The Blackhouse

TWELVE

The mountains of Harris rose up before them, piercing low black cloud, and tearing great holes in it to reveal startling shreds of blue, and ragged scraps of white. Fragments of sunshine fell upon the spangling waters of a loch that cut deep into the hills. At the bend, on the curve of the hill, they flashed past an old, abandoned shieling with a view as timeless as the island itself.

‘And some people choose to sit in traffic on the M25 for two hours every day,’ George Gunn said. ‘More bloody fool them, eh?’

Fin nodded his agreement and supposed that he was one of those fools. How many hours of his life had he wasted sitting in traffic jams in Edinburgh? The road to Uig, winding through some of the bleakest, most beautiful country anywhere on earth, was a reminder that life did not have to be like that. But as the mountains approached, wreathed in cloud and mist, blue and purple and darkest green, their brooding quality was infectious, and in the shadow of their sullen splendour Fin found himself sinking back into the depression with which he had awakened.

On his return to Stornoway he had stood under hot water in the shower in his hotel room for a long time, trying to wash away the memories of the night before. But stubbornly they had stayed with him, and he was haunted by the image of the young Fionnlagh, like the young Fin, troubled and unhappy at the prospect of his trip to An Sgeir. Shocked, too, by the change in his oldest friend. The fresh-faced Artair, once so full of life and mischief, overweight now, foul-mouthed and hard-drinking, trapped in a loveless marriage, with a crippled mother and a son who was not his. And Marsaili. Poor Marsaili, ground down by life and the years, weary and washed out.

Yet, in those few moments across the kitchen table, he had seen again in her the young Marsaili, still there in the flash of her eyes, in her smile, the touch of her fingers on his face. And that old, sarcastic wit that he had once adored.

Gunn was aware of his distraction, glancing across the car at his passenger. ‘Penny for them, Mr Macleod.’

Fin shook himself out of his reverie and forced a smile. ‘I wouldn’t waste my money if I was you, George.’

They turned into a long gully, cut through solid rock by the relentless force of water over millions of years. A once huge river reduced now to a trickle amongst the boulders. And as they emerged from the shadows, they caught their first glimpse of Uig beach through a cleft in the land. Acres of white sands. They could not even see the ocean.

Gunn swung away from the shore, following a single-track road over a cattle grid and up into the hills, running alongside a broad, swift-moving shallow river, which tumbled and smashed itself over jagged chunks of stone that rose in steps and clusters from the river bed.

‘Do you get much wild salmon in Edinburgh, Mr Macleod?’

‘No, we don’t. All we seem to get these days is the farmed stuff.’

‘Aye, hellish, isn’t it? All those bloody chemicals and antibiotics, and them making the poor wee things swim in circles. The flesh is that soft you can just poke your fingers right through it.’ He glanced across at the river rushing past them. ‘I suppose that’s why some folk’ll pay so much money to come and catch the real thing.’

‘And why others’ll risk so much to poach it.’ Fin avoided looking at Gunn. ‘You had much of the real thing recently, George?’

Gunn shrugged. ‘Och, you know, a wee taste of it now and then, Mr Macleod. My wife knows someone who can get us the odd bit of it from time to time.’

‘Your wife?’

‘Aye.’ Gunn sneaked a glance across the car. ‘I never ask, Mr Macleod. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’

‘Ignorance is no excuse in the eyes of the law.’

‘Aye, and sometimes the law’s an ass. God didn’t put the world’s finest salmon in our rivers, Mr Macleod, so that some Englishman could come here and charge other Englishman a bloody fortune to take them away.’

‘And if you knew someone was poaching them?’

‘Oh, I’d arrest them,’ Gunn said without hesitation. ‘That’s my job.’ He kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Maybe you’d like to eat with me and my wife tonight, Mr Macleod. I daresay she might be able to dig up a piece of the real thing from somewhere.’

‘A tempting offer, George. I might take you up on it. But let’s see how the day pans out first. You never know, they might be putting me on a plane home this afternoon.’

They came up over a rise in the road, and there below them, nestling on the shore of a tiny scribble of grey loch, was Suainaval Lodge, a cluster of Scots pines growing around it, carefully cultivated in the shelter of the surrounding hills. The lodge was based upon what must once have been an old farmhouse, extended and built out and up. It was an impressive property, freshly painted, a brilliant white that stood out in the gloom of this tenebrous place. A metalled road ran down to a parking area at the side of the house and a landing stage where a cluster of small boats bobbed on the ruffled surface of the loch. There was only one vehicle parked there, a battered-looking Land-Rover. Gunn pulled in beside it and they stepped out on to the tarmac. A big man in blue overalls and a tweed jacket, a matching peaked cap pulled down over his ruddy, round face, came hurrying out of the lodge.

‘Can I help you folks?’ To Fin he appeared to be in his forties, but it was hard to tell. His face was weathered and broken-veined. What hair could be seen beneath his cap was gingery, flecked with white.

‘Police,’ Gunn said. ‘From Stornoway.’

The man breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, I’m right glad to hear it. I thought you were from the ministry come a day early.’

‘What ministry is that?’ Fin asked.

‘Agriculture. They come and count the sheep to calculate the subsidy. They were at Coinneach Iain’s place yesterday, and I haven’t had a chance to move his beasts over to my place yet.’ He nodded towards a small crofthouse on the opposite shore, a strip of land marked off on the hill above it, white sheep dotted amongst the heather.

Fin frowned. ‘There are sheep there already.’

‘Oh, aye, they’re mine.’

‘So why would you want to bring Coinneach Iain’s sheep here?’

‘So the man from the ministry’ll think I’ve twice as many as I have, and give me twice the subsidy.’

‘You mean the same sheep get counted twice?’

‘Aye.’ The man seemed surprised by Fin’s slowness.

‘Should you be telling us this?’

‘Och, it’s no secret.’ The man was dismissive. ‘Even the fella from the ministry knows. If the sheep are here when he arrives, he’ll count them. It’s the only way any of us gets to make a living. That’s how I’ve had to take this job at the lodge.‘

‘What job’s that?’ Gunn asked.

‘Caretaker. I look after the place while Sir John’s not here.’

‘Sir John who?’ Fin said.

‘Wooldridge.’ The caretaker chuckled. ‘He tells me just to call him Johnny. But I don’t like to, him being a Sir and all.’ He thrust out a big hand. ‘I’m Kenny, by the way.’ He grinned. ‘Another Coinneach, so folk just call me Kenny. Big Kenny.’

Fin withdrew his crushed hand from the iron grip of Kenny’s monstrous paw. ‘Well, Big Kenny,’ he said, flexing his fingers, ‘is Johnny around?’

‘Oh, no,’ Big Kenny said. ‘Sir John’s never here in the summer. He always brings a party in September. The autumn’s best for the hunting.’

Gunn drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and opened it up. ‘What about a James Minto?’

Big Kenny’s face clouded, the broken veins around his nose turning a dark purple. ‘Oh, him. Aye, he’s around. He’s always around.’

‘You don’t sound particularly pleased about that,’ Fin said.

‘I’ve no beef with the man myself, sir. But no one likes him very much. Someone’s got to put a stop to the poaching, and he’s done a good enough job of it, I suppose. But there’s ways of doing things, and ways of doing things. If you get my meaning.’

‘And you don’t like his way of doing things,’ Gunn said.

‘No, sir, I do not.’

‘Where can we find him?’ Fin asked.

‘He’s in an old crofthouse among the doons on the south side of Uig beach.’ He stopped, mid-flow, as if suddenly remembering who he was talking to. He frowned. ‘What’s he done? Killed someone?’

‘Would it surprise you if he had?’ Fin said.

‘No, sir, it would not. It wouldn’t surprise me at all.’

Minto’s crofthouse was a former holiday let set amongst the dunes at the end of the shore road. It looked out over the whole expanse of Uig beach, from the distant ocean in the west to Uig Lodge in the east, an impressive hunting lodge that stood in splendid isolation on a bluff overlooking the sands, mountains rising behind it in layer upon undulating layer of pastel purple and blue, like paper cut-outs laid one behind the other. Immediately opposite, on the far side of the beach, was a collection of white-painted buildings at Baile-na-Cille, the birthplace of the Scottish prophet Kenneth Mackenzie.

‘Of course,’ Fin’s father had told him, ‘we know him in the Gaelic as Coinneach Odhar, and the world knows him as the Brahan Seer.’ Fin remembered as clear as day sitting on the edge of the machair as his father assembled their kite, hearing the story of how a ghost, returning to her grave at Baile-na-Cille one night, had told Coinneach’s mother to look for a small, round, blue stone in a nearby loch. ‘She was told that if she gave this stone to her son and he held it to his eye he would be able to see the future.’

‘And did she?’ a wide-eyed Fin had asked his father.

‘Aye, son, she did.’

‘And could he really see the future?’

‘He predicted many things, Fionnlagh, that have come true,’ his father told him, and he reeled off a whole list of prophecies that meant nothing to the young Fin. But as the adult Fin stood now and gazed off towards the gravestones on the far machair he recalled one prophecy that his father had never lived to see fulfilled. The Brahan Seer had written, When men in horseless carriages go under the sea to France, then shall Scotia arise anew, free from all oppression. The Channel Tunnel had been the merest twinkle in Margaret Thatcher’s eye when he and his father were flying kites on the beach, and not even the most ardent nationalist could have predicted then that a Scottish parliament would be sitting again in Edinburgh before the end of the century. Coinneach Odhar had been burned to death for witchcraft nearly three hundred years before any of it.

‘It’s a kind of magical place, this,’ George Gunn said, raising his voice to be heard over a wind that rippled like water in undulating waves through the long machair grasses.

‘Aye, it is.’ And Fin thought about the crofter who had discovered, buried in the sands of Uig, the Lewis Chessmen, carved from walrus tusks by twelfth-century Norsemen. And he could imagine how it was possible, as legend had it, for that crofter to think that they were really elves and gnomes, the pygmy sprites of Celtic folklore, and to turn on his heels and flee for his life.

A man came out from the front door of the crofthouse as they slammed the car doors shut. He wore moleskin trousers tucked into knee-high black boots, and a thick woollen jumper under a jacket with leather patches at the shoulders and elbows. He had a shotgun broken over one arm, and a canvas satchel hanging from his shoulder. His black hair was cropped short and his face lean. But even a deep summer tan could not hide the yellow remains of bruising around it, and there were several healing scars on badly split lips. He had striking pale green eyes, and Fin decided that he was about the same age as himself. The man paused for a moment, then closed the door behind him and sauntered towards them with the hint of a limp in his gait. ‘Can I be of any assistance to you gentlemen?’ He was softspoken, his gentle cockney cadences barely audible above the racket of the wind. But his voice did not reflect the wariness in his strange green eyes, or the tension Fin could see in the way he held his body, something of the cat about him, all wound up and ready to spring.

‘James Minto?’ Fin said.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Detective Sergeant Finlay Macleod.’ Fin nodded towards Gunn. ‘And Detective Constable George Gunn.’

‘Identification?’ Minto was still eyeing them cautiously. They both showed him their warrant cards, which he examined, and then nodded. ‘Okay, you’ve found him. What do you want?’

Fin cocked his head towards the shotgun. ‘I take it you’ve got a licence for that?’

‘What do you think?’ Wariness was turning towards hostility.

‘I think I asked you a question which you haven’t answered.’

‘Yes, I’ve got a licence.’

‘What are you thinking of shooting?’

‘Rabbits, if it’s any of your business, Detective Sergeant.’ He bore all the hallmarks of a soldier in the ranks displaying his contempt for a senior officer.

‘Not poachers.’

‘I don’t shoot poachers. I catch them and I hand them over to you people.’

‘Where were you on Saturday night between eight and midnight?’

For the first time Minto’s confidence wavered. ‘Why?’

‘I’m asking the questions.’

‘And I’m not answering unless I know why.’

‘If you don’t answer I’ll put you in handcuffs in the back of that car and take you to Stornoway where you’ll be charged with obstructing a police officer in the course of his duties.’

‘Fucking try it, mate, and you’ll end up with two broken arms.’

Fin had read Gunn’s printout on Minto. Ex-SAS, serving in the Gulf and Afghanistan. And something in Minto’s tone told him that he meant what he said. Fin kept his voice level. ‘Threatening a police officer is also an offence, Mr Minto.’

‘So handcuff me and throw me in the back of your car.’

Fin was surprised by the quiet menace in Gunn’s voice at his side. ‘I think you’d better answer Mr Macleod’s questions, Mr Minto, or it’s you who’ll have the broken arms, and it’s me who’ll break them while I’m putting them in cuffs.’

Minto flicked him a look of quick appraisal. Hitherto, he had paid little attention to Gunn. If he had dismissed him as a junior officer of no consequence, he was now clearly rethinking. He reached a decision. ‘I was at home Saturday night. Watching the telly. Not that you get a very good picture down here.’ He dragged his eyes away from Gunn and back to Fin.

‘Can anyone verify that?’ Fin said.

‘Yeh, like I’ve got a lot of mates round Uig. They’re always dropping by for a beer and a chat.’

‘You were on your own, then?’

‘You’re quick for a copper.’

‘What programmes did you watch?’ Gunn asked with the authority of someone who had probably been watching TV himself on Saturday night.

Minto threw him another wary glance. ‘How the fuck should I know? Bloody telly’s the same every night. Crap.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Look, the sooner you ask me what it is you want to know, the sooner I’ll tell you, and we can put an end to this little game, okay?’

‘Maybe we should do this indoors,’ Fin said. ‘And you could make us a cup of tea.’ It seemed like a good way of defusing hostilities.

Minto thought about it for a few moment. ‘Yeh, okay. Why don’t we do that?’

For a man who lived alone, Minto kept his house in perfect order. The tiny sitting room was spartan and clean, devoid of pictures or ornaments, except for a chessboard on a table by the window, opposing chessmen in various stages of conflict across the black and cream ivory squares. Fin could see into the kitchen as they sat waiting for Minto to come through with the tea. There wasn’t a dirty dish in sight. Cutlery hung in neat racks on the wall, and dish towels hung drying, carefully folded above a heater. Minto carried in a tray with a pot of tea and three cups and saucers, a small jug of milk and a crock of sugar cubes. Fin had been expecting mugs. There was something faintly manic in Minto’s fastidiousness, a tidiness and discipline dinned into him perhaps by years in the army. Fin wondered what motivated a man to come to a place like this to live on his own. His job, by its nature, would not lead him to make many friends. But he seemed to go out of his way to make enemies. Nobody liked him much, Big Kenny had said. And Fin could see why.

As Minto poured, Fin said, ‘Not easy to play chess with yourself.’

Minto glanced across the room towards his chessboard. ‘I play by telephone. My old commanding officer.’

‘You have the Lewis Chessmen, I see.’

Minto grinned. ‘Yeh, not the originals, unfortunately. Ain’t figured out how to break into the British Museum yet.’ He paused. ‘Beautiful things, aren’t they?’

Beautiful was not a word Fin had expected to hear passing Minto’s lips. If he had suspected for a moment that Minto might have been aware of life’s aesthetics, he would not have thought him likely to appreciate them. But the one thing Fin had learned from his years in the police was that however much you believed you had them figured out, people invariably surprised you. ‘Have you ever seen the originals? They keep a few of them at the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh.’

‘Never been to Edinburgh,’ Minto said. ‘In fact, I haven’t been anywhere in Scotland except here. And I haven’t been off the island since I arrived fifteen months ago.’ Fin nodded. If that was true, it would rule Minto out of any connection with the Leith Walk murder. ‘I thought at first maybe you’d come to tell me you’d got the bastards who did this to my face.’

‘Afraid not,’ Gunn said.

‘Nah,’ Minto drawled. ‘Don’t know what I was thinking. Like every other bugger round here, you’re more interested in looking after your own. Right?’ He sat down and dropped two lumps of sugar in his tea and stirred in some milk.

‘A lot of your poachers turn up pretty badly marked themselves,’ said Gunn.

‘A lot of my poachers don’t like getting caught.’

Fin said, ‘Do you work alone?’

‘Nah. There’s a couple of other guys on Sir John’s payroll. Locals, you know, probably out poaching themselves when they’re not out with me.’

‘Sir John’s payroll must be quite hefty then,’ Fin said. ‘Three of you on a salary just to catch poachers.’

Minto laughed. ‘A drop in the bloody ocean, mate. You know, there’s consortiums of fishermen come up here, stay in the lodge, and pay ten grand a week just for one beat. Over a season that’s a lot of dosh, know what I mean? And these guys ain’t too happy paying that kind of money if there ain’t no fish in the river. A hundred years ago, over on Grimersta Estate, they was catching more than two thousand salmon a year. Back then, they say the guy who owned the place caught fifty-seven of the buggers off the same rod in one day. These days we’re lucky if we pull a few hundred in a season. The wild salmon’s a dying breed, Detective Sergeant. It’s my job to see they don’t become extinct.’

‘By beating the living daylights out of anyone you catch taking them illegally?’

‘You said that, I didn’t.’

Fin sipped reflectively on his tea, momentarily startled by the unexpected perfume of Earl Grey. He glanced at Gunn and saw that the detective constable had put his cup back on the table, the tea undrunk. Fin refocused on Minto. ‘Do you recall a man called Macritchie? You caught him poaching on the estate here about six months ago. Handed him over to the police, in a bit of a state apparently.’

Minto shrugged. ‘I’ve caught a few poachers in the last six months, mate. And every one of them’s been a Mac-something-or-other. Give me a clue.’

‘He was murdered in Port of Ness on Saturday night.’

For a moment, Minto’s natural cockiness deserted him. A frown gathered itself around his eyes. ‘That’s the guy that was in the paper the other day.’ Fin nodded. ‘Jesus Christ, and you think I had something to do with that?’

‘You got beaten up pretty badly a few weeks ago. By an assailant or assailants unknown.’

‘Yeh, unknown because you bloody people haven’t caught them yet.’

‘So they weren’t just poachers that you stumbled on?’

‘Nah, they was out to give me a doing. Lying waiting for me they were.’

‘And you couldn’t identify them, why?’ Gunn asked.

‘Because they was wearing bloody masks, wasn’t they? Didn’t want me to see their faces.’

‘Which means they were probably faces you knew,’ Fin said.

‘Well, knock me down with a feather. I’d never have thought of that.’ Minto took a large gulp of tea as if to wash away the bad taste of his sarcasm.

‘Must be a lot of folk around here who’re not too fond of you, then,’ Fin said.

And finally Minto saw the light. His green eyes opened wide. ‘You think it was this guy Macritchie. You think I knew it was him and killed him for it.’

‘Did you?’

Minto’s laugh was mirthless. ‘Let me tell you something, mate. If I’d known who did this to me,’ he pointed to his face, ‘I’d have dealt with it quickly and quietly. And I wouldn’t have left any marks.’

Outside, the wind was still bending the long grasses. The shadows of clouds raced across miles of compacted sand, and they saw that the tide had turned and was rushing across the flats with indecent haste. At the car they stopped and Fin said, ‘I‘d like to go up to Ness, George, and talk to a few folk.’

‘I’ll need to go back to Stornoway, sir. DCI Smith keeps us on a tight leash.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to ask him for a car.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Mr Macleod. He’d probably just say no.’ Gunn hesitated. ‘Why don’t you drop me off at the station and take my car. Better to be forgiven than forbidden, eh?’

Fin smiled. ‘Thanks, George.’ He opened the car door.

Gunn said, ‘So what do you think?’ He nodded towards the crofthouse. ‘About Minto.’

‘I think if it wasn’t for the drive down and back, we’d have been wasting our time.’ Gunn nodded. But Fin had the impression it was a nod of acknowledgement rather than of agreement. ‘You don’t agree?’

‘No, I think you’re probably right, Mr Macleod. But I didn’t like the fella much. Gave me the willies. With his kind of training he’d know how to use a knife alright, and I don’t believe he’d think twice about using it.’

Fin ran a hand back through the fine, tight curls of his hair. ‘They’re pretty highly trained, these SAS types.’

‘Aye, they are.’

‘And you think you could have broken his arms?’

Gunn shot him a look and blushed, a tiny smile stretching his lips. ‘I think he could have probably broken every bone in my body before I even got near him, Mr Macleod.’ He inclined his head slightly. ‘But he wasn’t to know that.’

The Pottery had been there at the foot of the hill for as long as Fin could remember. When he had first taken over the old croft, Eachan Stewart had been a long-haired, wild-eyed man of about thirty who had seemed very old to all the children of Crobost. Fin and the other boys in the village had thought him a wizard, and for once had obeyed parental advice and stayed away from the Pottery, fearing that he might cast an evil spell on them. He did not belong to the island, although his grandfather was said to have come from Carloway, which was the Lewis equivalent of the Wild West. Born somewhere in the north of England, he had been christened Hector, but returning to his roots had called himself Eachan, its Gaelic equivalent.

As he pulled Gunn’s car on to the grass verge opposite, Fin saw Eachan sitting outside the front door of his cottage. He was well into his sixties now. The hair was just as long, but pure white, and the eyes a little less wild, dulled like his brain by years of smoking dope. On the peeling white gable of the house, the red-painted legend, The Pottery, was still visible where he had daubed it across the wall thirty years before. A shambolic garden, filled with the accumulated detritus of decades of beachcombing, was festooned with green fishing nets draped between rotting fenceposts. Stakes of bleached driftwood flanked a rickety wooden gate. A cross-beam was tied to them by lengths of frayed rope and hung with buoys and floats and markers — orange, pink, yellow, white — blowing and rattling in the wind. Stunted and wind-blasted shrubs clung stubbornly to the thin, peaty soil where Eachan had planted them when Fin was still a boy.

A great attraction, then, for the kids on their way to school, had been the mysterious earthworks which Eachan Stewart had begun shortly after his arrival. Over a period of nearly two years, he had laboured in amongst the reedy and unproductive bog that surrounded his house, digging, and wheeling barrows of soil across the moor to pile in great heaps, like giant molehills, thirty or forty feet apart. Six of them altogether. The kids would sit up on the hill and watch him at work from a safe distance as he levelled them off and seeded them with grass, only realizing belatedly that he had built himself a mini, three-hole golf course, with tees, and greens with flagpoles stuck in the holes. They had gawped in amazement the first day he appeared with his chequered pullover and cloth cap, a golf bag slung across his shoulder, to tee up on the first hole and christen the course by playing his first round of golf. It took him only fifteen minutes, but from then on it became a routine that he followed with religious fervour every morning, rain or shine. After a while, the novelty of it wore off for the kids, and they found other things to engage their interest. Eachan Stewart, eccentric potter, had stitched himself into the fabric of life there and become, to all intents and purposes, invisible.

Fin saw that the golf course the mad potter had laboured so hard to create all those years before was drowning now amongst a sea of long grasses, neglected and left to grow wild. Eachan glanced up when his gate scraped across an overgrown path. His eyes narrowed quizzically as Fin approached. He was threading pottery windchimes to hang amongst the two dozen or more already lined up along the front of the cottage. The dull pitch of colourfully glazed terracotta pipes rattling in the wind filled the air around him. He looked Fin up and down. ‘Well, from the look of those shoes you’re wearing, lad, I’d say you were a policeman. Am I right?’

‘You’re not wrong, Eachan.’

Eachan cocked his head. ‘Do I know you?’ His Lancashire accent had never left him, even after all these years.

‘You did once. Whether you’ll remember me is another matter.’

Eachan looked hard into his face, and Fin imagined he could almost hear the wheels of his memory creaking and grinding. But he shook his head. ‘You’ll need to give me a hint.’

‘My aunt used to buy, shall we say, some of your more unusual pieces.’

Lights appeared in the old man’s eyes. ‘Iseabal Marr,’ he said. ‘Lived in the old whitehouse up by the harbour. Got me to make her those big pots in primary colours for her dried flowers, and she was the only local ever to buy one of my pairs of fucking pigs. An eccentric creature she was, right enough. God rest her soul.’ Fin thought it was rich, Eachan calling his aunt eccentric. ‘And you must be Fin Macleod. Jesus, lad, the last time I saw you was when I helped carry you from the Purple Isle the year old man Macinnes died on the rock.’

Fin felt his face redden, stinging as if from a slap. He’d had no idea that Eachan was one of the men who’d carried him from the boat that year. He had no recollection at all of the journey back from An Sgeir, or the ambulance dash across the moor to Stornoway. The first things he recalled were the starched white sheets of his hospital bed, and the concerned face of a young nurse hovering over him like an angel. He remembered thinking for a moment that he had died and gone to Heaven.

Eachan stood up and pumped his hand. ‘Good to see you, lad. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Eachan.’

‘And what brings you back to Crobost?’

‘The murder of Angel Macritchie.’

Eachan’s bonhomie dropped quickly away, and he became suddenly wary. ‘I’ve already told the coppers everything I know about Macritchie.’ He turned abruptly and went into his cottage, a shambling figure in denim dungarees and a grubby-looking long-sleeved grampa shirt. Fin followed him inside. The cottage was one big room that served as workshop, showroom, living room, kitchen and dining room. Eachan lived, worked and sold his wares here. Every available space on every table and shelf was crowded with his pots and goblets and plates and figurines. Where there was no pottery, there were piles of dirty dishes and laundry. Hundreds of windchimes hung from the rafters. The kiln was in a lean-to out back, and he had an outside toilet in a broken-down shed in the garden. A dog slept on a settee that looked as if it doubled as Eachan’s bed, and smoke leaked from a small cast-iron stove where he burned his peats, misting the light that fell through crowded windows into the room.

‘I’m not here officially,’ Fin said. ‘And there’s only me and you to know what passes between us. All I’m interested in is the truth.’

Eachan lifted an almost empty whisky bottle from a shelf above the sink, swilled the tea leaves out of a dirty cup and poured himself a measure. ‘Very subjective thing, the truth. You want one?’ Fin shook his head and Eachan emptied the cup in a single draught. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Macritchie was supplying you with dope, right?’

Eachan’s eyes opened wide in amazement. ‘How do you know that?’

‘The Stornoway police suspected for some time that Macritchie was dealing dope. And everyone in the world, Eachan, knows that you enjoy the odd spliff or three.’

Eachan’s eyes opened wider. ‘They do? I mean, even the police?’

‘Even the police.’

‘So how come I never got arrested?’

‘Because there are bigger fish to fry than you, Eachan.’

‘Jesus.’ Eachan sat down abruptly on a stool, as if the knowledge that everyone knew, and had always known, that he smoked dope took away all the illicit fun of it. Then he looked up at Fin, suddenly alarmed. ‘You think that gives me a motive for killing him?’

Fin almost laughed. ‘No, Eachan, I think it gives you a motive for lying for him.’

The old man frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The Donna Murray rape. The animal rights activist that he beat up right on your doorstep.’

‘Aw, now, wait a minute.’ Eachan’s voice rose in pitch. ‘Right. Okay. I admit it. Big Angel kicked the living shit out of that lad. I saw him do it, right on my doorstep, just like you said. But a lot of other people saw it, too. And I might have felt sorry for the boy, but he was asking for it. There was nobody in Crobost who’d have grassed on Angel for that.’ He poured the dregs of the whisky bottle into his cup with a shaking hand. ‘But that wee Donna Murray, she was just telling lies.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I went up to the Social that night for a pint before closing time, and I saw her coming out into the car park and then heading up the road.’ He knocked back his whisky.

‘Did she see you?’

‘No, I don’t think she did. She seemed right preoccupied. I was on the other side of the road, and that street light up there’s been out for months.’

‘And?’

‘And then I saw Angel coming out. Or should I say staggering out. Man, he was pissed. Even if he’d had the inclination he’d never have had the wherewithal. The cold air hit him like a bloody sledgehammer and he threw up all over the pavement. I gave him a wide berth, I can tell you. I didn’t want him to see me. He could be bloody aggressive when he’d had a drink in him. So I stood in the pool of darkness by the street light that doesn’t work and watched him for a couple of minutes. He leaned against the wall, getting his breath back, and then he wobbled off down the road towards his house. The opposite direction from Donna Murray. And I went and had my pint.’

‘You didn’t see anyone else out there?’

‘Nope. Not a soul.’

Fin was thoughtful. ‘So why do you think she accused him of raping her?’

‘How the hell should I know? Does it matter? He’s dead now. Doesn’t make any difference.’

But somehow Fin thought that it might. ‘Thanks, Eachan. I appreciate your frankness.’ He moved away towards the door.

‘So what really happened out on the rock that year, then?’ Eachan had lowered his voice again, but it couldn’t have had more impact if he had shouted.

Fin stopped and turned in the doorway. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, everyone said it was an accident. But nobody ever talked about it. Not in all the years since. Not even Angel, and he couldn’t keep a secret for five minutes.’

‘That’s because there was no secret to keep. I fell on the cliff. Mr Macinnes saved my life and lost his own in the process.’

But Eachan just shook his head. ‘No. I was there, remember, when the boat came in. There was more to it than that. I’ve never known so many men say so little about so much in my life.’ He squinted through the gloom at Fin and took a few unsteady steps towards him. ‘Go on, you can tell me. There’s only me and you here to know what passes between us.’ There was something unpleasant in his smile.

Fin said, ‘You any idea where Calum Macdonald lives?’

Eachan frowned, disconcerted by the sudden change of subject. ‘Calum Macdonald?’

‘He’s about my age. We were at school together. I think he works a loom these days.’

‘The cripple?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Squirrel, they call him.’

‘Do they? Why?’

‘I’ve no idea. He’s in the pebbledash cottage at the top of the hill. The last one in the village, on the right.’ Eachan paused. ‘What’s he got to do with what happened on An Sgeir?’

‘Nothing,’ Fin said. ‘I just want to look up an old friend.’ And he turned and ducked through the windchimes out into a freshening north wind.

Calum Macdonald’s pebbledash bungalow sat amongst a cluster of three houses just over the brow of the hill. When Fin was last in Crobost it had been semi-derelict, an old single-storey, tin-roofed whitehouse left to rot. Someone had spent a lot of money on it since then. A new roof, double-glazing, a kitchen extension built on the back. There was a walled garden, the wall sprayed with the same pebbledash as the house. And someone had spent a lot of time taming the wilderness, laying lawns and planting flowerbeds. Fin knew that there had been some kind of compensation paid, although no amount of money could compensate for a lifetime in a wheelchair. He assumed that the money had gone on the house, or that at least a part of it had.

Calum’s mother had been widowed before Calum was born — another fatality at sea — and the two of them had lived in a row of council houses near the school. Fin knew that Calum had never told her about the bullying, or about what happened the night he broke his back. They had all lived in terror of what would happen when the full story came out. But it never did. Like everything else in his life, his fears, his dreams, his secret desires, Calum kept it to himself, and the expected storm never broke.

Fin parked by the gate and walked up the pavings to the kitchen door. There was a ramp there in place of a step. He knocked and waited. There were two houses behind Calum’s, and a large breezeblock garage with rust-red doors. An overgrown yard was littered with the remains of cannibalized tractors and broken-down trailers. A stark contrast with the neat and tidy garden on this side of the wall. Fin turned, as the door opened, to find an elderly woman standing at the top of the ramp. She was wearing a print apron over a woollen jumper and tweed skirt. When he had last seen Calum’s mother her hair had been the purest black. Now it was the purest white. But it was carefully arranged in soft curls around a face almost as colourless, a face scarred by a tracery of fine criss-crossing wrinkles. Her eyes were a pale, watery blue, and they peered at him without recognition. Fin was almost startled to see her. He could never quite get used to the fact that people his age had parents who were still alive.

‘Mrs Macdonald?’

She frowned, wondering if she should know him. ‘Aye.’

‘It’s Fin Macleod. I used to live up near the harbour with my aunt. I was at school with Calum.’

The frown faded, but there was no smile. Her mouth set itself in a hard line. ‘Oh,’ she said.

Fin shuffled awkwardly. ‘I wondered if it might be possible to see him.’

‘Well, you’ve taken your time coming, haven’t you?’ Her voice was hard, the Gaelic giving it a steely edge. It also had the rasp of an inveterate smoker. ‘It’s almost twenty years since Calum broke his back, and none of you even had the decency to visit. Except for Angel, poor boy.’

Fin was torn between guilt and curiosity. ‘Angel came to see Calum?’

‘Aye, every week. Regular as clockwork.’ She paused to draw a wheezing breath. ‘But he’ll not be coming any more, will he?’

Fin stood for a moment, uncertain how to respond, before deciding there was no adequate response he could make. ‘Is Calum there?’ He looked beyond her into the house.

‘No, he’s not. He’s working.’

‘Where can I find him, then?’

‘In the shed, round the other side of the house. Angel built it for the loom.’ She took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her apron and lit one. ‘You’ll hear it when you go round. Just knock.’ She blew out a cloud of smoke and closed the door in his face.

Fin followed the path around the bungalow. The paving stones had been carefully laid and cemented to smooth out the passage for the wheelchair, and Fin wondered if Angel had been responsible for that, too. He ducked under a clothesline heavy with washing blowing in the wind, and saw the shed in the lee of the house. It was a simple breezeblock structure, harled to protect it from the rain, and had a steeply pitched tin roof. There was a window in each face, and a door facing out to a hump of peatstack and the moor beyond. Sunlight reflected in momentary flashes on fragments of water gathered in all its hollows.

As he approached the door he heard the rhythmical clacking of the loom, the turning of wheels turning wheels, sending wooden shuttles shooting back and forth across lines of spun wool almost faster than the eye could see. When he’d been a boy, it was nearly impossible to walk down any street in Ness without hearing a loom in action somewhere, in someone’s shed or garage. Fin had always wondered why tweed woven on Lewis was called Harris Tweed. Whatever it was called, its weavers had never made much money at it. Harris Tweed was not Harris Tweed unless woven by hand, and at one time islanders had laboured at home in their thousands to produce the stuff. The mills in Stornoway paid them a pittance for it before selling it on to markets in Europe and America for a handsome profit. But now the bottom had fallen out of those markets, tweed replaced by more fashionable fabrics, and only a handful of weavers remained, still earning a pittance.

Fin raised his hand to knock on the door and hesitated, closing his eyes, and feeling again a surge of the guilt that had haunted him through all the years since it happened. For just a moment he wondered if Calum would remember him, before dismissing the thought as foolish. Of course he would remember. How could he forget?