Peter May - The Blackhouse

Fin found strong hands catching his arms, pinning them to his sides and lifting him bodily away. ‘For fuck’s sake, man, you’re going to kill him!’ He turned his head to see the perplexed look on George Gunn’s face. ‘Let’s get you out of here before the cops come.’

‘You are the cops.’

‘The uniforms,’ Gunn said through clenched teeth. ‘If you’re still here when they arrive your career’s dead in the water.’

Fin went limp, then, and let Gunn pull him away through the jeering crowd. He caught the merest glimpse of Fionnlagh among all the faces. The boy seemed shocked. And he saw Artair laughing, delighted to see Murdo Ruadh finally get his comeuppance.

As they hurried away along The Narrows towards the Crown, they heard the wail of a police siren, a signal for the crowd to disperse. Two of his friends had pulled Murdo to his feet and were dragging him hurriedly away. It was all over.

Fin was still shaking as they sat at the bar. He placed his hands flat on the counter to stop them trembling. They were largely undamaged. He knew not to risk his hands on bone that could just as easily damage him. He had concentrated his punches in the soft, well-padded upper body, the stomach and ribs, bruising his opponent, eroding his stamina, hurting him without hurting himself. The real damage had been done by his boot and his knee in the first two strikes, all the pent-up rage and humiliation of thirty years fuelling his assault. He wondered why it hadn’t made him feel any better, why he felt sick and depressed and defeated.

The lounge bar of the Crown was deserted, except for a young couple deep in intimate conversation in the far corner. Gunn sat up on a stool beside Fin and slipped a fiver to the barmaid for their drinks. He said in a low, controlled voice, ‘What the hell were you doing, Mr Macleod?’

‘I don’t know, George. Making a complete bloody idiot of myself.’ He looked down and saw Murdo Ruadh’s blood on his jacket and trousers. ‘Literally.’

‘The DCI’s already pissed off because you never checked in after Uig. You could be in big trouble, sir. Big trouble.’

Fin nodded. ‘I know.’ He took a long drink from his pint glass until he felt the beer-buzz bite. He closed his eyes tightly. ‘I think I might know who murdered Macritchie.’

Gunn was silent for a long time. ‘Who?’

‘I’m not saying he did. Just that he’s got a damned good motive. And a bunch of bruises to go with it.’ Gunn waited for him to go on. Fin took another pull at his beer. ‘Donna Murray made up the story about Macritchie raping her.’

‘I think we all knew that, didn’t we?’

‘But we didn’t know she was pregnant. That’s why she did it, George. So that she could have someone to blame. So that she wouldn’t have to face her father with the truth.’

‘But as long as her father believed she’d been raped, that always put him in the frame, always gave him a motive.’

‘Not her father. Her boyfriend. The one who got her pregnant. If he thought she’d really been raped, he’d have had just as strong a motive.’

‘Who’s the boyfriend?’

Fin hesitated. Once he’d said it, it was out. And there was no way to put the genie back in the bottle. ‘Fionnlagh Macinnes. My friend Artair’s son.’ He turned to look at Gunn. ‘He’s covered in bruises, George. Like he’s been in a helluva fight.’

Gunn was silent for a long time. ‘What are you not telling me, Mr Macleod?’

‘What gives you that idea, George?’

‘Because it’s cost you a lot to tell me what you have already, sir. Which makes it personal. And if it’s personal, then you haven’t told me everything.’

Fin smiled grimly. ‘You know, you’d make a good cop. Ever thought about taking it up as a career?’

‘Naw, I hear the hours are terrible. My wife would never stand for it.’

Fin’s smile faded. ‘He’s my son, George.’ George frowned. ‘Fionnlagh. I never knew until last night.’ He let his head fall forward into open palms. ‘Which makes the kid that Donna Murray’s carrying my grandchild.’ He blew a long jet of air out through pursed lips. ‘What a God-awful mess!’

Gunn sipped thoughtfully at his beer. ‘Well, I can’t do anything about your personal life, Mr Macleod, but maybe I can put your mind at rest about the boy.’

Fin turned sharply to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve never felt good about that minister. I know his wife said he was at home with her on Saturday night, but wives have been known to lie for their husbands.’

Fin shook his head. ‘It’s not Donald.’

‘Hear me out, sir.’ Gunn drew a deep breath. ‘I did a bit of checking today. There’s all these different denominations here on the island. Well, you know that. Donald Murray’s with the Free Church of Scotland. They have their General Assembly every year at St Columba’s Free Church in Edinburgh. Turns out it was held in May this year, the same week as your murder in Leith Walk. Which puts Donald Murray at the scene of both crimes. And like all experienced coppers, Mr Macleod, neither you nor I believe in coincidence. Do we?’

‘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.