The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 103

On my third month driving through Scotland, and on my thirteenth stolen car, I caught the ferry from Ullapool to Stornaway, stood on the back deck and smelt spring, salt, petrol fumes and cheap beer, watched the land pull away behind the ship, felt the wind tear at my hair, and it was

good.

No anger, no frustration, merely the open sea.

In Stornoway (population 9,000; football teams Stornoway Athletic vs. Stornoway United, rivals to the crown) I walked the two hundred metres from the ferry port to the first optician, opened the door to the little jangling of a bell, pulled out my crumpled picture of Byron, her spectacles and my police badge and said, “I’m looking for…”

“Mrs MacAuley, aye!”

The optician, a cheerful man with white hairs around his chin and eyebrows that stuck out from his face like two grey umbrellas, sheltering his eyes from rain and sun, stared at me in my silence, eyes wide and face curious, a man not used to strangers, let alone Lothian Police so far from home.

The quiet stretched between us, a long, long while, until at last he blurted, “Are you dead or what?”

“Excuse me one moment,” I said, and walked out of his shop.

I paced round the block, counted to one hundred, then marched back in and tried again, police badge in hand.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m looking for Mrs MacAuley.”

“Aye,” he replied, staring again, friendly, curious, meeting me for the very first time. “She comes in here to get her prescription.”

I held out my police badge. “I’m investigating identity fraud,” I said. “We think Mrs MacAuley might have been a victim.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“The investigation is large. The thieves have been travelling far. Some of their victims may not even know they’ve been targeted, their details used in crimes.”

“What manner of crimes?”

“Insurance scams, mostly.”

“And you say she might be a victim? Why would anyone want to steal Mrs MacAuley’s identity?” Not denial, not rejection of my premise — merely a man who spent a lot of time alone in a shop, talking to himself, now talking out loud, musing over a dilemma.

“Can you help me find her?” I asked. “Do you know where she lives?”

“Oh sure, I’ve got the address somewhere round here.”

He opened up a screen on a computer, an ancient, chugging thing whose buffer, as you typed, struggled to form words.

“Here — it’s a bit of a drive, you know where you’re going?”

“I can find it.”

“I wouldn’t trust your phone, if that’s what you’re thinking. Don’t have much of a signal out here.”

“I’ve got a map,” I replied, copying down the address. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good luck to you, then.”

“Thank you.”

And there: she was found.