always thought pride was a sin.’
‘Don’t lecture me on the Bible.’
But Fin wasn’t about to let up. ‘And something, they say, that comes before a fall.’ He pushed himself away from the door frame and slipped his hands into his pockets, stepping into the middle of the cell. ‘You know perfectly well that Macritchie never raped Donna. And I also think you know why she claimed he did.’
For the first time, Donald looked away, his gaze falling to the floor, focused on something only he could see. Fin saw his fingers tighten around his coffee mug.
‘You know she’s pregnant, don’t you? But you’d rather turn a blind eye to the truth, have the world believe it was Macritchie’s fault. Because what would it do to your image? Your precious sense of self. If the minister’s daughter got herself pregnant, not because she was raped, but because she had consensual sex with her boyfriend. What a stain on your reputation. What a blow to your pride.’
Donald was still staring at the floor, the muscles of his jaw working in silent anger.
‘Think about it, Donald. Your wife and your daughter are scared of you. Scared! And I’ll tell you something else. Angel Macritchie wasn’t worth much. But he wasn’t a rapist. He didn’t have many redeeming features, but he doesn’t deserve a stain like that on his memory.’
Fin hurried down the stairs from the charge bar, wrapped up in the same thoughts which had kept him awake most of the night. Not one of them included DCI Tom Smith, so it took him a moment to register his voice.
‘Macleod!’ The voice was terse and thick with Glasgow accent. When Fin failed to react it came again, louder. ‘
Gone was the smooth, manicured image cultivated by the Glaswegian CIO. He was unshaven, his shirt crushed and roughly rolled up at the elbows. His Brylcreemed hair fell in greasy loops down each side of his wide, flat brow, and the scent of Brut had been replaced by a faintly unpleasant body odour, which was only marginally worse. He, too, had clearly been up all night.
He shut the door behind them and told Fin to sit at the desk. It was strewn with papers, and an ashtray was full to overflowing. But he did not sit himself. ‘You’ve been in talking to Murray.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘You’ve got the wrong man.’
‘He was in Edinburgh the night of the Leith Walk murder.’
‘So was every other Free Kirk minister on the island.’
‘But they didn’t have a motive for killing Macritchie.’
‘Neither does Murray. He knows Macritchie never raped his daughter. Her boyfriend got her pregnant, so she made up the story.’
Uncharacteristically, Smith seemed at a loss for words. But it was only temporary. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Because I know these people, Chief Inspector. I’m one of them, as you were so pleased to point out when you described them to me as
Smith bristled. ‘I’ll not take any cheek from you, Macleod.’
‘But I should turn the other cheek when you choose to be insulting? Is that how it works?’
Smith bit back a response. ‘If you’re so fucking clever, Macleod, then obviously you’ll know who it was who killed Macritchie.’ He paused. ‘Do you?’
‘No, sir. But I think you were right from the beginning. There is no Edinburgh connection. Just someone trying to lead us up a blind alley.’
‘I’m honoured to have your endorsement, Detective Inspector. And when exactly did you come to this conclusion?’
‘At the post-mortem, sir.’
‘Why?’
Fin shook his head. ‘It just didn’t feel right. Too many things that didn’t correspond. Small things. But enough to make me think we were probably looking at two different killers.’
Smith wandered to the window, short arms folded across his chest. He turned to face Fin. ‘And you were going to share this with me, when?’
‘It wasn’t a conclusion, sir. Just a feeling. But if I’d shared it with you, you’d have put me on the first plane back to Edinburgh. And I felt that my local knowledge gave me something to offer the investigation.’
‘And you thought that was a decision you had the power to make?’ Smith shook his head in disbelief. He leaned his weight on the desk, knuckles glowing white, and sniffed the air. ‘I don’t smell any alcohol. Did you rinse your mouth out before coming in this morning?’
Fin frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.’
‘I’m talking about an officer under my command getting involved in a drunken brawl in the Narrows last night. I’m talking about an officer who is only going to remain under my command for as long as it takes him to board the first available flight out of here. I want you off the island, Macleod. If you can’t get a plane, get a ferry.’ He drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t great. ‘I’ve already spoken to your division head in Edinburgh. So I imagine you can expect a warm reception when you get home.’
His abortive return to the island was over. All those painful encounters with the ghosts of his past. It was almost a relief. And Fionnlagh was right. They had been none of his business for eighteen years, he had no right coming back and involving himself in their lives now. A man had been murdered, and his killer was still free. But that was no longer his responsibility. He was going home, if that’s what it still was. If Mona was still there. He could simply draw the curtain again, and forget. Look forward instead of back. So why did the prospect fill him with such dread?
Fin brushed past the relief map of Lewis and Harris in the hallway and pushed open the firedoors into reception. The duty officer behind the glass glanced up, CCTV pictures flickering on a bank of screens behind him. There were two solitary figures sitting waiting patiently on plastic chairs pushed back against the wall opposite the window, but Fin didn’t notice them. He was almost out of the front door before one them called his name and got to her feet.
Catriona Macfarlane, or Murray, as Fin supposed she now was, stood clasping her hands in front of her. She looked pale and defeated. And sitting like some little rag doll propped up on the empty row of seats behind her was a young girl who looked barely more than twelve years old, hair drawn back from a bloodless face without a trace of make-up. With a shock, Fin realized that this must be Donna. She seemed so young. It was hard to believe that she could be three months pregnant. Perhaps with make-up the girl looked older. She was not unattractive, in a plain sort of way. She had her father’s colouring, the same delicate ivory skin and sandy hair. She was wearing jeans, and a pink blouse beneath a quilted anorak that drowned her.
‘Bastard!’ Catriona said.
‘I had nothing to do with it, Catriona.’
‘When are you going to let him go?’
‘As far as I’m aware, he can leave any time he likes. I’m being sent back to Edinburgh. So you’ll get your wish. I won’t be bothering you again.’ Their lives were no longer his concern.
He pushed open the swing door and hastened down the stairs out into the blustery wind. He had already crossed Kenneth Street, and was passing the fish and chip shop, before he heard footsteps on the pavement behind him. He looked round to see Donna chasing down Church Street after him. Her mother was standing on the steps of the police station. She called her daughter’s name. But Donna ignored her. The girl reached Fin and pulled up, breathless. ‘I need to talk to you, Mr Macleod.’
A waitress chewing gum brought two coffees to them at their table in the window. A constant stream of traffic rumbled along Cromwell Street on the other side of the glass. It was still gloomy out there, sea the colour of pewter blowing in white-crested arcs across the harbour.
The girl toyed with her spoon. ‘I don’t know why I ordered coffee. I don’t even like it.’
‘I’ll get you something else.’ He raised a hand to call the waitress.
‘No, it’s alright.’ Donna continued to play with her spoon, and turned her cup around in the coffee which had slopped into the saucer. Fin sugared his, and stirred it patiently. If she had something to tell him, he would let her
