why are you so sure I didn’t do it?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that all night.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who hasn’t had any sleep. So what conclusion did you come to?’

  Fin leaned against the door frame. He felt weak and tired. ‘I always thought you were one of the good guys, Donald. Always standing up for what you believed in, never giving in to the bullies. And I never once saw you raise so much as a finger to anyone. Your power was psychological, not physical. You had a way of dealing with people without ever resorting to violence. I don’t think you’re capable of killing anyone.’

  ‘Well, thank you for the vote of confidence.’

  Fin ignored his tone. ‘But what you are capable of is a great, stubborn, self-serving pride.’

  ‘I knew there had to be a catch.’

  ‘Standing up to bullies, risking yourself for others, defying your father, playing the rebel. All part of the same reason you ended up turning to God.’

  ‘Oh, yes, and what’s that?’

  ‘Your all-consuming desire to be the centre of attention. It’s always been about image with you, Donald, hasn’t it? Your own self-image. The image you wanted others to have of you. The red car with the soft top, the succession of pretty
girls, the drugs, the drink, the high life. And now the minister. You don’t get to be much more centre-stage than that. Not on the Isle of Lewis. And in the end, it all boils down to one thing. And do you know what that is?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me, Fin?’ For all his defiance, Fin’s words were having their effect. Colour had risen high on Donald’s cheeks.

  ‘Pride. You’re a proud man, Donald. And your pride comes before everything else. Which, is funny, because I always thought pride was a sin.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me on the Bible.’

  But Fin wasn’t about to let up. ‘And something, they say, that comes before a fall.’ He pushed himself away from the door frame and slipped his hands into his pockets, stepping into the middle of the cell. ‘You know perfectly well that Macritchie never raped Donna. And I also think you know why she claimed he did.’

  For the first time, Donald looked away, his gaze falling to the floor, focused on something only he could see. Fin saw his fingers tighten around his coffee mug.

  ‘You know she’s pregnant, don’t you? But you’d rather turn a blind eye to the truth, have the world believe it was Macritchie’s fault. Because what would it do to your image? Your precious sense of self. If the minister’s daughter got herself pregnant, not because she was raped, but because she had consensual sex with her boyfriend. What a stain on your reputation. What a blow to your pride.’

  Donald was still staring at the floor, the muscles of his jaw working in silent anger.

  ‘Think about it, Donald. Your wife and your daughter are scared of you. Scared! And I’ll tell you something else. Angel Macritchie wasn’t worth much. But he wasn’t a rapist. He didn’t have many redeeming features, but he doesn’t deserve a stain like that on his memory.’

  Fin hurried down the stairs from the charge bar, wrapped up in the same thoughts which had kept him awake most of the night. Not one of them included DCI Tom Smith, so it took him a moment to register his voice.

  ‘Macleod!’ The voice was terse and thick with Glasgow accent. When Fin failed to react it came again, louder. ‘Macleod!’ Fin turned and saw him standing in the open doorway of an interview room. ‘In here.’

  Gone was the smooth, manicured image cultivated by the Glaswegian CIO. He was unshaven, his shirt crushed and roughly rolled up at the elbows. His Brylcreemed hair fell in greasy loops down each side of his wide, flat brow, and the scent of Brut had been replaced by a faintly unpleasant body odour, which was only marginally worse. He, too, had clearly been up all night.

  He shut the door behind them and told Fin to sit at the desk. It was strewn with papers, and an ashtray was full to overflowing. But he did not sit himself. ‘You’ve been in talking to Murray.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘He was in Edinburgh the night of the Leith Walk murder.’

  ‘So was every other Free Kirk minister on the island.’

  ‘But they didn’t have a motive for killing Macritchie.’

  ‘Neither does Murray. He knows Macritchie never raped his daughter. Her boyfriend got her pregnant, so she made up the story.’

  Uncharacteristically, Smith seemed at a loss for words. But it was only temporary. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Because I know these people, Chief Inspector. I’m one of them, as you were so pleased to point out when you described them to me as unsophisticated the day I got here.’

  Smith bristled. ‘I’ll not take any cheek from you, Macleod.’

  ‘But I should turn the other cheek when you choose to be insulting? Is that how it works?’

  Smith bit back a response. ‘If you’re so fucking clever, Macleod, then obviously you’ll know who it was who killed Macritchie.’ He paused. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No, sir. But I think you were right from the beginning. There is no Edinburgh connection. Just someone trying to lead us up a blind alley.’

  ‘I’m honoured to have your endorsement, Detective Inspector. And when exactly did you come to this conclusion?’

  ‘At the post-mortem, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  Fin shook his head. ‘It just didn’t feel right. Too many things that didn’t correspond. Small things. But enough to make me think we were probably looking at two different killers.’

  Smith wandered to the window, short arms folded across his chest. He turned to face Fin. ‘And you were going to share this with me, when?’

  ‘It wasn’t a conclusion, sir. Just a feeling. But if I’d shared it with you, you’d have put me on the first plane back to Edinburgh. And I felt that my local knowledge gave me something to offer the investigation.’

  ‘And you thought that was a decision you had the power to make?’ Smith shook his head in disbelief. He leaned his weight on the desk, knuckles glowing white, and sniffed the air. ‘I don’t smell any alcohol. Did you rinse your mouth out before coming in this morning?’

  Fin frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.’

  ‘I’m talking about an officer under my command getting involved in a drunken brawl in the Narrows last night. I’m talking about an officer who is only going to remain under my command for as long as it takes him to board the first available flight out of here. I want you off the island, Macleod. If you can’t get a plane, get a ferry.’ He drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t great. ‘I’ve already spoken to your division head in Edinburgh. So I imagine you can expect a warm reception when you get home.’

  His abortive return to the island was over. All those painful encounters with the ghosts of his past. It was almost a relief. And Fionnlagh was right. They had been none of his business for eighteen years, he had no right coming back and involving himself in their lives now. A man had been murdered, and his killer was still free. But that was no longer his responsibility. He was going home, if that’s what it still was. If Mona was still there. He could simply draw the curtain again, and forget. Look forward instead of back. So why did the prospect fill him with such dread?

  Fin brushed past the relief map of Lewis and Harris in the hallway and pushed open the firedoors into reception. The duty officer behind the glass glanced up, CCTV pictures flickering on a bank of screens behind him. There were two solitary figures sitting waiting patiently on plastic chairs pushed back against the wall opposite the window, but Fin didn’t notice them. He was almost out of the front door before one them called his name and got to her feet.

  Catriona Macfarlane, or Murray, as Fin supposed she now was, stood clasping her hands in front of her. She looked pale and defeated. And sitting like some little rag doll propped up on the empty row of seats behind her was a young girl who looked barely more than twelve years old, hair drawn back from a bloodless face without a trace of make-up. With a shock, Fin realized that this must be Donna. She seemed so young. It was hard to believe that she could be three months pregnant. Perhaps with make-up the girl looked older. She was not unattractive, in a plain sort of way. She had her father’s colouring, the same delicate ivory skin and sandy hair. She was wearing jeans, and a pink blouse beneath a quilted anorak that drowned her.

  ‘Bastard!’ Catriona said.

  ‘I had nothing to do with it, Catriona.’

  ‘When are you going to let him go?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, he can leave any time he likes. I’m being sent back to Edinburgh. So you’ll get your wish. I won’t be bothering you again.’ Their lives were no longer his concern.

  He pushed open the swing door and hastened down the stairs out into the blustery wind. He had already crossed Kenneth Street, and was passing the fish and chip shop, before he heard footsteps on the pavement behind him. He looked round to see Donna chasing down Church Street after him. Her mother was standing on the steps of the police station. She called her daughter’s name. But Donna ignored her. The girl reached Fin and pulled up, breathless. ‘I need to talk to you, Mr Macleod.’

  A waitress chewing gum brought two coffees to them at their table in th
e window. A constant stream of traffic rumbled along Cromwell Street on the other side of the glass. It was still gloomy out there, sea the colour of pewter blowing in white-crested arcs across the harbour.

  The girl toyed with her spoon. ‘I don’t know why I ordered coffee. I don’t even like it.’

  ‘I’ll get you something else.’ He raised a hand to call the waitress.

  ‘No, it’s alright.’ Donna continued to play with her spoon, and turned her cup around in the coffee which had slopped into the saucer. Fin sugared his, and stirred it patiently. If she had something to tell him, he would let her do it in her own time. He took a sip. It was barely tepid. Eventually she looked up at him. ‘I know my mother told you the truth about what happened with Mr Macritchie.’ For a girl who had falsely accused a man of rape, there was an extraordinary candour in her eyes. ‘And I’m pretty sure my dad knows it was all a lie, too.’

  ‘He does.’

  She seemed surprised. ‘So you must know that my dad didn’t kill him.’

  ‘I never thought for a minute that your dad killed anyone, Donna.’

  ‘So why are you holding him?’

  ‘He’s not being held. He’s helping with inquiries. It’s just procedural.’

  ‘I never meant to cause all this trouble.’ She bit her lip, and Fin saw that she was trying hard not to cry.

  ‘What did you tell Fionnlagh?’

  And suddenly the tears were put on hold. She looked at him warily. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Does he know you’re pregnant?’

  She lowered her head and shook it, and returned to playing with her spoon. ‘I … I haven’t been able to tell him. Not yet.’