4

If Rebecca had a guilty secret, it was that she was a fan of Robbie Williams. It wasn’t something she broadcast, he not being cool among the oh-so-cool twenty-somethings who were her peer group. He was on her iPod, swinging both ways, as she sat on the floor of her small flat, bound copies of the Highland Chronicle opened and spread out around her. She had liberated them from the file room before she’d left the office, sneaking them into her car without being seen. The digital archive only went back nine years and so there was nothing online about the Stoirm murder, hence the need for the bulky volumes containing every edition from the year of the murder and then the trial a few months after.

They didn’t tell her much. The Chronicle reports were far from comprehensive—perhaps things weren’t much better in the good old days after all, although there was a very good in-depth feature on the case following the trial. To be fair, a murder like that, the first on the island for fifty years, was well covered by the dailies, and by the time the weekly title came out there wouldn’t have been much that was fresh. She found further reports on the websites of the dailies, but even their digital records from back then were patchy.

She did uncover a lengthy entry on the case on a site detailing unsolved murders in Scotland but knew better than to accept what was there as gospel. Technically, the case was unsolved. Roddie Drummond had faced trial but was acquitted on a Not Proven verdict. It was a controversial issue in Scotland, the infamous third option for juries—‘that bastard verdict’, it was called, neither guilty nor not guilty. But an acquittal all the same.

She hooked her glass of wine from the floor beside her and leaned against the settee. The A4 notepad on her lap was covered in spidery handwriting which was unreadable by anyone except herself, and sometimes not even then. She liked to scribble notes down, it made her feel closer to the material. She then let her eyes roam towards the open pages of newsprint and finally to the screen of her laptop. A grainy shot of Mhairi Sinclair, obviously scanned in from a newspaper, stared back at her. She was beautiful, with high cheekbones, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. If it had hung loose it would have fallen to her shoulders, as straight as a waterfall.

She had a child, the reports said. She was living with Roddie, although he was not the father. Rebecca flicked back through her handwritten notes. The father was another local man, Donnie Kerr. On her pad she’d written the words FIND HIM and underlined them. Twice.

She stared at Mhairi’s eyes. The photo was in black and white, so she couldn’t see what colour they were. They looked dark. Dark and deep.

What happened back then, Mhairi?

Who killed you?

Rebecca pulled the Chronicle’s trial report towards her and looked for the section detailing Mhairi’s final few minutes. Paramedics from the newly opened community hospital had responded to Roddie’s 999 call. Mhairi had been badly beaten. Rebecca had noted phrases like open-vault fracture, where the hair and scalp had come into contact with the brain, zygomatic and frontal sinus fractures, which meant she had been beaten so badly the bones around her eyes had been smashed, leaving her left eye bulging from the socket, Cushing’s triad, where arterial pressure had increased, probably due to swelling of the brain, while her respiration was irregular and pulse rate down. There were further deep lacerations and contusions where someone had compressed her throat. All of this was reported in the dry, emotionless manner of expert witnesses until the pathologist was questioned about the nature of the injuries. ‘It is my opinion that the individual who did this was suffering from deep and uncontrollable rage,’ he said. Naturally, defence counsel didn’t like that one bit and objected to the speculation, but the thought was already out there.

The paramedics did what they could but they were fighting a losing battle and Mhairi died in the ambulance. She had regained consciousness once, while they were still in the cottage. Rebecca scanned the report, found the passage she was looking for, read it again:

The Advocate Depute asked the witness: ‘And did the deceased say anything before she died?’

The witness replied: ‘Yes. She asked after Sonya.’

‘Sonya being her one-year-old daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘And where was Sonya at the time?’

‘She was in her cot in the house. She was asleep.’

‘And the daughter was unharmed?’

‘She was perfectly fine.’

The Advocate Depute then asked: ‘And did the deceased say anything else?’

The witness replied: ‘She did.’

‘And would you tell the court what that was?’

‘She said “Thunder Bay”.’

The paramedic was asked what she thought that meant and she explained that Thunder Bay was a well-known location on the west coast of Stoirm.

The witness was then asked: ‘And what do you think she meant by that?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

* * *

Rebecca had printed THUNDER BAY in her notes and underlined those words too. Three times. Thunder Bay. She’d logged into Google Maps and zeroed in on it. There was only a satellite image, no ground-level view. It looked fairly remote, with what seemed like a dirt trail running from the roadway that ran the length of the island, although it was difficult to tell. It might’ve been a tarmac single-track road. Underneath her notes, she’d written one word: VISIT.

If she was honest, she’d decided while she was speaking to Chaz that she would go to the island to follow the story. It didn’t really matter what Barry said. She had hoped he would see the importance of the story and let her go but it seemed any news instincts he might have once possessed were smothered by the need to satisfy the number crunchers and their spreadsheets. On one level Rebecca understood his position but her own instincts told her there was no way she could do it justice with a few phone calls.

There was so much here. The murder fifteen years before. The enduring mystery. Roddie Drummond.

And then there was Stoirm.

The island on which her father had been born. The island he’d left when he was eighteen. The island to which he’d never returned. The island that had fascinated her since she’d first heard of it, even though she’d never visited.

It had been one of the reasons she had been delighted to land the Chronicle job. Though Stoirm was a far-flung area of the paper’s circulation she had always hoped to be sent there, but so far the opportunity had never arisen.

But now it had.

Rebecca found her mum’s number on her phone and made the call. She only glanced at the clock on the wall as she listened to the dial tone. Ten o’clock. Mum would still be up. The phone continued to ring. She began to doubt herself. Maybe she had gone to bed. Or maybe she was out. Maybe . . .

‘Becca, what’s up?’

Her mother’s voice sounded worried. Rebecca visualised Sandra Connolly sitting in her spacious kitchen in Milngavie. The sound of the TV in the sitting room reached her, some comedy show or other.

‘Nothing, Mum, why?’

‘It’s late.’

‘It’s ten o’clock, Mum.’

‘Still very late for a phone call.’

Rebecca smiled to herself. Her mother hated the phone and wouldn’t even allow it in the living room. It was always in the hall, then, after some petitioning from her husband, in the kitchen. That was a victory for him. At least he could sit at the table to chat.

‘After all,’ said her mother, ‘I could be entertaining a gentleman caller.’

Rebecca smiled. ‘You’re beyond the age of having gentlemen callers.’

‘I’m only fifty-two and that’s no age at all. Anyway, that’s very ageist of you. I thought we brought you up better than that. Even mums have needs, you know.’

‘Mums don’t have needs.’

‘Of course we do—how else do you think you got here?’

Rebecca felt herself smile. She knew her mother was winding her up. ‘Behave yourself, Mum. You know Dad was the only one for you.’

Her mother laughed. ‘Yes, that’s what he used to say too. And I hated it when he was right. It’s the man’s job to be wrong, all the time. So, why are you calling so late?’

‘Sorry, Mum, but this couldn’t wait. I’m heading to the island tomorrow.’

There was a silence. When her mother spoke, Rebecca heard the familiar, guarded tone she always used when the subject came up. ‘Why?’

‘A story.’

‘What kind of story?’

Rebecca told her.

When she’d finished her brief outline, her mother spoke. ‘I don’t know anything about all that.’

‘I didn’t think you would. What I wanted to know was this: why did Dad never speak about the place?’

Despite her pleas for stories from the island, her dad had said very little about the place, except in passing. And further enquiries from her were adroitly averted. He had no photographs to show, nothing of his childhood. It was as if it wasn’t part of him.

There was another silence at the other end of the line, filled only by the faint laughter from the TV. Rebecca made out Stephen Fry’s voice. When her mother still didn’t speak, she said, ‘Mum?’

‘He just didn’t,’ said her mother.

‘Not even to you?’

‘Not even to me.’

Rebecca was surprised. She had meant it when she said that her father had been the only one for her mother. They weren’t merely married, they were connected. She’d never seen two people who cared for each other so much. She really thought that he would’ve shared something with her over the years. ‘But why?’

A sigh. ‘Why do you need to know?’

‘Because it’s a part of him I don’t know about. I know the rest. Going to sea . . .’

Her father’s voice: I went to sea to see the sea and once I’d seen it I came back again.

‘Then joining the police. But I don’t remember him ever once mentioning the island, apart from casually. I tried to get him to talk about it . . .’

Daddy, tell me about the island.

Nothing to tell, Becca.

Can we go and see it?

Nothing to see, Becca. Just a lot of grass and heather and some hills and a mountain. Nothing to interest a wee lassie like you.

‘. . . He just shut me down. Said it was all ancient history. Then he changed the subject.’

Her mum gave out a slight laugh. ‘Yes, that was your dad. He didn’t like to talk about the island, you know that, not even with me.’

‘But he must’ve said something about it. You really don’t know why?’

‘I tried, Becca, many times, but he shut me down too. In the nicest possible way, as only your dad knew how. But it was still case closed, as far as he was concerned.’

Rebecca had encountered that side of her father many times. He had a way of letting you know not to push too far without having to turn nasty. He’d laugh, or say something really stupid, then change the subject entirely.

‘Do we have relatives over there still?’

A pause, then the words came, as if they were being dragged out. Talking about the island—it felt as if she was betraying her dead husband’s confidence somehow. ‘I’ve no idea. Your dad’s mother, your grandmother, died when he was young, his father a few years after he left, before you were born.’

‘Do you think whatever happened on the island, whatever made him leave, involved the family?’

‘Becca, believe me. I haven’t a clue. I wish I did, I really do. But he never at any time said anything of note, just that he really didn’t want to talk about it—and even that was done obliquely. Whatever it was, it was enough to make him hate the place.’

Pen poised, Rebecca suggested, ‘There must be somebody over there I could talk to.’

Another sigh breathed down the line. ‘Becca, something always told me that sooner or later you’d go over there. I knew you wouldn’t do it while your dad was here but you would go sometime, as soon as you could justify it to yourself. Now you have a reason. But I wouldn’t go over there and open up any cans with worms in them. Nothing good will come of it.’

‘You do know something, don’t you?’

Her mother laughed again. ‘Don’t go all conspiracy theory now. Your father said nothing to me. He didn’t want to talk about it and I respected his wishes.’ She paused. ‘Well, eventually. When we were first going together I would ask him, even after we were married, but then I realised that there was no way I would get anything out of him.’

‘But weren’t you curious?’

‘Of course I was! Still am. But after all this time I don’t think there’s anything to be found.’

‘So why are you advising me not to go and open cans of worms? What are you frightened of?’

‘I’m frightened you will find something.’ They both laughed, then her mother said, ‘I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?’

‘Mum, what do you think?’

Another sigh. ‘You were always the same, Becca. Once your mind was set on something, that was it. So like your father.’ She fell silent and Rebecca knew she was struggling with herself. Finally, her mother said, ‘There is Fiona.’

Rebecca felt something quicken in her chest. This was a chink in the armour. ‘Fiona?’

‘His old girlfriend. Fiona McRae. Well, that’s her name now. She was the one person from the island your dad kept in touch with. She was at his funeral.’

Two years. He’d been gone two years. Cancer took him too young and Rebecca still missed him. ‘Did I meet her?’

‘Yes, briefly. She’s a minister.’

Her father was never religious and had insisted on a humanist service at the crematorium, but Rebecca recalled a stout woman with short hair and a dog collar among the mourners. Later she approached them with a kind smile, a brief hello, nice to meet you, sorry for your loss, then she was gone. Rebecca had no idea then what her connection had been to her father and put it down to someone he’d met through work.

Her mother’s tone had betrayed no sign of jealousy, but Rebecca was still slightly taken aback. There was a note of incredulity when she said, ‘She was his old girlfriend?’

‘Yes, when they were teenagers. What did you think—I was his only sweetheart? Your dad was a handsome man. He broke many a heart before he settled down with me.’

That was something she’d never considered. As far as Rebecca was concerned, her mum and dad had been together forever and neither had exes in their lives. She wondered if her mum was still in contact with any former boyfriends. Then wondered if she had hooked up with any since her dad’s death. She put that thought out of her mind immediately. Despite their jokes about gentlemen callers, the idea of her mother having sex with anyone, even her father, was not one she wished to explore.

‘She’s the minister for the island, has been for a few years, she told me,’ her mother said. ‘She moved off the island after she graduated but managed to get back. She missed the place.’

‘But Dad never did.’

‘No. Dad never did.’

Fiona McRae. The local minister. She’d been wondering where to start. Now she knew.