That night I slept soundly for the first time in a long while, with only minimally anxious dreams. Daylight returned at four-thirty and slid through a gap in the curtains, but I pulled the sheet over my head and, amazingly, managed to sleep on until almost seven. A quick shower and then I went in search of a public telephone. I found one in a narrow hallway leading from the bar to the rear washrooms and the kitchen. I could hear the comforting sound of dishes clinking from the kitchen, and bacon smells wafted on the air, almost causing me to salivate.
I phoned Paula. We had been friends too long and through too many tough situations for me to hesitate about calling her, even though it was three in the morning Toronto time and I had to call collect. As always, she sounded alert and wide awake.
“Wow, kiddo. Bring me up to date. What’s going on?”
I launched into my recital of events, but had managed only to tell her about Tormod MacAulay’s death and the neighbours apparently identifying Joan’s car leaving the house that night before Colin MacLeod came out of the kitchen, tray in hand.
“Madainn mhath, good morning,” he said.
He continued into the dining room, but I was suddenly restricted in what I could say. At various times, on probably dozens of occasions, either Paula or I had been forced into cryptic conversations because somebody could overhear us. We’d developed a code.
“I can’t hear you, please speak up.” I said to Paula. “The connection is bad.”
“Okay. The person you just said hello to?”
“Hmn, hmn. That’s better.”
“Do you think MacAulay was murdered?” Paula asked.
“Could be.”
“Who would have?”
“It’s hard to tell, really.”
“Surely you don’t think it was Joan?”
“Who knows?”
Colin came into the hall and made sign language to indicate there was a table waiting and was I hungry?
“Just a sec, Paula,” I said and partially covered the mouthpiece. “Thanks, Colin. I’ll be right there.” I returned to the phone. “Sorry Paula, go on.”
“Big ears, huh?” she remarked, laughing.
“Very. Anyway, I’m going to do a bit of touring today.”
“Can you call me later from a private telephone? Not to mention at a slightly better time?”
“Sorry. But I’ll try to do that. Phones aren’t easy to come by.”
“I’m tied up all tomorrow in meetings, but you can leave me a message at least. Are you all right, Chris?”
“As well as can be expected. The air’s great here.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“One of the local officers has offered to show me around the island.”
“As a tourist?”
“Not entirely.”
“Take care, Chris. This isn’t an ordinary situation. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“You’re right. Anyway, get back to bed. I’ll call again as soon as there are more developments.”
“To hell with more developments. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“Okay, okay, stop fussing. I’m a big girl.”
“That is not the point. Do I need to remind you that I care what happens?”
She sounded angry with me, but I didn’t want to keep her on the phone any longer. Knowing Paula, she’d tell me what was on her mind.
We hung up and Colin, who had been waiting, ushered me through the door and led me over to the table by the window that I’d had last night.
“D’ye want the full Scottish breakfast?”
“Sure, why not?”
He poured me coffee from a carafe and disappeared into the kitchen. Two middle-aged couples came into the dining room at the same time. Both men were freshly shaved, with shiny chins and virtuous looks. The women were also dressed for action in pastel pantsuits and sensible running shoes. We all exchanged “Good mornings,” “Lovely mornings,” the way people do when they’re on holiday and obliged to eat in close proximity to total strangers. I wasn’t quite up to sharing life stories, but the others immediately began to find out where they were all from. One couple was German, one English. I put my head down and sipped at my coffee, which as I expected was depressingly weak. Ah, Tim Hortons, where are you when I need you?
Colin returned, carrying a plate of food, which he set down in front of me. Two fried eggs, fried tomatoes, fried bread, and one fat black sausage. There was a token gesture to health in a twist of orange, more peel than pulp.
He pointed. “That’s a blood sausage. It’s made here in town and it’s very good. Try it.”
“Thanks. I will.”
“Anyway, I couldn’t help but overhear you say you’re going to do some touring today. Is Gill taking you?”
“Yes, he is.”
“He’s a great chap — for a police officer.” This last was said with a grin meant to be disarming. “Did he say where he was going to take you first?”
“The Callanish Standing Stones, I believe.”
“Good. They’re a popular tourist site, although as far as I’m concerned, if you didn’t know they were ancient you wouldn’t be that impressed. Just a lot of grey stone pillars jumbled around.”
The German man was waving his hand to get Colin’s attention, but he still lingered.
“Sorry if I was a bit crosta last night. It’s the old big-brother thing.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure Lisa is glad to have you looking after her like that.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but his guests were obviously in need of coffee. He left me to my breakfast. I started with the eggs, fresh, and then the tomatoes, soggy. If I ate one of these breakfasts every day, I’d soon have to be identified as “Big Chris.” I was trying to get up my nerve to tackle the sausage when Gillies came in. He, too, was shiny of chin, and emanated a pleasant soapy smell and perky energy.
He grinned and walked over to me. “I came early. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You’ve saved me from this bloody sausage that Colin is determined I eat. Have a seat.” I pushed my plate over towards him. “Here. I didn’t touch it.”
“I actually ate already, but I’d never say no to blood sausages. They’re made in town.”
He took a piece of toast that was going cold and hard in the silver rack provided for that express purpose. I waited for a moment.
“Gill, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to go to Sarah MacDonald’s office. You know how it is, find out about the victim and you sometimes find out about the bad guy.”
I was using criminal jargon again, but I couldn’t help it.
He hesitated, then chomped down on the crisp toast. “I don’t see why not, if it’ll set your mind at rest. The office is just down from here.”
Colin came out of the kitchen, greeted Gillies, commented on the sausage swap, then did a quick refill of everybody’s coffee cup.
“Enjoy the Stones,” he called as we left. “Callanish, not Rolling.”
The Lewis Estate Agency where Sarah MacDonald had worked was a plain, square building with a dull façade of rat-grey brick. A rectangular display window held a few photographs of properties for sale. I had a quick glance before we went in, but didn’t see the MacAulay cottage listed.
A bell like the kind you hear in an old-fashioned grocery store signalled our entrance. The office was long and narrow, with half a dozen movable partitions marking each agent’s space. A mature woman was at the front desk. She was immaculately made up, with flaring red cheeks and clotted eyelashes. Her ash-blonde hair was teased into a stiff, high beehive that I had seen only in photos from the 1960s. When she saw Gillies, she yelped with excitement.
“Gill, rumour has it that Prince Willie is paying us a visit. Is it true?”
He dodged the question. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Morag Murray was down on the beach scraping crotal off the rocks. You know, for her dyes. A man appeared out of nowhere and asked for directions to the Blackhouse Village. Gave her quite a start, but she knew at once he was a secret-service man from the way he was acting. Ever so polite, but his eyes never stopped moving. He didn’t want directions, he just wanted to know what she was doing. So are we right?”
“You know I couldn’t tell you that. National security is involved.”
The receptionist gave a little squeal. “So it is true. My grand-daughter’s mad for that lad. She’ll be over the moon. When’s he coming?”
“Janice, I didn’t confirm that.”
She flapped her hand at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention you. Morag can winkle it out of Rosie anyway.” She reached for her phone, thought better of it, and regrouped into her professional manner.
“What can I do for you then?” She looked pointedly at me, and Gillies responded.
“Oh, sorry. Janice MacIver, Detective-Sergeant Christine Morris. She’s visiting from Canada.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Janice wasn’t a Scot, more Yorkshire.
“I’m just following up on the accident involving Sarah MacDonald,” continued Gillies.
“My soul, what a shock that was. I was the one who got the call. I’m not usually in on Saturdays, but Andrea was off sick. Young Barry Irwin, the constable from Barvas, rang. He said Sarah was dead of a car accident. Well, right off I thought that was peculiar, because her car was in the parking lot. I noticed it because she’d taken Mark Faraday’s spot, and I knew he’d hit the roof when he came in. I expected to see her in the office, but she wasn’t here, and I just thought she’d gone out to get a coffee or something. I never in a million years thought I’d be hearing that she was dead.” Janice paused to get her breath and pay a brief tribute to the departed. “Well, then young Barry said as how the car in the accident was a red Vauxhall, which was hired out by Arnol motors to a woman from Canada. Well, I knew right away who that was, and I told him. She’d come in here early Friday evening looking for Sarah. I told him as how I saw them later on, going into Duke’s. I’d popped into the co-op to get some chops for dinner, and I saw them as I was coming out. Everybody’s saying it was her driving the car and she’s run off. Or drowned herself. Have you found her?”
“No, we haven’t. We’re just sort of backtracking Sarah’s movements to see if we come up with anything helpful.”
Both Gillies and I were perched on the edge of nearby desks at this point. We knew a garrulous witness when we found one. Let them ramble on, sift out the nuggets from the dust.
Janice smoothed back her hair, shifting it wholesale in the process. “Well, that woman came in here on Friday afternoon without a doubt. She was a blonde, rather plump, about my age. Not a local. At first I thought she was from America, but she said no, she was a Canadian.”
“Did she give a name?” he asked.
“No. I inquired, of course, but she just said, ‘She doesn’t know me.’ She asked for Sarah particularly. I’m supposed to direct any clients to the agent on duty, but she wasn’t interested. I had to call Sarah on her mobile phone and tell her to get over here.”
“Did Mrs. MacDonald seem to know the woman?” I said, making my tone as casual as possible.
“I can’t say. I was just packing up, you see. I leave on the dot of five. If I didn’t, these agents would have me run ragged. I told the woman to have a seat and left.”
“So you don’t know why she was asking for Mrs. MacDonald?”
“I assume she was in the market for a property, but she didn’t want to chat, I could tell that.”
Janice reached in the drawer on her desk and took out a bundle of plastic-wrapped sheets of paper.
“I collect these myself, and I give them to clients to read while they wait. Makes them laugh.”
I looked at the top sheet, which was a series of jokes headed, “CHILDREN SAY THE FUNNIEST THINGS.”
“She just put them aside without even looking at them,” said Janice. She was so indignant that for a moment I thought I’d better start reading, but I was saved by the sound of the door tinkling. A short, wide man came in. He saw Gillies and nodded a greeting.
“Madainn mhath, Gill. Ciamar tha thu?”
“Good morning, Mark. I’m good, thanks.”
Mark beamed at me and stuck out his hand. He was dressed in brown pants and a tweed blazer that had probably been made locally years ago and, from the look of it, passed down from his ancestors. We shook hands.
“Mark Faraday, at your service. Looking ta buy a property are ye?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
His smile vanished. No point in wasting it on non-prospects. He turned and addressed the receptionist in Gaelic. She replied in English.
“Your wife has rung twice already and says to phone the lawyer as soon as you get in. Coral-Lyn Pitchers rang half an hour ago. She wants you to get back to her right away. She left the number.”
He took the slips of paper she handed him, grunted, crumpled one of them up, and dropped it in a nearby wastebasket. He went into one of the partitioned cubicles at the back of the room.
“He’s going through a separation,” said Janice in a conspiratorial voice, although I thought Faraday might be able to hear her. She tapped the side of her head. “It’s shaking off a few slates if you ask me. So where were we?”
“I asked if Mrs. MacDonald had seemed to know her visitor, and you said you didn’t see them greet each other.”
“That’s right. I wasn’t present. I have to leave on... ”
I’d been aware of Faraday talking in the background, but suddenly there was the sound of a receiver slamming down.
“Fuck! Fucking little sanctimonious bitch!”
Janice froze, and Gillies and I both turned to see what was happening. Faraday came hurtling down to the reception desk.
“Janice, did you know Tormod MacAulay dropped his clogs?”
“What?’
“He’s dead. Gone.”
She looked shocked. “When did that happen?”
“He was found in the house, yesterday. Now Miss Yankee Twinkle-toes says she doesn’t want to go ahead with the sale of the property.” He mimicked Coral-Lyn’s nasal voice with a savage accuracy. “Andy’s too upset to go through that now. We’ve put everything on hold until the will is settled.” Bullshit. Fucking bull-shit. Lucille’s got to her, you mark my words. As soon as the dust settles, she’ll get that fucking listing.”
Foolishly, Janice decided to take this moment to reprimand him. “I’ve asked you to watch your language in here. This isn’t Glasgow. A client could come in.”
Obviously, Janice considered Gillies’s and my ears sufficiently hardened to swearing. I didn’t exactly sympathize with Faraday, but Janice’s self-righteous tone of voice and prim manner were the last thing he needed. She might as well have thrust a stick into a hornet’s nest and waggled it around. I was almost afraid Faraday would grab her, and instinctively, I moved closer to the desk I noticed Gillies shifted too.
Faraday’s face had turned red with rage. “I’ll speak how the fuck I want. It’s my deal we’re talking about. Do you hear? It’s my fucking deal that’s in the fucking toilet.”
Vocabulary has a tendency to become limited in moments of stress.
“Fuck it.”
He shoved open the door and left. The air in the office swayed in his wake.
“I told you he was unstable,” said Janice, but she looked shaken by the violence of the outburst. She reached in her drawer and took out a box of tissues. “Poor Tormod. Just when life was looking up for him.”