Kirsty had followed him outside as he had left that morning and said five words to him, quietly, as if she had finally made up her mind that if it had anything to do with Sandy’s death, then she had a duty to speak. If it had not, no harm would have been done. And she knew Simon. He would tread carefully, not barge in, shouting it out, challenging, asking questions.
He woke just after four. The gale was roaring across towards the house. The last thing he had done before he went to bed had been to repeat those five words to himself. Then he had read a couple of chapters of an old Evelyn Waugh favourite, and gone to sleep. The words would sink down into his unconscious. He would know what to do, if anything, in the morning.
He knew at four o’clock and knew also that he wouldn’t sleep longer. He got up and made a pot of strong coffee, took a notebook and wrote down a list of single words. Then he showered, read his emails, and opened up the Kimberley Still file.
The gale had blown itself out quite suddenly, as it sometimes did here, and the clouds had scudded away, leaving one of the occasional brilliant, brittle days of late autumn. The sea was edged with foam as the tide came sweeping in.
It was only just after eight when he reached the pub, but smoke came from the chimney. Lights were on.
Should he go in now, even though Lorna might be about, or wait, and risk the first ferry coming in with a delivery? He needed to catch Iain alone and keep him like that for a while. What his reaction would be to the things he had to say, the questions he needed to ask, it was impossible to guess.
He waited in the car until he saw movements through the window of the pub. If Lorna was there Simon had an excuse in mind for arriving so early, but when he tapped on the door, the man opened it himself, held it wide, and was obviously alone.
‘Morning, Simon. I canna get you a dram but there’s a brew of coffee on.’
He seemed unsurprised to see him there so early.
‘Thanks – that’d be great. I’ve been on the other side trying to get a signal.’
He took a table in the far corner.
Iain brought two mugs of coffee, sugar and milk, and sat down, which meant Simon didn’t have to ask him to stay.
‘It’s a great time of the day, you know, from five or so till half eight. I get a load of stuff done but I do it on my own without anybody bothering me.’
‘Ah. Sorry, Iain.’
Iain waved him away. ‘It’d never be you.’
‘Is Lorna not up this early?’
‘Lorna’s away to Glasgow with her family.’
He put sugar in his mug. Did not meet Simon’s eye. Simon waited calmly, sipping the hot coffee. It was a technique, he knew that he was using it, his interviewing cap on.
Iain still did not look at him. ‘Ferry’s not for another hour, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘So you’re not going aboard.’
‘I’m not.’
‘How much longer are you staying here?’
‘I’ll be off soon. I’m nearly done.’
‘Done?’
He went on with his coffee and did not answer, knowing Iain would be forced to bring the subject up soon.
Because there was no wind, a rare thing, the pub and the world beyond it seemed very quiet. The tide was out. No waves crashing onto the quay.
Iain was staring hard at the tabletop.
He would do what he always did, count slowly to a hundred, then break the silence. But before he had reached twenty, Iain was on his feet and to the door. He bolted it and drew the blind halfway down the near window. When he turned, Serrailler saw that he was crying.
‘Take your time,’ he said.
The man hesitated as if he would go behind the bar and take a dram from the optics, but in the end, he just sat down again and went back to staring at the table.
‘You were seeing Sandy?’ Serrailler said.
Iain nodded. ‘You know how it is. Lorna isn’t here much. We rub along, I won’t be lying that we were miserable, it wouldn’t be true. But Sandy … great company and … interesting. I thought about her a lot and then we talked a lot, you know, in here after we were closed, early mornings. Like this. And she could talk to me …’
‘Did Lorna find out?’
He did not answer. ‘All right,’ Simon said, brisk now, pulling things together. ‘What happened, Iain?’
‘How much … do you know?’
‘About Sandy? Everything. Well, and in another sense, nothing. But the important thing.’
‘Aye.’
‘I saw the body.’
Iain wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Aye.’
‘Do you want to tell me from here?’
Silence.
‘We’ve a bit of time, I’m not pushing you. But someone will be here before long and you’ll have to open up.’
They sat on. More silence. Too much silence.
‘When did you find out?’ Simon asked.
Iain shook his head.
‘Did she refuse to sleep with you? When it was clear that you wanted to? Did she tell you or … ?’
‘She’d no choice.’ He made a strange sound in his throat. ‘I still cannae believe it, you know? I still … I can’t understand how I didn’t know.’
‘Why? I didn’t know Sandy as you did, but I saw her quite a bit, we had some talks. I didn’t guess. Nor did anyone else. She was she.’
Silence.
‘Did it make you angry?’
Silence.
‘Understandable if it did. You would have felt betrayed.’
Silence.
‘Did Lorna find out?’
Silence.
Simon paused before, in a swift change of tack, he leaned across the table and said, ‘Where did you get the gun, Iain?’
Nothing. Then Iain looked up at him, tears streaming down his face, his mouth working.
‘You have to tell me,’ Serrailler said. ‘You won’t live with yourself if you don’t, and what’s more important, if you don’t, I can’t help you.’
‘Why should you help me?’
‘You tell me.’ He got up. ‘I don’t care what the hell the time is – you need that dram.’ He took two from the optics, though he was not going to touch his own, and went back to the table. As he did so, he glanced out of the far window. No one. The sky had clouded over.
Iain drank his single whisky in one.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘That depends on what you tell me.’
‘You’ll shop me. It’s your job.’
Now it was his own turn to be silent.
‘How do you know? How did you find out?’
He waited.
Eventually, Iain said, ‘I was in the army. Bosnia. You were meant to hand in your gun, of course, but I didn’t, like plenty of others. You’d be surprised. No good reason except you never feel safe, you never want to be without one again. It stays in your head. Jesus.’
‘Twenty years then.’
Iain nodded. He had not looked up, not met Simon’s eye once.
‘It just stayed there, in the bottom drawer of my old desk. Locked drawer, I’d never take risks. I never forgot it was there, it was what made me feel secure. Not that there’s any danger on Taransay.’
‘You have a rifle as well.’
‘Two, and a full licence, and they’re locked away in the gun cabinet, all legal. But a rifle’s a different matter. As you know.’
‘What happened? You got angry.’
‘Yes. But – no. I was angry with myself for being a fool, angry with her – him – for making a fool out of me … all of that. Upset. Plus I didn’t understand. I still don’t. She knew full well what she was doing but she let it go on and she must have known it’d come to a head, she was going to have to tell me. So why?’
‘She liked you. She wanted to be with you. I don’t think she meant to make a fool of you at all, Iain. People can make a relationship work in this way, though it takes time.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Did Lorna find out?’
‘She did and she didnae. She asked me questions, she watched me, she thought there was someone, something. But she never found out the truth.’
‘You sure?’
He shook his head. ‘No. How can I be? I’m no sure about anything much any more.’
‘Except for the fact that you shot Sandy Murdoch. You went to her house, with your gun, you knew what you were going to do, this wasn’t a red mist coming over you when she told you, it wasn’t hitting out at her in fury and distress and knocking her to the ground, so that she fell and hit her head. You planned it.’
‘I suppose so. Sounds so fucking callous.’
‘It was.’
Now, Iain did look up.
‘What’s going to happen to me?’
‘Where’s the gun now?’
‘In the sea. I threw it … I threw it over the cliff. After her. And don’t look at me wi your copper’s face, it’s God’s truth.’
Serrailler was taken aback for a moment. ‘Your copper’s face?’
‘That’s gone. The gun. That won’t wash up.’
‘No.’
‘I asked you what’s going to happen to me.’
Simon was silent for a while. Then, the sound of tyres outside and the doors of a vehicle slamming.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘and that’s God’s truth too. I know what ought to happen. I know what the law says.’
Iain shook his head again.
‘I’m going home. I’m going to think it all through. You understand this isn’t mine any longer, it’s Police Scotland now. I have no say.’
‘What difference would it make?’
Simon stood up. Someone banged on the back door. ‘You OK to get that?’
‘Day has to start.’
‘I’ll come in tonight, Iain. Ten or so.’
‘Lorna gets back tomorrow.’
‘Will you tell her?’
As he went out to answer the door, Iain said, ‘That’s for me to know.’