Fin returned his stare. ‘Yours.’
‘Yes, mine.’
Fin thought about it. There was, after all, no apparent connection between Whistler’s killing and the body in the plane. And yet the coincidence was troubling. Whistler had been shocked to find that body. And he must have realized that Roddy hadn’t told him the whole truth, maybe even suspected that he had duped him deliberately. And that Mairead was a part of it. Fin recalled the way Whistler had looked at her at the cemetery. His voice raised in anger outside the Cabarfeidh.
At the same time, Roddy’s plea for Fin’s silence was not without merit. He must have known the risks of telling him the truth, but was banking on an old friend not betraying him. Mairead, clearly, did not share his faith.
Fin sighed and pushed his plate away. He still had a sense of something missing. Something obvious that was eluding him, a connection he wasn’t making. ‘Who else knew?’ he said. ‘Not about Jimbo, but about you faking your death.’
‘Apart from the band?’
Fin nodded.
Roddy shook his head. ‘No one.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ But then he hesitated. ‘Well. . there was one other person. But someone we all trusted implicitly. And still do. I mean, he hasn’t said a word in all these years.’
Fin frowned. ‘Who?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I
It was the same sun that had burned his skin in Spain, but two and a half thousand miles further north it had been reduced to a pale disc in a hazy sky and barely took the edge off a cold wind blowing down from the north- west.
The chill blast of that wind came in strong across the moor as Fin stepped off the plane at Stornoway. He hurried towards the terminal building. The Indian summer was long gone, but it was a dry, bright day, and for once rain seemed a long way off.
The journey home had passed in preoccupied thoughts about Roddy and Whistler and the body in the plane. And no matter how hard he tried to put the thought from his mind, Fin felt a powerful sense of guilt. He had known at once from Whistler’s reaction that there was more to the body they had found than first appeared. And yet he had allowed the issue to drift, failed to confront it until it was too late. If he had forced it earlier, maybe Whistler would still have been alive. And that thought, he knew, would haunt him for the rest of his life.
But when all other thoughts and emotions had been exhausted, Fin was still left with one. A single name. A name that had come from the lips of a dead man in Spain, leaving Fin troubled and uncertain of how to proceed.
His Suzuki was waiting in the car park where he had left it, still wet and glistening from the last shower. He climbed in and cleared the windscreen and drove out of the airport over the hill to Oliver’s Brae. Sunlight washed across Stornoway’s outer harbour in the distance, glinting off the glass of the new ferry terminal. The town itself would present him with a crossroads of choices. Which was not something he had dealt with well in his life. And it wasn’t until the very last moment that he made his decision, turning south out of town at the roundabout just beyond the Co-op, and setting a course for Uig.
He had forgotten all about the gala day. The return of all seventy-eight Lewis chessmen to their last resting place for just one day. Sixty-seven of the chess pieces were permanently housed in the British Museum in London, that repository of stolen artefacts from around the world. The remaining eleven were kept in Edinburgh, but still a long way from home. He remembered Whistler’s exhortation the day they had met at his croft for the first time since they were teenagers.
Well, they were generating some income today, Fin thought. There were hundreds of cars and a string of coaches parked up at the side of the road and along the machair, and a thousand or more people on the beach, which had been turned, at low tide, into something like a fairground.
Fin pulled up short of Uig Lodge and walked across the machair to stand and look out over the sands. The wind blew, as it always did, but God was on the side of the chessmen and had brought the sun with Him. It was the oddest thing to see this normally deserted beach, on the remotest corner of the island, populated by hundreds of tourists, locals and press, all milling amongst temporary wooden stalls and pitched tents. It was like a giant Lowry canvas. There were boat trips coming and going from the far shore, and helicopter rides taking off and landing from a level area below the church at Baile na Cille. There was a giant bouncy castle crawling with shrieking children, a Noddy train. Stalls offered tombola, a coconut shy and the chance to guess the weight of the salmon. There were sheep-milking time trials and haggis-throwing. It was an extraordinary feat of optimism in a climate that, nine days out of ten, would have rained on the parade.
The church itself was a focus of attention. It was where the chessmen were being displayed in glass cases under tight security, and two chess masters were engaged in a battle of wits with thirty-two of the original pieces. There were crowds around the church, a constant stream of people coming and going, and a line of them snaking up from the beach.
The centrepiece of the extravaganza on the sands was a giant chessboard, each square two feet by two. Whistler’s chessmen filled the board, proud Viking warriors strutting across their black-and-white battleground in synchronization with the game being played in the church, each move relayed by walkie-talkie to volunteers who moved the pieces.
Whistler would have been proud to see his carvings animated in this way, Fin thought. The confusion over their commissioning must somehow have been settled. But if Whistler hadn’t been paid before, then he never would be now.
Fin returned to his jeep and drove on round to the turnoff that led to Whistler’s croft. The carefully tended rectangle of land that stretched down the hill would no doubt fall into desuetude now, Whistler’s efforts quickly reclaimed by a process of nature that had no respect for the ephemeral efforts of man. He drew in on the gravel outside the blackhouse and saw that the propellers of Whistler’s wind turbines were continuing to generate electricity that would never be used.
There was no evidence now of the crimescene tape that must have been stretched across the door in the immediate aftermath of Whistler’s murder. The forensics experts from Scenes of Crime would have dusted for fingerprints, taken their pictures, recovered blood and fibres from the mess on the floor, and been long gone. The door was not locked, and Fin pushed it open. The still air inside had a faintly antiseptic edge to it, stuffy and damp. Furniture had been righted, the floor swept clean. The only trace that remained of the mayhem there had once been was the faint, smudged chalk outline they had drawn roughly around the body, the stain of blood where it had pooled on the floor, and the trail of it left by Whistler as he had attempted to drag himself towards the far wall.
Fin perched on the edge of the worn and battered old settee and looked around the room. He remembered his aunt’s indignation at the state of the place, and her fury at finding only beer in the fridge. He recalled sitting on this very settee, still shivering after his rescue from certain death in the Tathabhal stream, drinking tea laced with Mr Macaskill’s whisky. And he remembered how Whistler had hugged him on the day they had been reunited for the first time in half a lifetime. His big, whiskered face rough against Fin’s, the warmth and affection in his eyes. And he felt grief well up inside him. Followed moments later by anger, and a determination to focus.
He blinked to clear his vision and examined the chalk outline on the floor. One leg trailed straight out behind, the other pulled up, the knee on a level with the waist. One of Whistler’s arms lay at his side, the other stretched out beyond his head. And Fin recalled George Gunn’s words the day he had slipped into his cell at the police station.
