Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

‘Probably not.’

‘There’s not much I can tell you. I was aware of Fergus when he was doing his PhD — he was tipped for the big time even then — but he was on the east coast and I was on the west. Anyway, you know the way he is, superior with a tinge of slime, except for when it comes to the ladies. He’s all charm then. I’ve often wondered why he didn’t go into politics.’

‘Do you remember anything about the period immediately before he went south?’

This time Rab’s sigh was long and harsh. If Murray hadn’t known the sensitivity of the university fire sprinklers, he would have assumed the other man had lit up and taken his first, hard drag. Murray smiled. It was the sound of capitulation.

‘I’ll ask around, discreetly — very discreetly. I’m not losing my pension for you, Watson.’

‘Thanks, Rab, I appreciate it.’

‘No you don’t. You still want to twist my balls off for going with Rachel.’

Murray laughed at the neatly captured truth, and some of his bile seemed to dissolve. He asked, ‘Have you seen her lately?’

The payphone’s warning message started to flash again.

Rab said, ‘I passed her in the corridor the other day. She. .’

But the pips sounded, and his words were overtaken by the dial tone. Murray stood in the phone box for a while, watching the ferry get closer and hoping that Rab would call him back.

The ship docked and he stepped out into a bluster of wind and spray. A few waiting islanders had got out of their cars to greet some of the disembarking passengers. Their hellos caught in the slipstream and carried across the car park, mingling with the cries of the seagulls; the souls of dead sailors welcoming the travellers home.

‘IS IT BECAUSE of the mud?’

‘No.’ Mrs Dunn lifted a large diary from the telephone table in the hall and held it open for him to see. ‘I’ve got a longstanding booking, a pair of archaeologists from Glasgow University. I’ve phoned around, but I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong time of year, Mr Watson. The Bruces are away to Canada visiting her sister, Mrs McIver stopped taking paying guests two years ago, and will not be persuaded otherwise, and the Ramseys and the Gilchrists have also promised their rooms to the dig. I would have let you know earlier, but you only booked for the two nights, so I assumed you’d be moving on.’

The landlady’s lips narrowed into an expression that was final. Murray said, ‘I’ll go up and pack.’

Mrs Dunn nodded. She closed the book and stared him in the eye.

‘I’d have thought you’d be keen to get back to the city. The only people who come here are walkers and archaeologists, and you’re neither, are you, Mr Watson?’

‘No.’

It was an effort not to drop his gaze to the carpet, like a guilty schoolboy.

‘Are you a journalist?’

‘Why would you think that?’

Mrs Dunn held the desk diary to her, like a shield.

‘You were asking questions about Mrs Graves yesterday and then there were all those notes in your room, newspaper cuttings and the like.’ Her voice took on a defensive tone. ‘I couldn’t help seeing them when I was making the bed.’

‘No.’ There was no point in dissembling. Better the truth reach Christie than the island decide he was a tabloid reporter in search of old scandal. Besides, he was heading home. Murray smiled to make himself less threatening. ‘I’m not a journalist. I’m a doctor of English literature.’

The photos of children with Purdey haircuts and eighties flicks smiled down on the scene from the stairway above, like well-fed cherubim. The old woman laid the diary back beside the telephone and gave him an offended look.

‘You should have stated your title in the visitors’ book. I’d be grateful if you could amend your entry before you leave.’

Murray drove to the roughcast path that Christie had disappeared down and parked the car. Mrs Dunn had phoned ahead and booked him on the five o’clock ferry. He’d be back in Glasgow by teatime, would sleep in his own bed that night.

The road looked too jagged for his small vehicle. Murray hesitated, wanting to make progress, but unwilling to risk a burst tyre or, worse still, a broken axle.

He got out and slammed the door, feeling in the pocket of his jacket for his mobile phone. He would have to keep his eye on the time, make sure he left himself space to get back before the sailing.

The cold prickled his skin after the dry air of the overheated car. Murray drew his scarf over his mouth and pulled his hat down over his ears. It had been autumn when he’d started out on his quest in Edinburgh, but already there were intimations of winter. He scented the tang of salt in the wind and wondered what the dark months were like on the small island, set unprotected on the edge of the North Atlantic.

There was no real chance he’d get to speak to Christie this trip. He would have to waste time in Glasgow, then organise himself and come back, rent a cottage or something. He would avoid lodging with Mrs Dunn again. He’d mentioned his research, hoped she might be willing to talk about Lunan’s time on the island, but the old woman had grown brisk, reminding him to pack his stuff before his walk.

‘I’ll need the room clear if I’m to get it ready for Dr Edwards and Dr Grant arriving.’

A slight emphasis on the Dr , as if to let him know other academics didn’t need to be outed.

Murray silently cursed the archaeology department. He remembered them from his time with Angela; a long-haired, cagoule-clad, unwashed crew, not so different, he suspected, from the ancient tribes they studied, except the ancient ones got more than the occasional drunken shag. He stopped and unlatched the aluminium gate to the next field. There was nothing ahead but stony road, sheep and shit. Wherever Christie lived, it was almost certainly too far to walk to and return from before the ferry sailed. He hoped the archaeologists got mud and Guinness on Mrs Dunn’s pink sheets.

He was plucked from his thoughts by the rumble of a diesel engine. Murray turned and saw a small vehicle with outsize wheels, a hybrid tractor-cum-dune buggy, bouncing over the uneven track, pulling a trailer in its wake. He waved a hand, to make sure the driver had seen him, then opened the gate wide, stepping back to allow it room to pass. The vehicle barely slowed as it cleared the opening, but drew to a halt a short distance ahead, waiting while Murray latched the gate. A small Jack Russell regarded his progress from the empty trailer, its tail, nose and ears frozen into inquisitive points.

He was sure the driver was about to turn him back with some warning about bulls or rutting stags, but the man flashed an easy grin.

‘Cheers.’ He was somewhere in his early thirties, compact and wiry, dressed in orange overalls and mud-spattered Wellingtons. ‘Heading for the castle?’

It was the first he had heard of the existence of a castle on the island, but Murray returned the man’s smile and said, ‘I am if I can get there and back before the ferry sails.’

‘Hop in. There’s plenty time if I drive you one way.’

The man’s accent was English, from somewhere in the Midlands, though Murray couldn’t place where.

He gripped one of the bars that composed the open frame of the small cab and hauled himself onboard, unsure of whether he should follow his whim. But the vehicle was already gaining speed, bouncing over the loose stones faster than he would have thought possible. Murray held tight to the crash bar, unable to stop himself jolting with the buggy’s movements, feeling the stranger’s body hard and unwelcome against his side.

‘I saw your car at the top of the road. You’ll be the man who almost wiped out Mrs Graves.’