Given the romantic-sounding name, I had expected Stornoway to be picturesque in an Old English sort of way — but it wasn’t. The houses were in a no-nonsense style with buff-coloured stuccoed facings and no frontage for the pretty gardens the English loved. However, they all looked neat and well-kept; there wasn’t a high-rise in sight, nor anything remotely resembling a seedy area.
“Stornoway has been a working harbour for decades,” said Gillies. “Less so nowadays, more’s the pity. Thank god for the tourists who want to come and cluck sympathetically at all the hardship people endured. It always looks prettier from a distance.”
“Was it? Hard I mean?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t soul-destroying work like the British working classes had to endure. The Hebrideans fished and worked their crofts, which can be hard physically but is healthy. And people helped each other. There’s a stereotype of the Hebrideans as a bunch of religious old-fashioned bigots, but they’re not. Conservative? Yes, for the most part. Most of them can trace their ancestors to the beginning of civilization as it is known on the islands. That makes you want to preserve your own traditions.” He grinned. “Mind you, they can get very stubborn and argumentative about what those traditions are, which is why we have such a splintered church. But you’ll be hard put to find a more welcoming people. So, to go back to your question, yes, life was hard and made worse by the absentee landlords, who sucked the crofters’ sweat, like fat leeches.”
I didn’t correct him, point out that leeches sucked blood. There was an edge to his voice that suggested this was a sensitive issue.
“Were the landlords English?”
“Most of them, but there were some unscrupulous clan chiefs who were just as greedy. Power corrupts. These days the only people who can really afford to own vast tracts of land to play in are rock stars. The good thing is they tend not to be as stuck in the old traditions, because most of them have come from the lower classes themselves. Besides, a lot of the crofters are joining together and buying the land that their families have worked for generations. Community ownership is thriving.” He smiled over at me. “Perhaps there is justice in the world after all.”
We turned down another street and I saw an unobtrusive sign that read simply, POLICE, hanging outside a plain brick building, with no fuss or grandeur to it. Certainly no controversial and peculiar sculptures graced the outside entrance the way they did at the main police headquarters in Toronto. Police woman with trowel; a child pulling some kind of monolith on a cart. What did that mean? Nobody knew any more, and we ignored the strangeness of these sculptures until some puzzled tourist inquired. “They’re symbols, huh?”
The street was devoid of cars and there were few pedestrians. All the stores were closed. It was Sunday observance indeed. We parked in one of the reserved places in the side parking lot, and Gillies directed me through a door and down a narrow hallway. The glassed-in front lobby was manned by a young uniformed officer, who waved a greeting.
Inspector Harris’s office was at the end of the hall and the door was closed. Gillies knocked and received an immediate, “Yes?” barked out in an irritated tone of voice.
He opened the door.
“Miss Morris is here, sir.”
“Who?”
“Miss Morris. It’s her mother who... ”
He was interrupted by the unseen man.
“Och, ay. Bring her in.”
Gillies ushered me into the office. It was a small room dominated by a desk, which was lined up across the end by the window. The inspector was in the chair behind the desk, which meant his back was to the window and his face in shadow. He was holding a telephone receiver to his ear, his hand covering the mouthpiece. He was obviously in mid-call.
“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone and hung up. He heaved himself to his feet and reached across the desk.
“Miss Morris, I’m Jock Harris.”
We shook hands briefly. He wasn’t a bone crusher, which was a relief, but he seemed uncomfortable, as if men and women shaking hands was new to him. He was younger than I had expected, with reddish hair, cropped close to his head, Scottish style. His face was puffy around the eyes and he seemed fatigued.
“Please have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee? I warn you, it’s from a machine.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
I took the chair, and Gillies leaned against the wall behind me. “We haven’t had any more news,” said Harris. “I’ve got one of the constables going house to house in the area of the accident, but we’ve had no joy so far.” He rubbed his hand over his face, wearily. “We’re a bit short of men at the moment. A couple of days ago we were told one of the Royals wants to come over and play a few rounds of golf in the fresh air of Lewis. Nothing official you understand, but it’s a security nightmare for us. Rumour has it he’s bringing a companion, a lass, and if that gets out, we’ll have every media shark in the world on our doorstep.” He paused. “Was your mother pro-royal or anti?”
“I’m not sure. Pro, probably. She did get up in the middle of the night to watch Princess Diana marry Charles.”
“Ach. That doesn’t count. Bloody fairy tale come true, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t seem to want me to answer that, which was good because I didn’t know what he meant. He dropped back in the chair.
“Gill, will you take Miss Morris to the incident room and show her the suitcase?” He did the face-rubbing gesture again. “Where are you staying?”
Gillies answered for me. “I’m going to book her into Duke’s.”
“Ha. Make sure they give her the discount on us. Police work.”
“Aye. I’ll do that.”
“I’m sorry I can’t spend more time with you Miss Morris but... ”
I stood up and his voice tailed off. I was hardly out of the door when he was reaching for his telephone.
I followed Gillies out of the room and across the hall to the incident room.
From its appearance, I gathered there weren’t many incidents in Stornoway, or at least ones that required much discussion. There was an old-fashioned chalkboard on the wall, but it was wiped clean of any previous notes. About a dozen chairs were lined up in front.
“I have to ask. Which Royal was he referring to?”
“I’m not supposed to say. But this particular young man likes to do things on the spur of the moment. Poor laddie, he must feel planned to death most of the time.”
“Good grief, you’re not talking about one of the princes are you? The secret is safe with me, I’m just a colonial.”
He grinned. “Och, you’re the worst.”
For a moment, I burned with curiosity, but felt badly about it. Poor laddie, indeed, never to be free from that kind of relentless attention.
A female constable came in carrying a wire basket.
“Thanks, Rosie,” said Gillies, and he took it from her and placed it on the front table.
She gave me a quick, curious glance tinged with sympathy and left.
A new-looking, red-leather overnight suitcase and a brown purse were in the basket.
“It’s all yours,” said Gillies.
I took out the purse. As Harris had said, there wasn’t much in it. A passport, a leather credit-card case that contained a Visa card, social security and health cards, and a driver’s licence. All the essential documents of contemporary life. I opened the passport. The expiry date was a year from now, which meant the photograph had been taken about four years ago. Joan had the typical stunned expression that passport photos seem to necessitate. Her hair was dyed dark, well-cut as befitted a hairstylist. Her chin was full, her lips on the thin side. She looked older than she was.
I unzipped the suitcase next. “I’ll take out each item and put it on the table.”
I was taking refuge in the old routines.
“One nightdress, red silk with lace trim at the neck, size medium, label HOLT RENFREW.” I spoke out loud. “That’s an upscale department store in Toronto. Next item. A matching dressing gown, same label, same size. Two pairs of underwear, white, medium, both new, also silk. A short-sleeved, crew-necked sweater, yellow cashmere, size medium. The label on that is LEONE’S.”
I must say I was surprised. Not at the new clothes, I’d bought new undies for my own trip. (Who wants a customs official searching through shabby panties?) What surprised me was the quality of the clothes. Silk and cashmere? Wow. Joan had never been fussy about what she wore. She regularly shopped at places like Second Time Around or Goodwill. She must have come into some money, or maxed out her credit card. Besides, she swore she liked synthetics. Easier to care for.
I continued with the rest of the contents.
“A bag of toiletries, blue toothbrush, toothpaste brand Crest, deodorant brand Lady Eve, a tube of Nivea face cream, a package of DuMaurier cigarettes, unopened.”
“Is she a smoker?” Gillies asked.
“Supposedly not. She stopped a couple of years ago.”
“Was that her brand?”
“Yes.”
I turned back to the suitcase. “Last item. A package of Ramses condoms. That’s it.”
“Do you think it is your mother’s suitcase?”
I was sharp with him because I was embarrassed.
“If you mean would she be carrying condoms, why not? She’s just turned sixty. Why shouldn’t she be sexually active if she wants to be?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t being some sexist clod, I was just wondering if these belongings are consistent with her lifestyle.”
“The cigarettes and condoms are, the fancy clothes aren’t.”
I could tell he wanted me to expound on that, but I didn’t. Nothing against him, it was far too long and complicated a story to go into at the moment.
I fished inside the inner soft pocket of the case. There was something there. I took out a small photo album. I’d never seen it before, but in the window on the cover was a photograph of me taken at my graduation from the police academy. I had no idea Joan possessed such a thing. I opened the album and started to flip the pages. All were photographs of me from infancy to about my early teens, when she seemed to have stopped documenting my development. Underneath each picture was a note of my age when it was taken. There was a picture of her holding me in her arms when I was six months old. I was truly surprised at how young and pretty she was. And that she looked proud and happy.
I handed the album over to Gillies, who went through it carefully, pausing at this photograph of the two of us.
“You take after your mother.”
“Same colouring, but I’m taller.”
“An attractive picture if I may say so,” he said, indicating the police graduation photo.
“Thank you. Our hats aren’t as smart as the Brits’, but they’re better than they used to be.”
He replaced the album in the basket. “Any conclusions?”
“You tell me. I’m far too subjective on the question of my mother’s behaviour. As a police officer, what do you think?”
He tapped the suitcase lightly to emphasize his words. “New case, new fancy clothes, prophylactics. I’d think she was planning a lovers’ tryst, except you said she didn’t know anybody here.”
“She never mentioned she did, but you have to understand, she never confided in me nor I in her. I haven’t actually seen her in person for two years. We spoke on the phone a month ago, that’s all.”
“And she never said anything about a trip, or a new boyfriend?”
“Nothing. Hey, maybe she was just hoping. Be prepared for anything. Always take your shopping bag, like the Soviets did when they went out in the morning. You never know when there’s going to be a run of carrots in the shops. Mrs. Waring, the B & B lady, said Joan had planned to return the next day.”
“It could be just what you said then: being prepared.”
He glanced away. I knew what he was thinking. Casual sex is the norm these days, but surely a woman of sixty wasn’t going to jump into bed with a stranger. But I thought, why should she change her habits now?
“She’s gone to some trouble to show you off. There aren’t any other pictures in the album.”
I was mystified at that. If you didn’t know, you’d think this was a proud mother.
“Would it be possible for me to take a look at the scene of the accident?”
“It would. Of course. We can go now.”
“No Royals to attend to?”
“Not at the moment. Let’s repack this and I’ll put it in the evidence locker.”
I did so, and closed up the case.
“Be right back,” he said as he left me. I was glad to have a few moments to myself. I knew I’d come across as Miss Calm and Professional, but that’s not what I felt inside.
I sat down in one of the chairs and stared at the blank chalk-board. I have to exorcise some ghosts. A path of healing, she’d called it. It was true what Gillies had observed. Joan had taken care with the album. People did carry around photographs of their children. Of course they did. I had two or three pictures in my wallet of me and the Jackson family and Paula’s youngest, Chelsea — my godchild — but I didn’t carry an album like that with careful notations.
I should explain something. Until I was well into my twenties, I had what you might call a father complex. I walked around with yearnings in my chest that were so constant, it was like living with shortness of breath. I got huge crushes on older male teachers and kind neighbours. I adored Paula’s father from the get-go. Fortunately, maturity cooled down both that yearning and my curiosity about the past. Joan made it clear she wasn’t going to tell me who my father really was. She slipped up on the name a couple of times, when she was plastered. At first he was John, then Paul, but when she called him George, I realized that she’d been inspired by the Beatles, and I stopped asking before going through the trauma of hearing I had a father named Ringo. Finally, I concluded that all of it was lies and she didn’t even know who had been the sperm donor. My conception had been the result of some meaningless coupling.
Or had it? To tell the truth, I never totally gave up wondering, watching her for some clue that she might let slip. Who did she want to show me off to? Were the photographs intended for him, the man who had fathered me? Not a dead hero, but a live man. If this was the case, given her behaviour so far, it was possible this man lived here and she’d come to meet him.
Looking at that possibility was rather like staring down a well. I couldn’t see the bottom but I could hear the bucket being winched up and I had no idea what it was going to contain.
Gillies came back into the room.
“All right?” he asked.
“Let’s go,” I said.