this journey was the revelation about the respite centre, Failte. Mrs Baillie had been strangely reticent about its existence and quite unrepentant about letting her two patients be transferred there the day after Kirsty’s death. One was Sister Angelica, the nun, and the other was a man called Sam Fulton. Both patients had been in Tom Coutts’ cognitive therapy classes. DC Cameron had raised an eyebrow when he’d been told that the DCI was heading for Lewis and Harris.
He could have dispatched one of his junior officers but there was something that he wanted to see for himself up here. This respite home was a sanctuary of sorts. And right now it was sheltering two people who had suddenly disappeared following Kirsty’s murder. Samuel Fulton’s name had come up on the police computer. His record showed an involvement in two domestic incidents. There had been more, according to the file but previous charges had been dropped until he’d broken his wife’s arm. A man with a record of violence being quietly shipped up to the Hebrides at the outset of a murder inquiry did not rest easily with Lorimer. The significance of the other patient being a nun was not lost on him either. Those praying hands on each of the two victims might have emanated from some twisted religious brain. And Harris and Lewis were famous for religious piety. Looking into the water, Lorimer wondered what these islands were like. He would be there soon enough.
The journey up from Glasgow had taken more than six hours. Lorimer had pushed on through Rannoch Moor, a strange, bleak landscape that never failed to conjure up the blasted heath of Macbeth’s three witches, he told Solly, who’d nodded wisely. Glencoe had shown its usual dark brooding shadows but the sun had appeared briefly on the Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge as Ben Nevis lowered through a covering of cloud, snow still visible on its higher slopes.
‘I’m ashamed to say I’ve never been further north than Loch Lomond,’ Solly had told him as they drove past loch after loch on the way to Skye. Lorimer had slowed down at Eilean Donan, letting Solly have an eyeful of the well-photographed castle out on its peninsula. Lorimer had been polite about it but that was all. There were some tourist spots for which he couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm. The quiet and lonesome places like Rannoch and Glencoe held more real magic for him. He’d hoped to show Solly the Cuillin but the journey from the Skye bridge north to Uig was a disappointment. Mist had covered the mountains and there was hardly anything to see save the hunched, damp shapes of sheep at the roadside.
They’d driven through Broadford on the road north and now here they were at Uig, waiting for the boat that would take them across to Harris. At least the rain was off, thought Lorimer, clapping his hands against the arms of his jacket to keep warm.
Solly had given up his post by the water’s edge and was slowly walking towards him.
‘Any sign of it yet?’ Lorimer asked him.
‘Just coming in, now.’
Lorimer walked further down the pier, glancing over the concrete wall. There it was, Caledonia MacBrayne’s ferry. The Hebrides, the man at the ticket office had told them. The car ferry cut a swathe of white foam from her bows as she neared them. She was making good speed and Lorimer wondered if she’d overshoot the pier. Solly and he quickened their pace as they walked the length of the pier back towards the parked cars. In a matter of minutes the boat had moored, disgorged its passengers and Lorimer was driving into the bowels of the car deck. By the time they’d collected jackets and locked the vehicle, The Hebrides was sliding through the waves once more.
‘Look, I know it’s cold, but how about coming up on deck?’ Lorimer asked. Solly nodded cheerfully enough but pulled up his collar as they ascended the narrow metal staircase. The wind hit them full on the face as Lorimer opened the door to the upper deck. But the DCI didn’t care. There was an hour and a half of sailing before they reached their destination and he wasn’t about to spend it sitting in a smoke-filled bar.
‘Is that your famous Cuillin, then?’ Solly asked, pointing to the flat-topped hills rising above the mist.
‘No. They’re MacLeod’s Tables. We couldn’t see the Cuillin from here anyway, even if the weather had been any good,’ Lorimer told him, watching as the huge hills reared their heads above Skye, as if mocking their departure.
‘Still, you’ve seen some of Skye’s mountains.’
‘They’re amazing!’ Solly stared as the hills receded from them.
Lorimer was gratified as Solly exclaimed his delight. There was something childlike about his enthusiasm. They stood huddled together on the top deck, the sea breeze whipping across their faces, watching as Skye faded into the distance, a tumble of clouds obscuring its contours.
For a while there was only a large expanse of moving water, then a group of islands came into view.
‘What are they?’ Solomon wanted to know.
‘Think that’s the Sheant Isles,’ Lorimer replied, trying to recall the OS map he’d pored over the previous night.
A smoky green horizon unfolded as the light played over the contours and curves of the landscape. Then the shadows deepened and became the hills of South Harris.
A lighthouse stood bravely amongst a cluster of black rocks, dazzling in the spring sunlight. Somewhere, Lorimer had read, these southerly shores boasted miles of deserted, white sandy beaches. Now he could make out a rocky shore with dots of white here and there along the coastline. As they drew nearer the dots became small houses.
‘What’s that?’ Solly asked, pointing into the waters ahead. Lorimer followed his gaze. Orange marker buoys bobbed up and down quite far from the shore; too far for an anchorage.
‘Creels, I think,’ Lorimer answered. ‘They’re probably floats to show where the lobster creels are kept.’
The boat rounded the rocks and suddenly they were coming inshore to what appeared to be a tiny hamlet. This couldn’t be Tarbert, the largest town in Harris, surely? Lorimer looked over the harbour. The colours seemed to have been washed with a different sort of rain from the slate grey stuff that fell on his city. Or was it the light? It was as though everything was being magnified. Details were sharper, like the cluster of men in orange jackets who were working on the pier; uncoiling the thick mooring ropes, pulling the gangway into position, standing by the few motorists who were about to leave those shores. A knot of people stood around the edge of the pier waiting for the boat, but not passengers. He could see that. Waiting for the mail, perhaps?
There were women whose heads were wrapped in scarves and men in flat tweed caps. Bunnets. His dad had worn a bunnet, Lorimer remembered. He had a sudden vision of that tall, spare figure doffing his tweed cap to any ladies passing by; a gesture from a bygone age. Would Harris have retained any of the dignity of yesteryear or would it be just like every where else, in pursuit of the latest trends?
Lorimer’s reminiscing came to an abrupt halt as a voice called over the loudspeaker system.
‘We are approaching Tarbert. Would all drivers please return to their vehicles. Thank you.’ The voice was taped, of that Lorimer had no doubt, but it had a soft melodious quality that he recognised. It sounded just like Niall Cameron.
They made their way down the very steep staircase leading to the car deck and located the Lexus wedged between a British telecom van and an ancient Ford Transit. Two men in overalls and thick-soled boots were squeezing their way amongst the vehicles.
As they passed, one of them nodded briefly, saying, ‘Aye, aye. Grand day,’ as if he were exchanging pleasantries with old friends, instead of total strangers. Solomon gave Lorimer a meaningful look. This was certainly a world away from their city streets.
Then they were inside the car and all around them engines were roaring into life in the bowels of The Hebrides. There was the unmistakeable sound of wood against steel as the boat docked and Lorimer waited impatiently for the moment when he could surface again. If there was one thing that made him uneasy it was being locked in below water level like this. Maggie even teased him for his dislike of war films depicting life in a sub.
At last it was his turn. As Lorimer accelerated off the metal ramp and onto the safety of the Tarbert streets he glanced at Solly and smiled indulgently, noticing how he twisted around to catch a glimpse of the tiny shops and houses as they passed out of town. The gesture reminded him of his wife and her zest for anything new and unfamiliar. Suddenly Lorimer wished that he, too, could recapture Maggie’s vast capacity to enjoy life. He’d lost that feeling long ago, somewhere between the back streets and the City Mortuary.
Kirsty MacLeod’s last known Harris address was c/o Mhairi MacLeod at Borve Cottage in Rodel. There had been no telephone number. Rodel was not so far away in terms of mileage but it took Lorimer the best part of an hour before the road sign proclaimed that they had reached the village. Several times he’d had to swing into the
