Alex Gray: Pitch Black

They’d decided to picnic in the Great Glen, making the most of the fine weather that had blessed their three-week holiday in Mull, and Lorimer had been scanning the skies hopefully all afternoon. Now he had that sighting and it was a treasured memory he could take back with him to the city.

‘How many pairs are nesting this year? Did that fellow say?’ Maggie asked him, her hand resting lightly on her husband’s arm. Her gaze still followed that dot on the clouds, imagining the bird seeking some prey to take to its growing chicks.

‘Gordon? He reckoned they had five pairs out at Torloisk this year. But nobody said anything about sea eagles over this way. Golden eagles, yes, but not these boys,’ Lorimer replied, looking down at Maggie’s earnest expression with a smile. ‘Anyway, how about some food? I’m starving.’

Maggie wrenched her gaze away, thoughts of eagles fading as she looked down at their unopened hamper. It had been a good idea bringing it with them on holiday, especially to a self-catering cottage. Mary Grant had left the basics to start them off, but the old lady knew they’d want to stock up with local produce and so had left a list of suppliers from Craignure to Tobermory and beyond. It had been fun buying eggs and fresh vegetables from farms that were off the beaten track, finding other places of interest like the ancient stone broch while they were at it. Secretly Maggie suspected that was exactly what the old lady had in mind when she’d left the names and locations of out-of-the-way farms and crofts. But the main town on the island, Tobermory, had been the real treasure trove for picnics. Now Maggie unwrapped some rolls and handed one to her husband.

Lorimer leaned back against the grassy hillock and sighed. ‘What a day. Imagine seeing that before we go home!’

Maggie, her mouth full of spicy chicken, nodded in agreement. It had been the perfect last day. Even the midges had left them alone for some reason: maybe it was that small wind stirring the bog cotton and bringing a scent of myrtle wafting towards them.

‘Happy?’

She swallowed and smiled, nodding again. It had been a wonderful holiday, just the two of them exploring Mull together from their base at the cottage. They’d been content to live without the intrusion of radio, television or even newspapers; a real escape from the world outside. Even the West Coast weather had been kind, with almost no rain save an occasional nightly shower that had sprinkled the grass and kept it green. Tomorrow they’d pack up and catch the ferry from Fishnish then drive the long way round, making the most of their journey home. But for now they could bask in the sweetness of the Mull air, banishing any thoughts of returning to work.

Lorimer lay back against the soft, rabbit-cropped grass and closed his eyes. It had taken the Detective Chief Inspector days to unwind, to forget that last, protracted murder case and now he was perfectly at peace with his world and his wife. In a matter of minutes his head tilted sideways and he began to snore softly.

Looking down at him, Maggie felt a tenderness that she had almost forgotten. How she loved this man! Yet there was an ache, a longing that sometimes surfaced. She thought again of that sea eagle carrying food to its chicks. That would never be her lot in life, she told herself. As a school teacher, Maggie had plenty of contact with kids and she was glad to leave some of them at the three-thirty bell. But there were others she’d have taken home in a minute, satisfying an empty space that she sometimes acknowledged to herself.

Maggie let her gaze wander over the hills and the ribbon of single-track road winding below them. They were so lucky to have had such a time here. What was she doing becoming wistful at what she couldn’t have, when she should be grateful for all that life had given to her, she scolded herself. Then she looked back at her sleeping husband. He’d been such fun to be with these last three weeks. It was a shame it was coming to an end, but maybe there wouldn’t be too much going on back in the world of Strathclyde Police. Or was that too much to hope for? After all, crime never seemed to take a holiday.

The cottage door closed with its now-familiar creak and Lorimer turned the key in the lock. Putting it carefully behind a lichen-covered stone where Mary Grant would find it, he picked up the final bag and strode towards the car where Maggie was busy sorting things into the boot. He took a last look at the whitewashed cottage and beyond: the gardens ran all the way down to the boat shed then petered out in clumps of reeds and small pools down by the shoreline. He and Maggie had scrambled over thrift-strewn rocks, stopping sometimes to look for seals out in the curving bay or listen to the seabirds’ raucous delight as they dived for fish. Once, Maggie had whistled at a lone black head, coaxing it to swim nearer to shore, and it had, curious to find the source of her music. They’d been rewarded with a woofing bark then the seal had turned over lazily and disappeared beneath the dark blue water.

Lorimer took a last look at the Morvern hills basking in the sunshine across the Sound of Mull, a patchwork of yellows and greens that Maggie had tried to capture in watercolours. These three weeks had rejuvenated him, made him forget any evil that stalked the city streets. Under canopies of late night skies he had held Maggie close and gazed in wonder at the myriad stars and planets scattered across the heavens. Was there some hand at work in all of that? he’d wondered. On such nights it was not hard to believe in an almighty creator. They’d basked in the silence of the place, though by day it was full of bird-song, mainly the different species of warblers whose ubiquitous dun colouring made them nigh on impossible to identify without binoculars. And sheep, he reminded himself with a grin as a lone black face skittered along the cottage road, a panic-stricken baah emanating from deep within its throat. He was feeling fitter and leaner; every day they’d walked or climbed, every night he’d slept soundly, no anxious dreams disturbing his rest.

As they rounded the corner away from the bay, Lorimer heard Maggie give a small sigh. Taking her hand in his, he squeezed it gently.

‘Maybe we could come back here next year?’ he suggested and smiled as she grinned in pleasure at the thought.

A queue of traffic was waiting by the pier when they arrived. The ferry was usually right on schedule, they’d been warned, and space on this small craft was restricted.

‘What’s up?’ Maggie nudged her husband and nodded towards a uniformed officer who was walking slowly down the line of cars, noting something on his clipboard.

‘Maybe he’s looking for that rainbow trout you guddled from the burn!’ Lorimer joked. Maggie had tried catching fish with her bare hands after they had spent one interesting night staring out at the bay as silent poachers laid their illegal splash-nets at the mouth of the burn. They’d watched, entranced, at the pantomime being played out under a full, silvery moon. Mary Grant had hinted at such goings-on, telling how the local policeman always had a good sea trout for his dinner: a sort of reward for turning a blind eye. The fishing rights to the bay were quietly ignored by many of the locals, she’d told them. ‘Better they get them than the seals!’ she’d insisted.

Curious in spite of himself, Lorimer opened the car door and walked towards the policeman.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, recognising the man as PC Gordon Urquhart, one of the team from the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds’ Eagle Watch. They had been privileged to stay in a hide with the man for a whole morning, watching as an adult bird fed its growing chicks.

‘Ach, there’s been a report of some egg snatchers in the area. We’ve got their registration details but we have to check all cars coming on and off the island,’ he explained. ‘Not quite in your league, Chief Inspector,’ the man grinned, recognising Lorimer.