Chapter 11
Emma put the pages down, staring at them thoughtfully.
David had been right. This book had an entirely different feel to it.
Immediately Iris was revealing the vulnerability of Melrose, a young man still unsure of himself, unsure of what he wants from life.
And the prose was wordy, descriptive, almost lyrical.
Melrose was seeing the Isle of Skye as a magical place, where anything might happen. She felt compelled to read on:
By the time Detective Inspector Melrose had landed in Portree evening had fallen, the clouds had settled in and the first raindrops spattered onto the quayside.
That chain of mountains that had seemed so formidable from the boat had now vanished into mist and cloud.
All he saw was a row of small houses along the quayside, lights already twinkling in some windows as the daylight faded early here, so far north.
He stepped ashore unsteadily, still feeling the movement of the boat as he walked.
He had not succumbed to seasickness but his insides still felt horribly delicate, partly from hunger.
He hadn’t thought to bring food with him, and there had been nothing more on the boat than cups of tea and dry biscuits.
He checked his watch and saw that it was too late to present himself at the police station, so he headed for the one guesthouse that had lights in the windows.
The proprietor was a diminutive Mistress MacDonald, who seemed surprised that anybody from the mainland would be stupid enough to come to Skye now that the darkness was settling in for the winter, but she admitted she did have a room available, although she’d not be serving him his supper.
But there was the pub where he could no doubt find something hot.
She led him up a flight of stairs and along a narrow, unlit hallway.
“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” she said.
“Hot water available from six to eight in the mornings if you’ve a mind for a wash.
” With this cheery warning she opened a door for him and left.
The room was spartan in the extreme, not unlike the prison cells he had visited: apparently unheated since there was no fireplace or radiator, with a single bed with a hand-stitched quilt on it, a small chest of drawers, a couple of hooks on the wall and over the bed a sampler with a biblical quote: It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.
He had to smile as he read it. At least that doesn’t apply to me, he thought.
He’d never get rich on a policeman’s salary, unless he accepted kickbacks and bribes, as it was whispered some of the higher-ups did.
He chose not to freshen up with cold water, put on his mack and went out into the rainy darkness to the pub in a back street behind the harbour. It was a rough and ready place, populated by fishermen and heavy with pipe smoke.
Melrose ordered a pint of Belhaven Black, which the men watching him seemed to approve of. And he was told that they could no doubt find him a bit of fish pie if he had a mind to try it.
“You’ll be here for the fishing, I’ve no doubt,” the barman ventured. “The trout have been jumping most satisfactorily this past week if you’re doing the rough fishing.”
“I’m afraid I’m here to work,” Melrose said. He did not mention that he was a policeman.
“But you’re no a Sassenach? Not one of those Englishmen who come here with their noses in the air, ordering us around. You sound like a true Scot to me.”
“I’m from Glasgow,” he said, smiling.
“Ah. Glasgow. I hear it’s a big city right enough,” another of the men commented. “Did you not go there yourself once, Lachy?” He addressed an old fellow dressed in an oilskin jacket with a shapeless tweed hat on his head.
“Aye but I did. I had to appear in some courtroom over fishing rights. Och, but it was a terrible place.”
“The courtroom?” Melrose asked.
“The city. All those people and air so thick ye could nae even breathe. I don’t know how people can live there. It sucks the verra life out of you. Turns humans into ants, scurrying about their anthill, that’s what it does.”
Melrose nodded agreement. “It does. You’re right. But for me, born and raised in the city, it’s the openness of places like this I find intimidating.”
“You’ll get used to it, laddie, if you stay here long,” one of them said. “And then you’ll nae be wanting to leave.”
The fish pie was placed in front of him, a generous portion accompanied by boiled cabbage.
It proved to be quite filling and tasty, with plenty of chunks of haddock and salmon in a cheesy white sauce under crisp potato crust. The local ale went down well too and once he was back in his room, he fell asleep with no problem.
He awoke to strange unearthly screams, jumped up and looked out of his window to see that a fishing boat had come in, with gulls swirling and diving around it, fighting off each other with their harsh cries.
The rain of the night had cleared and the morning was crystal clear.
Not a bad place, he thought, managed a quick wash and shave with warm water, then went downstairs to breakfast, served in a small dining room with six tables.
He was the only occupant and resigned himself to cornflakes or toast. He was then pleasantly surprised when Mistress MacDonald served him a huge bowl of porridge followed by eggs, bacon, black pudding, baked beans and fried bread.
Feeling rather too full, and guilty that the old lady had gone to such trouble just for him, he prepared to get to work.
“Will you be staying another night then?” she wanted to know.
“I’m not sure yet. I have to meet with the local police and find out where I’m needed.”
“You’re after being a policeman yourself then, is it?” she asked in her sweet and lilting voice. “I’d never have taken you for it. You look to me like a bonnie gentle laddie. Nae fierce enough looking for a policeman.”
He had to smile. “I’m a detective,” he said. “Sent up from Glasgow. Homicide squad.”
“Oh.” She gave him a knowing look. “So you’ll be here about the murder, no doubt. Shocking business, that. That poor wee lassie and a fine young man, although he was from the mainland.”
“Oh, you’ve heard about it then?”
“There are not many people on Skye,” she said with a sweet smile. “We generally know each other’s business.”
“So it happened near Portree?”
“Oh no, mo ghràidh,” she said, again using words he didn’t know. “It’s a wee way from here. You’ll no doubt be using the police motor car. They only got one two years ago. Awful proud of it they are, so you’d better not scrape it or bump into a sheep.”
“I think I’ll have one of the local boys drive me,” he said. “I was told I’d be given assistance.”
He bade her good morning and stepped out into the clear, bracing air.
The harbour was still bustling, with a line of seagulls perched on the wall, waiting hopefully.
But the sea beyond was smooth as glass, shining silver with blue islands dotting the horizon.
Melrose stood to admire it, thinking he’d never seen anything as grand.
And the air—freshness with a tang of salt and seaweed.
It was almost intoxicating after the perpetual smokiness of Glasgow, fuelled by thousands of coal fires as well as heavy industry.
He nodded to himself in satisfaction, glad he had come.
He walked along the quayside until he found a street going inland, followed it and came to the police station.
It was a humble affair, a whitewashed building with a slate roof and the obligatory blue light in front.
Inside smelled of damp wool and cigarette smoke.
A young policeman in uniform jumped up from behind the counter as he came in.
Melrose saw that he’d been reading a child’s comic book, Boy’s Own.
“Can I help you, sir?” Again the soft Highland voice.
“I’m Detective Inspector Melrose,” he said. “Your governor is expecting me.”
The boy’s eyes opened wider. “Oh aye. They said a man was being sent up from Glasgow. So you’re he then? I’ll go and tell the inspector. Wait here.”
Melrose found this funny, as if he might want to run away. He heard an extended conversation in the back room and then a slightly older man came out. He had the weathered face of an outdoorsman and carried himself like one who is fit and might have been a former rugby player.
“Inspector Melrose,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Delighted to meet you. Welcome to Skye. I’m MacDonald .
. . Don’t look surprised,” he added. “We’re all MacDonalds here, unless we’re MacLeods.
Anyone called something different is an outsider, an interloper.
” He gave a friendly smile and Melrose relaxed.
He had worried that he was being thrust upon them against their will and would not be welcome.
“Come into my office,” Inspector MacDonald said, lifting a section of the counter to let him through.
They went back into a small, dark room with one high window.
It would make an ideal interrogation room, Melrose thought and wondered how often they had to bring somebody in for questioning.
Not too often, he thought. The occasional sheep stealing would be about the worst crime he could think of on the island.
On the table was an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, on the wall a map of the island with pins stuck in it as well as a portrait of the king.
“Take a seat.” MacDonald indicated the one chair beside the desk, then went around to take his own captain’s chair.
“You’ve come about the murders. Nasty business.
We’re not used to murders here. In fact the only ones we’ve had in my time here, and that’s now going on twenty years, don’t take that many brains to solve.
A man drinks too much whisky, finds his wife with another man and clobbers her to death.
The last time that happened the chap turns himself in, hands me the club and says, ‘I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not.
She was a right cow.’” He laughed. “Not too much actual detective work, which is why Glasgow thought we might need a little expert guidance.” He took a cigarette out of a Player’s packet, offered one to Melrose, who refused politely, then lit his own, taking a long drag, all the time not taking his eyes off Melrose.
Melrose could see him thinking that this boyish person would not be up to the job.
“Tricky business, this will be. Dealing with gentry,” he went on.
“They still hold a lot of power in these regions, you know. The crofters on their estates actually belong to them, more or less. They pay rent to the laird but it’s more than that.
It’s the old feudal system still working.
The laird can commandeer them to work for him when he feels like it.
And take away their livelihood if he gets a mind to as well. ”
He took a long drag on his cigarette, then went on.
“Back a while the laird on the mainland around Mallaig decided he wanted the land for himself to run sheep . . . wool prices being high at the time. No more of these annoying crofters. So he built a dock and village at Mallaig and sent everyone down there to be fishermen. Told them they’d be more prosperous, which probably they were, but it was still an upheaval from the old ways.
And you know what? They had no say in the matter because it was the laird’s land. ”
Melrose had heard the story before but he gave a sympathetic nod.
He could see that the inspector liked to chat.
He waited until the man took another drag of his cigarette before saying, “So this murder involves a laird?” He was confused about what he’d heard so far.
In Glasgow he was told he was dealing with the gentry, but the landlady had talked of a poor wee lassie.
“Aye, it does. The laird’s own daughter, you know.
And the tricky thing is that the prime suspect is also of the aristocracy.
The son of the landowner across the water near Kyle of Lochalsh.
Euan Chisholm. He was staying with the family, the Hamiltons, when the tragedy occurred.
” He took another drag on his cigarette, blew out the smoke, then stood up.
“Look, why don’t I fill you in on this while we drive?
I thought I should come with you, just in case there was resistance to an outsider being brought in.
There probably will be. We like to take care of things ourselves on the island, you know.
And you being so young . . .” He paused.
“I thought they’d have sent a senior man.
One with experience in solving murders. But you can’t be more than a couple of years in long trousers, yourself. ”
“I’ve just turned thirty,” Melrose said, indignant now.
“I’ve been on the force since I was eighteen.
Seven years in uniform on the streets of Glasgow and now five years in plain clothes.
Believe me, you grow up quickly when you have to patrol the Gorbals, Inspector MacDonald.
More than one of our boys has been stabbed or beaten up on a dark night.
You learn to observe and keep your wits about you or you don’t survive. ”
“So you’ve handled murder cases before?”
“I have,” Melrose said smoothly, not willing to admit that he’d been the junior officer on previous cases and that most murder cases in the big city involved domestic violence or someone being bashed on the head or stabbed after a pub fight.
Nothing tricky or complicated about them.
He had never had to tackle the type of case you read about in crime novels with multiple suspects and tantalizing clues.
He rather looked forward to this one, even if he felt a little apprehensive.
If he solved it, it would prove that the super had not made a mistake in promoting him.
Inspector MacDonald stubbed out his cigarette. “Well then let’s get going, shall we? The motor car is parked round the back.”