I SENT telegrams to Kathleen and to Hannah and to Morrison in the hospital, announcing my arrival. I flew from Copenhagen to Glasgow, spent one night in that dreary city and then took off the next morning for Stornoway. When we landed in a drizzle of rain, I found a reception committee: Duggie Donald, a local police constable, and a tall, grey-haired fellow who was introduced as Chief Inspector Rawlings of the Special Branch. Rawlings hated to bother me, but he was making certain inquiries and he hoped I might be willing to assist him. He was so polite about it that I had no thought of refusing. In fact, though I didn’t tell him, I’d been preparing for him, or someone like him, all the way back. He thought perhaps the police station would be the most convenient place to talk, if I didn’t mind – and of course I didn’t. He would be happy to drive me down with Mr Donald. The police constable would take care of my luggage. So, ten minutes later, I was seated in a rather bare room with Duggie and Rawlings and a young policewoman who sat in the background and wrote shorthand.
Rawlings, I found, was a very leisurely man with a taste for colourful detail. He was also very solicitous for my well-being. Would I like some coffee? I would. The coffee was brought. Had I had a pleasant trip? Well, the latter part of it. Copenhagen was a very pleasant city, was it not? Very. He travelled there himself occasionally. Where had I stayed? The Hotel d’Angleterre. Splendid place, though a little beyond the means of a working policeman. I had come back by way of Glasgow? Yes. How long had I stayed there? Only one night. He agreed it was more than enough. He was a Londoner himself, although his work often took him abroad, to the Continent, to Eire, the Six Counties, though rarely to the Hebrides. He supposed I was wondering what all this was about. I imagined it had something to do with the death of Lachie McMutrie? That and certain related matters, yes. I presumed he had received the deposition which I had made in Tórshavn? Oh yes. And it was very concise. He appreciated that. He hated to bore me, but perhaps a little amplification here and there? He was welcome to all the information I had, which I feared wasn’t very much. Might he see my passport? Of course. He leafed through it carefully, then laid it open on the desk on top of his files. Then he began to question me in earnest.
‘I see you’re a novelist, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is your normal profession?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your passport was issued in Rome. You are normally resident there?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I have your address and telephone number, please?’
I gave them to him. He asked me to spell them out, for the benefit of the stenographer.
‘Now, sir, may I ask what brought you to the Isles?’
‘I came for a vacation, at the invitation of Alastair Morrison of Laxay. He’s in hospital at present.’
‘We know that, sir. Thank you. This was your first visit?’
‘Yes.’
‘You had no other friends in the Isles?’
‘Not before I came. I have now.’
‘Among them Ruarri Matheson?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you come to meet him?’
I told him that in great detail.
He listened attentively, leaning back in his chair with his hands locked over his midriff. Then he said, ‘So this meeting on Skye and this first day’s sailing were the only basis of your friendship.’
‘I’d say it was the beginning of the friendship rather than the basis of it. I liked Matheson from the first moment. He’s a colourful character, well-read, well-travelled, hospitable. He was my first contact in the Isles. I was only too happy to cultivate him. Our later contacts have proved friendly and interesting.’
‘For instance, you’ve been poaching together?’
‘Correction, Inspector. We went fishing and deer-stalking, both legal recreations unless otherwise charged and proven.’
‘Forgive me. You have also visited Matheson’s house?’
‘Several times.’
‘Once or twice in the company of Dr Kathleen McNeil, the locum from Harris?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Matheson was your guest at dinner in Morrison’s house?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you have, in fact, established a fairly intimate relationship with him?’
‘The word intimate is too coloured, Inspector. It sometimes bears unpleasant connotations, especially in court examinations. I would say a friendly relationship.’
I wasn’t trying to be clever, believe me. I wasn’t trying to show what a bright bush lawyer I could be. I might, if he pressed me too hard, be forced to make some very fine verbal distinctions. So I wanted it fixed in his mind that I was a very academical fellow to whom all words had sharp edges. Also I had to be righteous, at least as long as I could. So I asked him a little testily:
‘Would you mind if I made a comment, Inspector?’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘Then, Inspector, let’s be frank with each other. I understand the meaning of words. I understand the import of questions. I want to help you in every way I can, in whatever inquiry you are making. I can best do that if you come straight to the point and stop rehearsing me in information which you already have. I have no intention of lying to you and no reason to either. I hope I make myself plain.’
‘Admirably, sir. If I’ve offended you, I apologize. In our business we have to cultivate a method and a routine of investigation. Sometimes, I admit, we stick to them a little too rigidly, especially with a cooperative witness. Now, where were we? Ah yes! We’ve established your friendship with Ruarri Matheson. Now Mr Donald here has told me of a talk you had together at the hotel in Harris. From that talk it appeared you knew that Ruarri Matheson was engaged in some illegal activity within the purview of Customs and Excise.’
‘Another correction, Inspector. It was Mr Donald who suspected the illegal activity. I became aware of his suspicions because he came aboard Ruarri’s yacht when we landed in Stornoway, and because he saw fit to telephone my host to check up on my identity and personal history. I questioned him about these matters. I also asked him whether he could give me any information that would keep me clear of illegal activity, if such were going on. Is that a fair summary, Duggie?’
‘That’s right, Inspector. And, if you’ll remember, that’s the way I told it to you.’
‘Of course. Of course. But, in spite of Mr Donald’s suspicions, you elected to make this trip on Mr Matheson’s trawler.’
‘Was that illegal, Inspector?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do you use the words in spite of? Mr Donald could not and did not suggest a contrary course of action. I would like the stenographer’s record to show that I object strongly to such loaded questions.’
‘Does the young lady have that noted? Good. Then let me ask you a very direct question, sir. Did you at any time during your sea voyage see any sign of any illegal activity, of whatever kind?’
‘You mentioned in your eulogy of Ruarri Matheson that he was well-travelled. What do you know about his travels?’
‘Just things that came out in casual talk. He seems to have been in most places round the world.’
‘And done a lot of strange things?’
‘Probably.’
‘Could you give me any examples?’
‘I remember only two. He did say that he had run opium in Thailand and that he had been a mercenary in Africa. The rest, I’m afraid, was generalities.’
‘So we have a smuggler and a hired gunman.’
‘I don’t know what we have, Inspector. I’ve seen only a farmer and a fisherman. The rest is hearsay. I can offer no proof of it.’
‘You’re an admirable witness, sir. I wish all my subjects were as clear as you. Tell me, do you know a lady called Maeve O’Donnell?’
‘You know I do, Inspector. She was Matheson’s escort at the dinner party which I gave. That was the first time I met her. The second was in Copenhagen a couple of days ago. She was staying at the same hotel as myself. I spent a very agreeable evening with her and we took a couple of outings in the country as well.’
‘So you have a friendship with her too?’
‘Yes.’
‘In fact you went to Copenhagen to visit her?’
‘No. I visited her in Copenhagen. I did not go specifically for that purpose.’
‘But you knew she was there?’
‘Of course. Matheson told me. He asked me to look her up.’
‘Why did you go to Copenhagen then?’
‘Because, Inspector, I left the trawler in the Faeroes, and the only way I could get back here was through Copenhagen. It’s a pleasant city, as we agreed. I decided to stay there and enjoy it.’
‘Why did you get off in the Faeroes? Why didn’t you finish the voyage as you apparently intended at the beginning?’
‘Several reasons, Inspector. The trip proved rougher than I’d hoped. I found the quarters cramped, myself slightly on the outside of a tight-knit crew whose principal language is Gaelic, and finally and most importantly the death of Lachie McMutrie cast a gloom over the whole voyage. It may sound cruel, but I came for a holiday after a bout of ill-health. I felt no call to assist at a long requiem.’
‘You didn’t feel a call to lend support or even assistance on board to your good friend Matheson?’
‘I felt he would be better without me.’
‘Or yourself safer without him?’
‘I don’t think I understand that question, Inspector.’
‘Let me put it another way then. It could be argued, without discredit, that you found yourself in rather unsavoury company and wanted to get out of it as fast as you could.’
‘But that would contradict my previous statement.’
‘Which one, sir?’
‘That I knew nothing of any illegal activity on board the trawler.’
‘So it would. So it would. But I’m still troubled by the nature of this relationship between you and Matheson. All our evidence is that you are good friends, close and cheerful friends, yet you walked away from him at a crucial moment. How do you explain that?’
‘I could just be a very selfish man.’
‘That’s not in evidence either, sir. Rather the contrary. You bought spirits for the crew, which with British taxes is very expensive. You also bought a rather costly gift for Matheson, to wit an antique sextant. These are not the gestures of a selfish man. Why did you leave the boat at T6rshavn?’
‘For the reasons I’ve given you, and one which I haven’t.’
‘Which is?’
‘Just before the tragedy, relations between myself and Matheson had become a trifle strained – on my part more than his.’
‘Over what?’
‘A private matter. I do not feel at liberty to discuss it.’
‘Then, sir, I must caution you in the strongest terms. We are investigating not merely a Customs matter, but a possible murder.’
‘Murder!’
I hoped my surprise sounded genuine. I had been rehearsing it long enough.
‘Yes, sir. Murder. So if you attempt to withhold relevant information, you may find yourself in very serious trouble.’
This wasn’t playtime any more. I could not afford either to tell a lie or to conceal any truth that might become known. On the other hand, I could not let him think he had frightened me, else he would be snapping after me like a ferret. So I gave him a surprise to keep him quiet for a while.
‘I understand the warning, Inspector. But I find myself in a very difficult position. Certain information, which has nothing to do with these events, was communicated to me in confidence. A certain, very personal service was asked of me. I performed it. As a result, an element of, shall we say, abrasion was introduced into my relations with Matheson. We were and are still good friends, but there has been embarrassment and, at that moment of crisis, I thought he would be happier without me.’
‘The information and the service, what were they? You must tell me, sir. You are neither a lawyer nor a doctor. You are not entitled to privilege in this matter.’
‘Then may I ask that a decency be observed and that this information be kept secret if it is found irrelevant to your inquiry?’
‘You may ask, of course. The best I can say is that we will try to keep the decencies. We generally do, you know.’
‘You, Duggie?’
‘Inspector, you’ve made a great deal of my close friendship with Ruarri Matheson. I’m afraid the conclusions you’re trying to draw from it are not valid, because you don’t know the true nature of the relationship. My first and closest friend on the island is Alastair Morrison. We met, a number of years ago, in Thailand. He has been a sick man for some time. One day, under great emotional stress, he told me that he was Ruarri’s natural father. When he was taken to hospital, he charged me to communicate that information to Ruarri and try to establish some kind of reasonable relationship between them. He also asked me to maintain my friendship with his son and tone him down a little. I did everything I was asked. It wasn’t easy. Ruarri was shocked and he’s still not adjusted to the idea or its consequences. So our relationship has been slightly unstable ever since. That’s all, Inspector. Alastair Morrison will confirm it, but I’d rather you didn’t ask him.’
‘The poor, poor mannie!’ said Duggie Donald fervently. ‘Poor Ruarri, too. It’s a hard thing to learn after all these years.’
‘Thanks for telling us,’ said Inspector Rawlings. ‘Naturally we’ll do everything possible to spare Mr Morrison pain or embarrassment.’
‘Thank you. Now would you like to spare me some, Inspector?’
‘If I can, yes.’
‘Then since we’re talking about a friend of mine, and the son of a friend, let’s lay the charges or the suspicions on the line. Murder’s one. What’s the other?’
‘Gunrunning to Ulster.’
‘Oh…!’
‘It’s quite big business. Dangerous, too. We don’t want another civil war, do we? Are you Irish, by the way?’
‘On my mother’s side only, a generation back. But if you’re wondering about my sympathies, I can tell you they’re all the other way. I think we’re stuffed with violence today. I crave, like most people, to see the end of it.’
‘Talking of violence, would you say Matheson is a violent man?’
‘I would say the capacity is there, yes.’
‘Have you seen any evidence of it?’
‘Yes – but in fairness I have to say that, on both occasions, I saw contrary evidence of enormous control.’
‘What were the occasions, sir?’
‘Once when I delivered Morrison’s letter informing him of his parentage. He was very shocked, very bitter. We nearly came to blows, but didn’t. The other occasion was in “The Admiral’s Spyglass”, when I saw him use a certain amount of violence on Lachie McMutrie.’
‘Kicked him in the belly, I’m told,’ said Rawlings mildly.
‘That’s right. But again he was in control in a moment.’
‘Do you remember the reason for the attack?’
‘I’ve never been clear on it, Inspector. There was a lot of talk, a lot of noise, a lot of Gaelic flying back and forth – if you go into the pub yourself tonight, you’ll see what I mean. Apparently Lachie said something out of place and Ruarri took after him.’
‘Did you ever discuss the incident with him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It goes back to the curious nature of our relationship. Ruarri has always tried to impress me with his skill, his accomplishment, how he has overcome the handicaps of his birth. Physical prowess was always one of his boasts. If he thought he saw me squeamish, he would have a chance to tease me. Also – and this is minor, but I think it makes sense – I’ve travelled a lot myself. I’ve been in rough places. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and mind my own business.’
‘So now we have a violent man. We have a calculating one, too – you mentioned his swift control. We have an attack on his crewman for an indiscreet word. We have the crewman lost overboard in mysterious circumstances. You see what’s building up?’
‘I see a lot of gaps, Inspector. Where do the guns come in?’
‘Through Miss Maeve O’Donnell, who is a known agent of the Irish Republican Army with a long revolutionary history in the family.’
‘I thought she bred racehorses.’
‘She does. And good ones. I won a nice packet on one of ’em last year at Ascot. But she still does the other thing on the side.’
‘Do you know for certain that Matheson was running guns?’
‘We do. With Lachie dead we can’t prove it.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Matheson chose and trained his men well. They’re all seasoned seamen, closemouthed as oysters. Ruarri took them at least partly into his confidence. He had to, but Lachie was the weak link. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. And he resented bitterly being beaten in front of his comrades in “The Admiral’s Spyglass”. He came to Mr Donald here and told what he knew: that Matheson was going to Norway to pick up guns and deliver them to Ireland. We had everything set up to catch him in Trondheim. Then Lachie was murdered – or we believe he was – and Matheson went to the Faeroes instead.’
‘And after that?’
‘He fished for three days between the Faeroes and the Flannans and came home.’
‘So he didn’t pick up guns and didn’t deliver any?’
‘Not a one.’
‘How can you be sure – if you’ll forgive my asking?’
‘Because we were tracking him. We had a Navy corvette and a spotter aircraft reporting his movements, and we know he never went near Ireland.’
‘You’re very efficient, Inspector.’
‘So is Matheson. And that’s our problem.’
‘I’d like to say something, Inspector.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m a friend of Ruarri’s. I like him. I’ll stay close to him until this thing is settled. But, if he is a murderer, I hold no brief for him, nor will, in spite of my relations with the Morrison…But I was on board the Helen II. I talked with his crew after Lachie was lost. I’m a logical fellow – you have to be to construct the simplest story. I truly don’t believe you can prove murder in a million years. If you could prove gunrunning, you might be closer to it, but even then you have only a motive. There’s no body, no witnesses, no scrap of evidence on which to build a case.’
‘Oh, we do have some evidence. I’d like to work through it with you now. Have you ever heard Matheson speak of a man named Bollison?’
‘Bollison …Bollison? Yes, I have. When we were cruising up the Minch that first day, we met a Norwegian trawler. We stopped alongside. Ruarri went aboard for a few minutes. He told me he owned half a share of the boat and that the captain’s name was Bollison.’
‘You never met the captain?’
‘No. I saw him on the deck. That’s all.’
‘You’ve never seen him since?’
‘Never.’
‘Heard of him?’
‘Yes. Matheson mentioned we would meet him in Trondheim. He talked of our having a drink with him.’
‘And in the Faeroes?’
‘Not a sight or sound.’
‘Thank you, sir. Now let’s come to your time on shipboard. I’m interested in the roster for the wheel watch.’
‘Yes…?’
‘How long were the watches?’
‘Four hours.’
‘When you left Stornoway, who was at the wheel?’
‘Matheson. It’s normal for a skipper to take his boat in and out of harbour. When we were clear of the island he handed over to Lachie McMutrie.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Two o’clock, or thereabouts. We had a late lunch.’
‘Normally, then, Lachie would have stayed at the wheel for four hours, say, until six?’
‘Well, I don’t know what’s normal on a trawler. It’s fairly informal. But I’d say the normal thing would be for Lachie to stay on till four, take a split watch, so that the hours would run four, eight, twelve and so on.’
‘What time was Lachie relieved?’
‘About four.’
‘Who took the wheel then?’
‘I did. I spent maybe an hour with Jock Burns beside me, showing me the handling of the boat.’
‘So that was the first abnormal thing?’
‘In the circumstances I would say it was quite normal. Ruarri knows I love boats. He was paying me a compliment. I was delighted.’
‘You finished the watch at eight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who came on then?’
‘Donan McEachern. He’s the boy with the stammer.’
‘He was on till midnight?’
‘I’m told he was. I went to bed at ten-thirty.’
‘After that?’
‘Again by hearsay, Ruarri.’
‘And after him...?’
‘Ruarri told me he was to be followed by Lachie McMutrie at four in the morning.’
‘Exactly… Lachie McMutrie, for the second time in twenty-four hours, and there were two other men – three, if you count the cook – who had not stood watch at all. How do you explain that?’
‘I can’t. It’s curious, now that you mention it, but I couldn’t tell you why it was done. It’s a skipper’s business, and I was not part of the crew. So I had no cause to ask.’
‘But you see my point! A man is rostered for a watch out of normal order. During that watch he disappears overboard. What does that say?’
‘What does it say to you, Inspector?’
‘Murder – by collusion!’
‘No, I’m sorry. It’s too elaborate. And quite unnecessary. Five husky fellows against one, in the middle of the North Atlantic. They could toss him overboard at will.’
‘So we cut the collusion and we have careful planning by the skipper alone… With you as the convenient odd man out who changes the roster.’
‘It makes better sense than the other. But unless you can fill that hole between midnight and Lachie’s watch at four, you have no case.’
‘We’re filling a few others round it. Matheson’s log, for instance, did you ever read it?’
‘No. He offered to let me see it. I declined.’
‘You heard him, I believe, sending a number of radio messages in code?’
‘Did I?’
‘You had to, sir, if the times you have given us for your wheel watch are correct. There was one to Bollison in Trondheim, one to Miss Maeve O’Donnell in Stockholm, and another to a man called Fermor in Oslo. We’ve traced those messages to their destinations. They were transmitted ship to shore before you cleared the Minch – in other words, while you were on watch.’
‘Yes, I remember now. Some messages were sent.’
‘And later, during the search for Lachie, other messages were sent?’
‘Yes. I heard one of them.’
‘Now here’s the curious thing. Those last messages were logged. The first ones weren’t. What does that suggest to you?’
‘Nothing, Inspector.’
‘Please.’
‘I’ll spell it for you. Murder is alleged against person or persons unknown. I am obliged to give you all facts in my possession. Nothing would be more dangerous or unjust than for me to indulge in hypotheses or interpretations. I won’t do it. And I mean won’t.’
‘You’re a very faithful friend.’
‘I am also a friend of the law, and you, Inspector, are its servant. Now, if there is nothing else, I would like to go.’
‘No, there’s nothing else. The transcript should be typed tomorrow morning. Perhaps you’ll drop in and sign it then. We have your address at the lodge. Thank you, sir.’
‘You can buy me that drink soon, Duggie!’
‘Don’t be too hard on the Inspector here, laddie. He’s had a rough passage.’
‘Haven’t we all? Where’s Ruarri now?’
‘Over at his house, so far as I know.’
‘I might drop over and see him later. Objections, Inspector?’
‘Not at all, my dear chap. A kindness, in fact. We put him through the wringer yesterday. Quite a lad! I like him.’
‘Good day, Inspector!’
In spite of my show of irritation, I was not too unhappy with the interview. I had told no lies. I had established a position as a meticulous, if somewhat tetchy, witness. I had made it clear that I was unwilling to be drawn on points of speculation or hearsay; that I was a friend of the suspect and would be until he was proven something more. Of course, Rawlings hadn’t been too convinced by the comedy; he was too seasoned a fox for that. But so long as we relied on the record and due process, I wouldn’t be too much annoyed.
Ruarri…? He didn’t need me. He didn’t need anybody. The bastard was a genius in his own right. He could lie like a Miinchausen and give every word the lustre of truth. He could cheat his women and have them mourning over him for a lifetime. He could have the noose round his neck and the next instant conjure it round somebody else’s. He would get away with murder, and in his old age – if he lived that long – they would canonize him as a captain of industry. Everybody had been out to get him, Customs and Excise, the Special Branch, Interpol, the Navy and the Air Force, and he was home, scot-free, cocking a snook at them all. Bollison had delivered his guns for him. Bollison had sent the final telegram to Maeve, and Bollison would be paid well enough to keep his mouth shut in the unlikely event that anything went wrong. Then I saw the irony: I was the one man in the world who could really bring him down if I set my mind to it. Why hadn’t I done it five minutes ago? Why didn’t I turn back and do it now? The truth, when I came to face it, was fascinating in its very ugliness. I wanted him exactly where I had him now, held in the hollow of my hand, impotent as I had once been, so that he could never again stand up and challenge me on level ground. I was the giant now, and he, the dwarf. I could take him any time I wanted, just by closing my fist. Whether I could live with myself afterwards was another question. I didn’t have to answer it just yet.
I telephoned Kathleen. She was out; I left a message that I would call again as soon as I got back to the lodge. Then I drove to the hospital to see Alastair Morrison. I had decided to tell him most of what had happened, leaving out only the darker aspects of the whole affair. He would have heard most of it, anyway, in one version or another. The word of Lachie’s death would be all over the island, and the police investigation would be raising rumours everywhere.
I didn’t have to tell him anything. I didn’t have to soothe, encourage, protect, or strengthen him any more. He was up and about. He was ten years younger. Very soon he would be fishing again…Ruarri had been to see him! Had he indeed?
‘... I tell you, laddie, when he came through that door, it was like life itself striding in – although, God help me, this old heart of mine did a double somersault and I thought the fibrillations would start again. However, there he was, with an armful of books and a bottle of old brandy and a funny, boyish grin under that beard of his. We talked a long time, round and about – feeling for each other, you know? It was like blindman’s buff – touch and run and grope again in the dark. Then suddenly he called a halt to it. He looked me square in the eye. He took my hands in those great paws of his and said, “Morrison, let’s get it over. You’ve got a son you didn’t want. I’ve got a father I thought I didn’t need. I need him now because a lot of things have caught up with me, and I’m sick of standing alone like a rock in the middle of a bog. But you have to know what you’re getting, too – and I’m not a great bargain. I’ve got a bad conscience and a bad reputation and I’ve deserved a lot of it, but not all. Right now they’re even whispering murder about me, because I lost a man at sea….” I tell you, laddie, I wept to hear him; he was so blunt and honest about himself, so easy in his absolution of me. He’d like me to acknowledge him, he said. And that was the happiest word I’d heard in a lifetime. When I’m out of here I’m going to file adoption papers, which I find I can do, and he’ll join the name of Morrison to his own, which is a happy thought and a notable symbol of something good in both our lives. So what do you think of that, laddie? What do you think of it, eh?’
I did not dare to tell him what I thought. It would have sounded like a blasphemy and I would have had him dead on my hands. I lied to him instead. I lied eloquently and emotionally, swearing that it was the most wonderful news, that I was happy beyond words for them both, that Ruarri was out of his gaudy past and marching towards a glorious future, that God was good and everything turned out for the best if you prayed long enough and were blind enough to believe it.
Underneath it all I was sour with rage and contempt for Ruarri’s duplicity and his selfish manipulation of an old and ailing man. He didn’t want a father. He wanted a protector. He wanted a decent name to take the stain of roguery and murder off his own. He wasn’t content to be safe – if indeed he was; he wanted to be honoured as well, and borrow another man’s respect.
The words I said were sawdust in my mouth, but at least they made Morrison happy…Which, come to think of it, was just what Ruarri had done, though I was damned if I’d give him any credit for it.