Peter May - The Blackhouse

He had no idea what to feel any more. What to believe or to think. But he knew that the boy who was his son was taking with him a secret on board that trawler, sailing through treacherous seas to a desolate rock in the North Atlantic where eighteen years earlier Fin had almost died.

And it troubled him to think of the boy on the rock, amongst the slaughter and the fiery angels and the wheels of dead meat. Whatever his secret might be.

Low cloud shaved the tops of the hills, propelled across the island by a strong westerly. Baskets of colourful hanging flowers all along the front of Stornoway police station swung dangerously in the wind. Litter blew about the street in gusts and eddies, and folk leaned into the breeze, hunched against the unaccustomed August chill.

Fin made the weary hike up Church Street from the harbour, a woollen sweater beneath his parka in place of the bloodstained shirt he had left soaking in the washbasin of his hotel room. He had dozed off and on through the hours of darkness, but sleep had eluded him. Real sleep. The kind that wraps all thoughts in black and lowers them gently to the bottom of a deep, dark well. Several times he had considered calling Mona. But what could he have told her? That they had no need to grieve any longer for the loss of Robbie? Because he had found another son he didn’t even know he had?

He went through the car park and entered the police station by its back door. The duty sergeant was leaning on the charge bar filling in forms. The pervasive institutional perfume of toilets and disinfectant that lingered in police cells everywhere was ameliorated by the smell of toast and coffee. Fin glanced up at the CCTV camera above the charge bar and showed the sergeant his ID.

‘Is the Reverend Murray still here?’

The sergeant nodded down the hall. The gate to the cells was lying open, and most of the doors were ajar. ‘First on the right. It’s not locked.’ He saw Fin’s surprise. ‘He’s still helping us with our inquiries, sir. Hasn’t been officially detained. Would you like some coffee?’

Fin shook his head and walked down the hall. Everything was clean and freshly painted. Cream walls, beige doors. He pushed open the door of the first cell on the right. Donald was squatting on a low wooden bench below a small window high in the wall. He was eating toast, and a mug of steaming coffee sat on the bench beside him. He was still wearing his dog collar beneath a jacket that was crumpled now and creased. A little like his face. He looked as if he had slept as much as Fin. There were dark shadows around panda eyes, hair uncombed and unkempt, falling forward across his forehead. He took in Fin at a glance, and barely acknowledged him.

‘You see that?’ He tipped his head towards the corner of the cell to Fin’s left. Fin looked down and saw a white arrow beside a capital letter E , painted on the dark red concrete floor. ‘Points east. To Mecca. So that Muslim prisoners will know what direction to pray in. The sergeant tells me he can’t ever remember a single Muslim prisoner in here. But it’s regulation. I asked him if he could give me a bible so that I might find comfort in the midst of this hell. He apologized. Someone had misplaced the bible. But he could give me a copy of the Koran and a prayer mat if I wanted.’ He looked up, his face full of contempt. ‘This used to be a Christian island, Fin.’

‘Aye, with Christian values, like truth and honesty, Donald.’

Donald met his eye very directly. ‘I didn’t kill Angel Macritchie.’

‘I know that.’

‘So why am I here?’

‘It’s not my call.’

‘They say I was in Edinburgh at the same time as some other murder. So were half a million others.’

‘Can you account for your movements that night?’

‘Several of us were staying at the same hotel. I think we had dinner together. They’re checking it out with the rest. Of course, that doesn’t account for my movements after I went to bed — since I was on my own.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. They say the number of prostitutes in Edinburgh increases every time there’s a General Assembly.’ Donald gave him a sour look. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Your DNA sample will clear you of killing Macritchie when the results come through. God’s bar code.’

‘Why are you so sure I didn’t do it?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that all night.’

‘Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who hasn’t had any sleep. So what conclusion did you come to?’

Fin leaned against the door frame. He felt weak and tired. ‘I always thought you were one of the good guys, Donald. Always standing up for what you believed in, never giving in to the bullies. And I never once saw you raise so much as a finger to anyone. Your power was psychological, not physical. You had a way of dealing with people without ever resorting to violence. I don’t think you’re capable of killing anyone.’

‘Well, thank you for the vote of confidence.’

Fin ignored his tone. ‘But what you are capable of is a great, stubborn, self-serving pride.’

‘I knew there had to be a catch.’

‘Standing up to bullies, risking yourself for others, defying your father, playing the rebel. All part of the same reason you ended up turning to God.’

‘Oh, yes, and what’s that?’

‘Your all-consuming desire to be the centre of attention. It’s always been about image with you, Donald, hasn’t it? Your own self-image. The image you wanted others to have of you. The red car with the soft top, the succession of pretty girls, the drugs, the drink, the high life. And now the minister. You don’t get to be much more centre-stage than that. Not on the Isle of Lewis. And in the end, it all boils down to one thing. And do you know what that is?’

‘Why don’t you tell me, Fin?’ For all his defiance, Fin’s words were having their effect. Colour had risen high on Donald’s cheeks.

‘Pride. You’re a proud man, Donald. And your pride comes before everything else. Which, is funny, because I always thought pride was a sin.’

‘Don’t lecture me on the Bible.’

But Fin wasn’t about to let up. ‘And something, they say, that comes before a fall.’ He pushed himself away from the door frame and slipped his hands into his pockets, stepping into the middle of the cell. ‘You know perfectly well that Macritchie never raped Donna. And I also think you know why she claimed he did.’

For the first time, Donald looked away, his gaze falling to the floor, focused on something only he could see. Fin saw his fingers tighten around his coffee mug.

‘You know she’s pregnant, don’t you? But you’d rather turn a blind eye to the truth, have the world believe it was Macritchie’s fault. Because what would it do to your image? Your precious sense of self. If the minister’s daughter got herself pregnant, not because she was raped, but because she had consensual sex with her boyfriend. What a stain on your reputation. What a blow to your pride.’

Donald was still staring at the floor, the muscles of his jaw working in silent anger.

‘Think about it, Donald. Your wife and your daughter are scared of you. Scared! And I’ll tell you something else. Angel Macritchie wasn’t worth much. But he wasn’t a rapist. He didn’t have many redeeming features, but he doesn’t deserve a stain like that on his memory.’

Fin hurried down the stairs from the charge bar, wrapped up in the same thoughts which had kept him awake most of the night. Not one of them included DCI Tom Smith, so it took him a moment to register his voice.

‘Macleod!’ The voice was terse and thick with Glasgow accent. When Fin failed to react it came again, louder. ‘ Macleod! ’ Fin turned and saw him standing in the open doorway of an interview room. ‘In here.’