25

The present day

Molly stared towards the window as she remembered that night. ‘I never saw my daughter again, alive or dead. I couldn’t bring myself to identify the body. Hector did that. And when he came home that morning he took a bottle of malt from the shop and drank half of it before lunchtime. He doesn’t drink, not like that, but that day he did. He loved her, he always had. He just had trouble showing it.’

‘You didn’t say any of this at the trial?’

The woman shook her head. ‘There were people here who already thought Mhairi was a slut. To tell the world that she thought she was pregnant and not to the man she was living with, on top of already having Sonya to another man . . .’ She lowered her eyes from the window. ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t do that to Hector.’

‘You didn’t tell him what she’d said?’

‘I’ve not told anyone. Until now.’

‘She wasn’t pregnant, though.’

‘No.’

‘Mrs Sinclair, forgive me, but do you think she made that up? You said you thought she was still hiding something . . .’

‘She genuinely believed she might’ve been pregnant, I’m convinced of that. And if she was, Roddie wasn’t the father. I knew my daughter. To me she was everything, but I know she wasn’t perfect. She was beautiful and she was headstrong. And she liked boys, she always had. And they liked her. No, Mhairi had slept with someone else, I know it.’

‘But you’ve no idea who?’

‘Of course I do. She wouldn’t have slept with just anyone.’

‘Then who?’

Molly was very still as she debated with herself whether to say. Eventually she said, ‘Henry Stuart.’

Rebecca wasn’t surprised. It had to be him. They’d been friends since childhood. ‘Do you think Roddie could have known?’

‘I don’t know.’

Rebecca paused before she spoke again. ‘If you had told the police about this, if you’d said it in court, then perhaps the outcome would have been different. The lack of motive was one reason why the jury returned a Not Proven.’

‘That’s what has tormented me all these years. I should’ve said something about it, but I didn’t. I really thought they had enough evidence. He’d admitted it to Bill Sawyer. He was the only one with her that night. He always had a temper, that boy. Oh, such a temper. And when he was acquitted I knew I should’ve said. But it was too late. Even if I had spoken up, what did it prove? Nothing. No one witnessed what Mhairi told me. The post-mortem didn’t show any pregnancy. And by saying something after the trial it could have just been dismissed as lies, a grieving mother trying to get back at the man they said killed her daughter. Anyway, Scotland still had that double jeopardy rule back then. Even if what I said was enough, they couldn’t retry him.’

‘But you’ve not shared this with Lord Henry?’

‘I don’t speak to him at all. I never took to him. There was always something . . . off about him. He was polite and courteous but he was . . . untrustworthy. He would come into the shop and steal things, little things, but stealing all the same. He could afford to pay for the sweets and the comics but he liked to simply take them as if it was his right. Of course Roddie took the blame. Roddie was always there at his tail and he protected his great friend. But we knew it wasn’t him, so we’d let him off with it. Once we called the police, really just to throw a scare into the boy. It was all arranged with Jim Rankin. Hector and Campbell were friends back then, you see, and we didn’t want Roddie to get into any trouble, not really. They’re not friends now. They don’t go out together drinking or shooting. Hector doesn’t go anywhere now, not really. Down to the shop, of course. To church, if he feels like it. The only time those shotguns come out of the cabinet is for cleaning.’

It was no surprise that the friendship had died, Rebecca reflected. ‘Mrs Sinclair, why have you decided to tell me?’

Molly considered this, trying to understand herself why she had opened up. ‘Because I had to tell someone after all these years. Because you have island blood. Because I know you will not print it if I ask you.’

‘Are you going to ask me?’

The woman stared directly at Rebecca. ‘Yes. Use it as . . . what do you call it? Deep background. Is that right?’

It was a bit All the President’s Men but it would do. Rebecca stared down at her notes, then reached out and clicked off the recorder. ‘Here’s what I can promise. I’ll do my best to keep it out of any story—if there is a story. But if I feel it has to be included, then I’ll speak to you first and explain my reasoning. I will not use it unless I absolutely have to.’

Rebecca knew that if she did do a story, then there was no way she could keep it out. Molly knew it too. She’d known it as soon as she began to talk. But this way she could tell herself that she was tricked. Rebecca studied her face as she nodded.

Rebecca had one more thing to ask. ‘Mrs Sinclair, what did you mean when you said that I knew about keeping secrets?’

‘Because of your family. The Connollys. Your father.’

‘Did you know my father?’

‘Not personally. He was younger than me.’

‘But you know why he left the island? Do you know why he would never discuss it with me?’

A pause. ‘He’s never told you?’

‘We lost him, a few years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Molly’s sympathy was genuine. She’d known heartbreak too.

‘He refused to speak of Stoirm. You must know why.’ Molly rose, picked up the empty mugs and carried them to the sink. ‘Please, Mrs Sinclair. I’d really like to know.’

‘I think I’ve said enough already.’

‘You’ve not said anything, not about this.’

Molly began to rinse out the mugs. ‘It’s not my place. It’s not my business.’

Rebecca felt cheated. She felt confused. And then she felt angry. ‘What the hell is going on here? Why do people clam up when it comes to my father and his family?’

‘Because it’s a family matter. And I told you, on the island family is everything. Your father didn’t want you to know, so it’s not anyone else’s place to tell you.’ She placed the mugs on the rinsing board and turned, wiping her hands on a towel. ‘It’s all in the past now. Talking about these things merely gives them life again.’

‘Talking about what things?’

‘Things that are better off dead.’

Rebecca wanted to say more, and she would have, had Hector Sinclair not appeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘Hector,’ said Molly, ‘this is . . .’

His face was dark and hard. ‘I know who she is and she’s not welcome.’

Sawyer had certainly got around. ‘Mr Sinclair, I’m here to help.’

He gave her a sharp little laugh. ‘Aye, right, that’ll be the day.’

‘Mr Sinclair—’

‘Look, dear, I know you have a job to do, but you’re not doing it here.’ His words may have softened but his tone and expression had not. ‘The coals you’re raking over are best left cold, understand? No good will come of it. Our lass is dead and there’s no bringing her back. Now, I’d appreciate it if you left now and please don’t bother my family again. Leave us alone. Leave my lass alone. Let her lie in peace.’

Rebecca knew she would get nothing further from Molly Sinclair while her husband was around. Perhaps not even in his absence. She had said her piece. She had unloaded the knowledge she had hoarded for fifteen years and what she knew of the Connollys was not going to be shared. Rebecca had come tantalisingly close to answers, but then the island had shut her down again. She gathered her notebook and her recorder, dropped them in her bag and left. There was nothing more to be said.

* * *

Henry sat back in bed and watched Viola dressing. After all these years he had never grown tired of looking at her body. Perhaps if they had married each other he might have become used to it but as it was they saw each other only a few times a year, when he was in London or she was in the area on constituency duties. She had kept herself very trim, but then again, so had his wife, but he was never the kind of man to be satisfied with one woman. Viola had always shown she was of like mind, even at university. He suspected there might be other men, too, but that didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t the jealous type.

She was leaving on the late afternoon ferry so he’d ensured he got back to the house for lunchtime, so they could say goodbye in a physical way.

Their friendship meant more than sex, though. She had helped him in many ways, guiding him through the political morass when needed, beating a path through the jungle of red tape and bureaucracy. He ensured she was well compensated for her trouble, the payment disguised so as not to raise any red flags. He also valued her advice, and that was another reason he’d wanted to speak to her before she left, without anyone being able to hear. With Jarji around he hadn’t had the chance, and then he’d had to spend the morning on the estate, so this was his opportunity, in the small cottage he gave her during her infrequent visits to Stoirm.

‘You have to do something about that fellow Kerr,’ she said, as she buttoned her blouse, looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror.

‘He’s one voice,’ said Henry.

‘One voice can become many,’ she said, echoing Jarji’s words earlier that morning.

Henry shook his head. ‘The islanders want this development to go through. They know it’s good for the island, good for the economy in the long run. Donnie’s just speaking out against it because he doesn’t like me.’

She turned to face him, smoothing her skirt. ‘Speak to him,’ she said.

‘He won’t listen.’

‘Pay him off.’

He thought about that. ‘It might work. Donnie’s always struggling for cash. But he’s also pretty damn stubborn and that will make him dig his heels in. That and his intense dislike of me.’

She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘What happened between you two? You used to be friends.’

‘Used to be is a long time ago,’ he said.

‘That’s not an answer.’

A vision of Mhairi Sinclair flashed in his mind. They had all been hopelessly in love with her—him, Donnie, Roddie. Other young men on the island. She was the ideal to which they all aspired. Beautiful, smart, funny, sexy as hell—and she knew it. Then she fell pregnant to Donnie, who promptly abandoned her. When he came back he was next to useless. Even so, Henry had tried to involve him in some business he had going, though it turned out Donnie was too far gone to be of any practical use. Donnie’s father, Lachlan, had to step in on one particular occasion.

That night.

Henry put it out of his head. He didn’t want to think of that terrible night.

‘What can I say? Things change. Shit happens. The world turns.’

She gave him a reproving look. ‘Henry, listen to me. You need this development. You have investors who would be somewhat less than forgiving if it fell through. You have one very vocal detractor and from what I saw last night there are others who would easily be swayed to his side. And you have a reporter on the island.’

‘I’ve dealt with that.’

‘The press is unreliable, Henry, and fickle. When you see her on a ferry and leaving the island, then you will know you’ve dealt with it. Until then, she’s like Schrödinger’s cat, both dealt with and not dealt with. As for Donnie Kerr, sort it and sort it now. His kind of trouble has a habit of making friends.’