curve of a lay-by to let another car pass. Lorimer hadn’t minded. They weren’t running to a time schedule after all, and had booked into the Rodel Hotel for one night, so all the stopping and starting had given him the opportunity to look over the coastline. The day was still fine, although he’d noticed more clouds gathering overhead. The blues and greys of sky were reflected in the water but it was the green that really struck him; everything from a dark bottle green where rocks undoubtedly lurked, to a dazzling emerald reflecting light above the white shores. The brochures hadn’t exaggerated.
These beaches were endless swathes of white sand licked by curling waves; and not a soul to be seen.
‘We could be on another planet,’ Solly had murmured, gazing round from the shore to the hills crouching around them. He’d been pretty impressed by this Hebridean island and Lorimer was gratified. OK, so it was his first visit to these parts too, but he still felt proprietorial. Scotland was his country.
Rodel, or Roghadal as the Gaelic sign proclaimed, appeared to them suddenly around yet another winding corner between the hills. A quick glance told Lorimer that he was below the infamous site of the quarry that had caused so much public dissension amongst the islanders. As they drove past a lone cottage a man rounded the side of his shed, stopped and caught their eye. Suddenly he waved and smiled. Lorimer was struck by the expression of open friendliness on the man’s face. it was as if he were welcoming them home rather than saluting a pair of strangers to his island.
Lorimer had only moments to absorb the man’s working dungarees and shock of weather-bleached hair as they drove by. Looking in the rear view mirror, he could see the man leaning on the cottage gate, following them with his eyes. It was a small thing, maybe, but it impressed itself on Lorimer. Suddenly the city seemed light years away.
‘The natives are friendly,’ quipped Solly, nodding into his beard as if the incident were being filed away for future reference.
‘Looks like we’ve arrived,’ Lorimer replied, indicating a sign for the Rodel Hotel.
‘Not exactly a metropolis, is it?’ Solly joked. There had been very few houses along the road and now they were passing an old church.
‘That looks interesting.’
‘It is,’ replied Lorimer. ‘That’s not just any old church. What you have here is the ancient cathedral of Saint Clements. I fancy having a look around it while we’re here,’ he added to himself. But business would have to come first.
The road took them on a loop and soon he was driving through a courtyard to a large edifice whose grey stones rubbed shoulders with the harbour walls. So this was Rodel; one hotel and a scattering of houses strung out along a windswept stretch of land.
‘Hardly surprising that Kirsty came away to the city,’ he told Solly.
‘Interesting, though,’ replied the psychologist. ‘I expect it’s a close-knit community. The sort of place where it’s well nigh impossible to keep things to your self.’ Solly gazed over the harbour wall at the stretch of ocean.
‘This is the sort of place where people would know each others’ secrets,’ he added, turning to raise his eyebrows at Lorimer.
‘See you in the bar,’ Lorimer gave Solomon a nod and made his way up the narrow stairway. He pushed open the unlocked door of his bedroom and shivered as an icy blast came from the open window. They were a hardy lot up here, then. Telling himself that he’d had enough fresh air during the crossing to last a good while, Lorimer pulled down the sash window. For a moment he looked out at the waves beating against the harbour wall. Had Kirsty MacLeod stood on that very pier watching for a boat that never came home, he wondered. He’d ask a few questions downstairs. Bars the world over were a perennial source of information.
There was no one behind the bar although the brass clock on the wall made it after five. A faint rolling sound came from the floor beneath his feet and Lorimer guessed that a new beer cask was being brought up from the cellar. The noise grew louder and then a slim figure appeared from a door behind the bar. He was about nineteen with that fresh complexion and shock of dark hair that defines the Celt. The green T-shirt sporting a brewer’s logo showed that he was one of the staff.
‘Oh, hallo there. Didn’t realise there was anyone in yet. What’ll it be?’ The words came out in a breathless rush.
‘Vodka and tonic, please.’ Lorimer had already considered the possibility of an interview with an old Hebridean lady and he didn’t want to be smelling of drink.
‘Just come in, have you?’ the young barman inquired.
‘That’s right.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Not exactly, though I’d like to do a bit of sightseeing,’ Lorimer fenced the question.
‘Oh, you’ll see some grand sights over here. Never seen beaches like ours, I’ll bet!’ The pride in the lad’s tone was unmistakeable. ‘Or the standing stones.’
‘You mean the ones at Callanish?’ Lorimer knew a bit about these ancient rivals to Stonehenge.
‘Och, no. Not just those. We’ve our own down here. There’s MacLeod’s stone just along the road. You’ll have passed it by, no doubt, not knowing what to look for.’ The boy smiled and Lorimer had the sense that he was indulging this visitor from Glasgow. He’d have cultivated a pleasant manner for the tourists, no doubt.
‘Is this your first time on the island?’
‘Yes, it is, but I was hoping to look someone up while I’m here,’ Lorimer fixed his gaze on the barman. ‘A Miss MacLeod.’
The boy gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, there are lots of MacLeods in these parts. Which one would it be that you’re after, now?’
‘Mhairi. A Miss Mhairi MacLeod. An elderly lady.’
The boy’s smile dropped like a stone. He narrowed his eyes at Lorimer, trying to sum up his visitor. ‘You mean Kirsty’s Aunty Mhairi?’
‘That’s the one,’ Lorimer said cheerfully, taking a swig of vodka. His expression never betrayed the vision inside his head, of that lonely little figure in blue dumped in the basement of a Glasgow clinic.
‘You Press, or what?’ The lad’s voice was devoid of any semblance of courtesy now and he placed both hands on the edge of the bar defiantly.
‘Or what, I’m afraid,’ Lorimer replied, taking out his warrant card and laying it open on the polished surface of the bar. He watched the boy’s face relax a fraction.
‘Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ he read aloud.
Lorimer pocketed the card again. ‘Miss Mhairi MacLeod?’ He let the name hang in the air.
‘Aye, she’s at home, just along the road past the cathedral. The two white houses joined together. Miss MacLeod’s is the first one. You can’t miss it.’
Chapter Sixteen
Borve Cottage was a five minute walk from the hotel. They must have passed it on their way into the village, thought Lorimer as he and Solly reached the long white house. It might have been a single dwelling house in days gone by but was now split into two semidetached cottages. Deep-set windows told of thick walls that had withstood centuries of Atlantic gales but, despite its age, the stone seemed freshly painted and both gardens to the front showed signs of recent care. As Lorimer reached out a hand to the brass knocker, his sleeve caught on a tendril of clematis trailing down beside the door. He looked up to see fat buds along the new shoots, promising a froth of pink to come.
Solly stood to one side, whether out of deference to the DCI or simply to see how the old lady would react, Lorimer couldn’t tell.
When the door opened a diminutive, grey-haired woman stood before them. Her lilac twinset topped a heathery coloured tweed skirt and her leather lacing shoes looked as if they’d walked for miles over the rough island terrain.
‘Miss MacLeod?’
