Chapter 26
The scent of something delicious met him when he opened the porch door. He stood for a moment savouring the rich aroma of what he recognized as Rory’s version of boeuf bourguignon.
Entering the kitchen and finding it empty, he stood listening for Rory’s presence elsewhere in the house. Moving into the neighbouring sitting room, he noted that the fire had already been lit and the burning peat was washing the room in a warm glow.
Walking the narrow corridor to the bedroom, he registered no hiss of the shower running and, opening the door, found the bedroom too lay empty, although he made note of the fact that the blackout blind was already in place, suggesting Rory definitely didn’t want to be wakened at daybreak tomorrow morning.
Retreating back through the house, he went outside, realizing now where Rory might be.
Langwell had a walled garden, surrounded by a cluster of stone outhouses from the time when it had been an operating croft. He headed for the one where they kept their dive gear. Rory was likely preparing for their dive together, which Erling could no longer go on.
Reaching the open doorway, Erling steeled himself before entering, conscious he would have to reveal this, and soon.
Rory was bent over, rummaging in a holdall, seemingly oblivious to his arrival, then he suddenly turned and, spotting Erling, rose to face him.
The vision of his lover, head cocked to one side, his shoulders squared, his stance almost a challenge, sent a shiver of anticipation through Erling.
And yet the six feet between them felt like a physical barrier.
At least it did to Erling, who for many years had suppressed the part of himself that had responded to Rory in the first place.
Rory, minus such scruples, was observing him, a glint in his eye. ‘We need to talk,’ he eventually said in what sounded like a grim tone.
‘Okay,’ Erling answered cautiously. ‘Shall we go inside first?’
Rory nodded. ‘Let’s do that.’
When they met up again after a time apart, there was often a gulf between them. Just as there had been when they’d encountered one another that first night in a Stromness pub.
Erling, forever cautious, his job as a police officer often in conflict with his personal life as a gay man, had at first been reticent and suspicious of the handsome Liverpudlian who’d struck up a conversation with him.
And yet that had been overcome with time and honesty on both their parts. Including Rory’s revelation that he had another name. His real one. Together with a wife, now divorced, amicably it had to be said. And, finally, an admission of jail time in his misspent youth.
So Erling, a detective inspector in Orkney, was currently shacked up with a former prison inmate – albeit on an intermittent basis, when Rory wasn’t working as a diver on Flotta or on some oil rig in the North Sea.
Erling sometimes wondered if that made their relationship even more exciting than it already was.
And, he reminded himself, as he followed his lover into the warm, food-scented kitchen, only one other person, apart from the two of them, was aware of Rory’s former life as a convict. And the Glasgow-based detective DS Michael McNab had sworn never to reveal that fact.
Usually, sensing Erling’s unease at the time they’d been apart, Rory would immediately lead him into the bedroom.
Not tonight, it seemed. Tonight, the frisson between them wasn’t the anticipated sex, but something else.
Erling had the fleeting thought that this might be their farewell dinner.
Wasn’t the expression ‘we need to talk’ a precursor to that?
This thought was summarily quashed when Rory said in an upbeat voice, ‘You must be starving, because I definitely am. Shall we eat?’
Erling’s relief at this suggestion must have shown on his face, because Rory threw him an amused look.
‘You thought you were about to be dumped?’ he said in his usual forthright manner.
When Erling didn’t respond, he laughingly added, ‘I don’t cook one of my specialities for someone I’m about to dump.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Erling managed.
Rory met his eye. ‘Set the table and open the wine. You’ll need a drink when you hear what I have to say.’
Erling decided to spill his own beans first. ‘I have to work all weekend, so I can’t dive with you tomorrow.’
‘I know. And I have something to tell you that might help with your weekend work,’ Rory told him.
Rory insisted they eat first, declaring that he needed sustenance in order to tell his tale, although he did say that it involved the burnt body on the beach, plus the Mowat family, who were, as Erling knew, a force to be reckoned with on Flotta and the neighbouring Hoy.
They ate then in silence, swiftly and with gusto. Erling hadn’t registered just how ravenous he was until the heaped plate of stew was set in front of him. The discomfort he’d endured when he’d first encountered Rory in the shed had gone, replaced by both curiosity and expectation.
Whatever news or perhaps gossip Rory had heard on the Flotta base was what he hoped Jo and Ivan Tulloch might also gather on Hoy.
The casserole eaten and wine topped up, Rory began his tale with the announcement that the burnt body found at Lyrawa Bay was not, in fact, Kris Mowat.
Erling stared at him in consternation. ‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘Because Kris Mowat, I believe, is alive,’ Rory told him.
It was something Erling desperately wanted to be true, and yet, ‘How?’ he demanded.
‘He’s been sighted on Flotta,’ Rory said.
‘By who?’
‘By me, yesterday,’ Rory said firmly. He took out his phone and brought up an image, handing it over to Erling to take a look. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’
Erling had never seen Kris Mowat in the flesh. Only in the photo given him by Rachael. Taking out his own mobile, he brought up this image and now sat the two phones side by side on the table.
He could of course have both images sent to Glasgow to be examined by a super recognizer, or run through AI face recognition software. But by the time he got an answer, he would likely already have the result of the DNA tests to prove whether the body on the beach was or wasn’t Kris Mowat.
‘Well?’ prompted Rory.
‘There is a likeness,’ Erling admitted. ‘Where was this taken?’
‘On Flotta, as I said. Not far from the oil terminal.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Walking the shoreline.’
Erling couldn’t make sense of this. Flotta was Mowat territory. As was most of southern Hoy. If Kris wanted to hide, it was an odd place to choose.
Rory had obviously been reading his thoughts, because he answered his unspoken question. ‘Hide where they least expect you to. That was my motto in my past life. Also, he had a hood up. I just caught him when he took it down briefly.’
When Erling still didn’t look convinced, Rory said, ‘Plus rumour has it that the dead guy on the beach is a drug courier from Aberdeen.’ He examined Erling’s reaction to this, before adding, ‘You do know you have a drugs war on your hands? Aberdeen versus county-lines gangs from south of the border? My best guess being Liverpool.’
Erling didn’t respond to this, despite the fact it rang an alarm bell in his head. And was a match for Leo’s warning.
‘If you have any knowledge of drugs coming into Flotta or anywhere in Orkney, you’re obliged to—’
Rory cut him off. ‘Didn’t I just do that?’ he said. ‘I’ve only heard rumours about the drugs and the death of the courier. You do know the Mowats have a nightclub in Aberdeen?’
‘I do,’ Erling said. ‘And that one of their number was recently found not guilty in court on a drugs charge.’
Rory shrugged. ‘And Max Mowat is currently home on Hoy crowing about that.’
He rose and came to stand behind Erling, placing his hands on his shoulders. ‘Have we talked shop long enough?’ he said, massaging the tension there. ‘You have to work all weekend. I get that. But what about tonight? Are you off duty now, DI Flett?’
Erling rose and, turning, took Rory in his arms. ‘I am,’ he said, his voice thick with the desire to forget burnt and buried bodies and to celebrate being part of the world of the living.