Peter May - The Chessmen

He had forgotten all about the gala day. The return of all seventy-eight Lewis chessmen to their last resting place for just one day. Sixty-seven of the chess pieces were permanently housed in the British Museum in London, that repository of stolen artefacts from around the world. The remaining eleven were kept in Edinburgh, but still a long way from home. He remembered Whistler’s exhortation the day they had met at his croft for the first time since they were teenagers. They should be in Uig year round. A special exhibition. Not stuck in museums in Edinburgh and London. Then maybe folk would come to see them and we could generate some income here .

Well, they were generating some income today, Fin thought. There were hundreds of cars and a string of coaches parked up at the side of the road and along the machair, and a thousand or more people on the beach, which had been turned, at low tide, into something like a fairground.

Fin pulled up short of Uig Lodge and walked across the machair to stand and look out over the sands. The wind blew, as it always did, but God was on the side of the chessmen and had brought the sun with Him. It was the oddest thing to see this normally deserted beach, on the remotest corner of the island, populated by hundreds of tourists, locals and press, all milling amongst temporary wooden stalls and pitched tents. It was like a giant Lowry canvas. There were boat trips coming and going from the far shore, and helicopter rides taking off and landing from a level area below the church at Baile na Cille. There was a giant bouncy castle crawling with shrieking children, a Noddy train. Stalls offered tombola, a coconut shy and the chance to guess the weight of the salmon. There were sheep-milking time trials and haggis-throwing. It was an extraordinary feat of optimism in a climate that, nine days out of ten, would have rained on the parade.

The church itself was a focus of attention. It was where the chessmen were being displayed in glass cases under tight security, and two chess masters were engaged in a battle of wits with thirty-two of the original pieces. There were crowds around the church, a constant stream of people coming and going, and a line of them snaking up from the beach.

The centrepiece of the extravaganza on the sands was a giant chessboard, each square two feet by two. Whistler’s chessmen filled the board, proud Viking warriors strutting across their black-and-white battleground in synchronization with the game being played in the church, each move relayed by walkie-talkie to volunteers who moved the pieces.

Whistler would have been proud to see his carvings animated in this way, Fin thought. The confusion over their commissioning must somehow have been settled. But if Whistler hadn’t been paid before, then he never would be now.

Fin returned to his jeep and drove on round to the turnoff that led to Whistler’s croft. The carefully tended rectangle of land that stretched down the hill would no doubt fall into desuetude now, Whistler’s efforts quickly reclaimed by a process of nature that had no respect for the ephemeral efforts of man. He drew in on the gravel outside the blackhouse and saw that the propellers of Whistler’s wind turbines were continuing to generate electricity that would never be used.

There was no evidence now of the crimescene tape that must have been stretched across the door in the immediate aftermath of Whistler’s murder. The forensics experts from Scenes of Crime would have dusted for fingerprints, taken their pictures, recovered blood and fibres from the mess on the floor, and been long gone. The door was not locked, and Fin pushed it open. The still air inside had a faintly antiseptic edge to it, stuffy and damp. Furniture had been righted, the floor swept clean. The only trace that remained of the mayhem there had once been was the faint, smudged chalk outline they had drawn roughly around the body, the stain of blood where it had pooled on the floor, and the trail of it left by Whistler as he had attempted to drag himself towards the far wall.

Fin perched on the edge of the worn and battered old settee and looked around the room. He remembered his aunt’s indignation at the state of the place, and her fury at finding only beer in the fridge. He recalled sitting on this very settee, still shivering after his rescue from certain death in the Tathabhal stream, drinking tea laced with Mr Macaskill’s whisky. And he remembered how Whistler had hugged him on the day they had been reunited for the first time in half a lifetime. His big, whiskered face rough against Fin’s, the warmth and affection in his eyes. And he felt grief well up inside him. Followed moments later by anger, and a determination to focus.

He blinked to clear his vision and examined the chalk outline on the floor. One leg trailed straight out behind, the other pulled up, the knee on a level with the waist. One of Whistler’s arms lay at his side, the other stretched out beyond his head. And Fin recalled George Gunn’s words the day he had slipped into his cell at the police station. It looks like he crawled across the floor while you were still unconscious. You could see the trail of blood where he’d dragged himself over it, almost as if he was trying to reach something .

Fin tried to picture what he might have been trying to reach. And then suddenly it came to him, and everything dropped into place, like the counters on a slot machine. He was certain then he knew who had killed Whistler. But he was still struggling with the why.

He recovered his mobile phone from his pocket and found the number he was looking for in its memory.

He heard Gunn’s voice when he answered after the third ring.

‘George?’

Gunn sighed. ‘No more favours, Mr Macleod.’

‘No favours, George. But I need you to come down to Uig, and I think I can show you who killed Whistler.’

There was a long silence. ‘Why can’t you just tell me?’

‘Because I need to be sure first. And I need you to bring something with you.’

‘What?’

‘The crime scene pics of the body. Just the wide shots.’

He heard Gunn’s sharp intake of breath. ‘You must be joking, Mr Macleod!’

‘I know you can access them George. Even if just to take photocopies.’

‘You’re going to get me drummed out of the force.’

Fin couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Thanks, George.’ He hesitated. ‘And there’s just one other thing.’ Gunn’s exasperation exploded in his ear.

Fin left the claustrophobia of the blackhouse to find a place to sit on the hill, looking down over the beach, while he waited for Gunn. It could be a good hour and a half.

He had lost count of the number of times he and Whistler had sat together on the hill below the house, just talking. Sometimes for hours. There had never been a shortage of words between them, but their silences had been comfortable, too.

He saw a figure drowned in red and blue waterproofs two sizes too big, climbing up the track towards him. Only a small corner of the tattoo on her neck was visible beneath the big blue collar and the hood that piled up against the back of her head. She wore wellies below the leggings, and what looked like a wetsuit beneath the waterproofs. All the studs and earrings were gone, and her face was oddly naked without them. Her eyes were shadowed, her pale face drawn and devoid of make-up.

She stopped and looked down at him where he sat. ‘I was on the beach and saw you drive up to the house.’ She saw how his quizzical eyes took in her waterproofs and she almost smiled. ‘I promised ages ago I’d help out with the boat rides. Wasn’t going to do it at first, but then I thought it might take my mind off things.’ She shrugged and stared out gloomily across the distant beach. ‘But all those people having a good time. .’ She turned a sad smile back on him. ‘Just makes you feel worse somehow.’ She hesitated. ‘Okay if I sit down beside you?’