wooden stick on top of the bar. ‘Out! Now!’ And no one was going to argue with her.
Several dozen men spilled out into The Narrows. The street was deserted. Rain lay in pools and puddles under streetlamps that barely cut the twilight gloom. Gigs still had Fin by the arm, and the guga hunters crowded around to hustle him away towards the quay. Murdo’s voice roared above the howl of the wind. ‘Ya yellow wee bastard! Running away with yer fucking pals. Just like you always fucking did!’
Fin stopped and yanked his arm free of Gigs’s grip. ‘Leave it,’ Gigs said.
But Fin turned to face the rage of the dead man’s brother, a large crowd gathering behind him in silent expectation.
‘So come on then, you wee shit. What are you waiting for?’
Fin stared at him with the hatred of thirty years burning inside, and knew that this was wrong. He let all the tension drain out of him. He sighed. ‘Why don’t we shake on it, Murdo? Fighting’s not going to solve anything. Never has, never will.’ He walked warily towards the big man with his hand outstretched, and Murdo looked at him in disbelief.
‘You’re not fucking serious?’
‘No,’ Fin said. ‘I’m not. I just wanted to get close enough to make sure I didn’t miss.’ And he swung his boot solidly into the sweet spot between Murdo’s legs, taking him completely by surprise. A look of sheer astonishment was replaced almost immediately by one of excruciating pain. As he doubled over, Fin brought a knee up squarely into his face, and saw blood spurting from his mouth and nose. Now Murdo staggered backwards into the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea to let him through. Fin followed him, balled fists like pistons hammering into his great soft midriff, one after the other, forcing grunts from between bloody lips. Each blow a payback. For that first day in the playground, banged up against the wall and saved only by the intervention of Donald Murray. For the night they stole the tractor tyre. For poor Calum condemned to life in a wheelchair. For all the brutality meted out by this gutless bully through all the years. Fin was losing count now of the number of times he had hit him. He had also lost all reason, overtaken by a mindless frenzy. And he just kept hitting and hitting. Murdo was on his knees, eyes rolling, blood bubbling between his lips, pouring from his nostrils. The roar of voices in the street was deafening.
Fin found strong hands catching his arms, pinning them to his sides and lifting him bodily away. ‘For fuck’s sake, man, you’re going to kill him!’ He turned his head to see the perplexed look on George Gunn’s face. ‘Let’s get you out of here before the cops come.’
‘You are the cops.’
‘The uniforms,’ Gunn said through clenched teeth. ‘If you’re still here when they arrive your career’s dead in the water.’
Fin went limp, then, and let Gunn pull him away through the jeering crowd. He caught the merest glimpse of Fionnlagh among all the faces. The boy seemed shocked. And he saw Artair laughing, delighted to see Murdo Ruadh finally get his comeuppance.
As they hurried away along The Narrows towards the Crown, they heard the wail of a police siren, a signal for the crowd to disperse. Two of his friends had pulled Murdo to his feet and were dragging him hurriedly away. It was all over.
Fin was still shaking as they sat at the bar. He placed his hands flat on the counter to stop them trembling. They were largely undamaged. He knew not to risk his hands on bone that could just as easily damage him. He had concentrated his punches in the soft, well-padded upper body, the stomach and ribs, bruising his opponent, eroding his stamina, hurting him without hurting himself. The real damage had been done by his boot and his knee in the first two strikes, all the pent-up rage and humiliation of thirty years fuelling his assault. He wondered why it hadn’t made him feel any better, why he felt sick and depressed and defeated.
The lounge bar of the Crown was deserted, except for a young couple deep in intimate conversation in the far corner. Gunn sat up on a stool beside Fin and slipped a fiver to the barmaid for their drinks. He said in a low, controlled voice, ‘What the hell were you doing, Mr Macleod?’
‘I don’t know, George. Making a complete bloody idiot of myself.’ He looked down and saw Murdo Ruadh’s blood on his jacket and trousers. ‘Literally.’
‘The DCI’s already pissed off because you never checked in after Uig. You could be in big trouble, sir. Big trouble.’
Fin nodded. ‘I know.’ He took a long drink from his pint glass until he felt the beer-buzz bite. He closed his eyes tightly. ‘I think I might know who murdered Macritchie.’
Gunn was silent for a long time. ‘Who?’
‘I’m not saying he did. Just that he’s got a damned good motive. And a bunch of bruises to go with it.’ Gunn waited for him to go on. Fin took another pull at his beer. ‘Donna Murray made up the story about Macritchie raping her.’
‘I think we all knew that, didn’t we?’
‘But we didn’t know she was pregnant. That’s why she did it, George. So that she could have someone to blame. So that she wouldn’t have to face her father with the truth.’
‘But as long as her father believed she’d been raped, that always put him in the frame, always gave him a motive.’
‘Not her father. Her boyfriend. The one who got her pregnant. If he thought she’d really been raped, he’d have had just as strong a motive.’
‘Who’s the boyfriend?’
Fin hesitated. Once he’d said it, it was out. And there was no way to put the genie back in the bottle. ‘Fionnlagh Macinnes. My friend Artair’s son.’ He turned to look at Gunn. ‘He’s covered in bruises, George. Like he’s been in a helluva fight.’
Gunn was silent for a long time. ‘What are you not telling me, Mr Macleod?’
‘What gives you that idea, George?’
‘Because it’s cost you a lot to tell me what you have already, sir. Which makes it personal. And if it’s personal, then you haven’t told me everything.’
Fin smiled grimly. ‘You know, you’d make a good cop. Ever thought about taking it up as a career?’
‘Naw, I hear the hours are terrible. My wife would never stand for it.’
Fin’s smile faded. ‘He’s my son, George.’ George frowned. ‘Fionnlagh. I never knew until last night.’ He let his head fall forward into open palms. ‘Which makes the kid that Donna Murray’s carrying my grandchild.’ He blew a long jet of air out through pursed lips. ‘What a God-awful mess!’
Gunn sipped thoughtfully at his beer. ‘Well, I can’t do anything about your personal life, Mr Macleod, but maybe I can put your mind at rest about the boy.’
Fin turned sharply to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve never felt good about that minister. I know his wife said he was at home with her on Saturday night, but wives have been known to lie for their husbands.’
Fin shook his head. ‘It’s not Donald.’
‘Hear me out, sir.’ Gunn drew a deep breath. ‘I did a bit of checking today. There’s all these different denominations here on the island. Well, you know that. Donald Murray’s with the Free Church of Scotland. They have their General Assembly every year at St Columba’s Free Church in Edinburgh. Turns out it was held in May this year, the same week as your murder in Leith Walk. Which puts Donald Murray at the scene of both crimes. And like all experienced coppers, Mr Macleod, neither you nor I believe in coincidence. Do we?’
‘Jesus.’ Fin had not expected this.
‘The DCI sent two uniforms to Ness to bring him in for questioning about an hour ago.’
Fin slipped off his stool. ‘I’m going to the station to talk to him.’
Gunn grabbed his arm. ‘With all due respect, sir, you’ve been drinking. If Mr Smith smells alcohol on your breath, you’ll be in even bigger trouble than you already are.’
They heard the distant chanting of protesters on the quayside.
‘That must be the
‘Are they going to An Sgeir tonight?’
