winds howling in off the North Sea. Fenton was relieved when the barren monotony of the landscape was broken by a neon sign advertising a transport cafe, open to service the early morning fish trade. He swung off the road and followed the arrows.
The tea was hot and sweet and Fenton felt it travel all the way down to his stomach, making him think of sword swallowers. He rubbed the back of his neck where the leather had been chafing and kneaded the backs of his thighs which were threatening cramp.
The road turned inland to cut across a stretch of barren headland and Fenton had to stop and check his map as he came to a junction with no sign posting. He made his decision and turned right to find himself, after a few minutes, heading towards the sea again. He stopped as he came to the top of a hill and looked down on the village where the Buchans lived. Pulling off a glove, he took a card from his top pocket and checked the address on it, 8, Harbour Wynd.
He let the bike free wheel silently down the hill and brought it to a halt on the cobblestones in front of the harbour. He let his foot rest on a pile of fish boxes while he looked down at the smooth oily surface of the water as it rose and fell against the slimy green stonework.
Three lanes radiated out from the hub of the harbour; one of them was Harbour Wynd. Fenton put the Honda up on its stand and walked slowly up over the cobbles to find number eight. He found the heavy brass knocker surprisingly muted by the thickness of the door.
'Oh it's you,' said Grant Buchan with no trace of pleasure in his voice, 'I suppose you had better come in.' Fenton had expected no better.
'Who is it?' cried a woman's voice.
'It's Jenny's…' Buchan's voice trailed off as he sought a suitable description.
'Fancy man,' said the frosty faced woman who emerged from the kitchen to dry her hands on her apron.
Fenton's heart sank. He had only met Grant's wife once before and that had been when the whole family had been together. He remembered that she had maintained an air of prim disapproval throughout the entire meeting. Mona Buchan stood in the doorway like an angel of the Lord, hair tied back severely in a bun, the shapeless cardigan buttoned up to the neck, eyes shining with self righteousness from a fair skinned face that had never known make-up.
'I'm very sorry about your son Mrs Buchan,' said Fenton ignoring the jibe.
'What do you want here?' hissed Mona Buchan. 'Haven't you and that…that…'
Grant Buchan stopped the situation getting out of hand. He put his arm around his wife's shoulders and said, 'Easy woman, make us all some tea eh?'
Mona Buchan disappeared into the kitchen. 'I'm sorry,' said Buchan, 'She's very upset.'
'I understand,' said Fenton, sitting down where Buchan indicated.
'But she's right. I can't see why you came here either,' said Buchan.
'Because the answer is here! It must be. Jenny did not kill your boy. You must know that? The idea is just too ridiculous for words.' Fenton looked hard at Buchan who held his gaze for a moment then he sighed and looked away. 'I just can't think straight any more…'
Mona Buchan brought in the tea. She clattered the tray down with bad grace and turned on her heel. 'I'm afraid I have work to be getting on with,' she announced. The kitchen door closed again and Buchan continued, 'But why should the killer pick on Jamie? It just doesn't make any sense.'
'I know,' said Fenton softly, 'I think Jenny must have been the unwitting link between the killer and your boy. That's what we have to find out.'
'What do you want me to do?' asked Grant.
'Tell me everything you did in Edinburgh, everyone you met, everywhere you went.'
Fenton took notes as Buchan spoke, not that there was much to record, a fact which made him more and more depressed as time went by. The Buchans had gone from the train to the flat, from the flat to the clinic and from the clinic to the train. They appeared to have met no one save for the staff at the clinic but the fact remained that at sometime during these twenty-four hours Jamie Buchan had been poisoned so that a week later the blood would drain from his body to leave him a pale corpse on the cobblestones of his own village. If the answer did lie in the brief notes in front of him Fenton could not see it. 'Did anyone give him sweets?' he asked.
'Only Jenny,' Buchan answered, making Fenton wish that he had not asked. 'Do you think I could see Jamie's room?'
'He is in it.'
The answer shook Fenton rigid. He had not considered that the boy's body might be in the house.
'We got him back yesterday,' said Buchan quietly. 'Mona wanted to have him home once more before he goes away…tomorrow.'
Fenton nodded silently, a lump coming to his throat at Buchan's distress. 'I'm sorry,' he said softly, 'I just thought that if I saw his things I might notice something that you may have overlooked. But in the circumstances…'
Buchan stood up. Without saying anything he motioned to Fenton to follow him.
Fenton had to duck his head to accommodate the slope of the roof at the head of the narrow stairs before they entered Jamie's bedroom. The room was cold and smelled of dampness, old dampness, dampness that had been seeping through the thick stone walls for years. It had invaded the furniture and fabric, leaving the same musty odour that Fenton associated with the seaside boarding houses of his youth. The little white coffin was bathed in pale grey light from the tiny dormer window that faced north to the sea; Jamie looked like a marble cherub. Fenton bowed his head and stood still for a moment in sadness.
'We haven't moved anything,' said Buchan.
Fenton looked about him. It was a boy's room, trains, boats, planes, an unfinished Lego model. The Millenium Falcon stood on its window-sill launching pad, ready to transport the plastic figures beside it to some far off galaxy. Jamie's Jedi sword lay on his pillow. 'He was Luke Skywalker,' said Buchan.
An anguished cry came from the stairs. The rumble of footsteps stopped with Mona Buchan framed in the doorway, her eyes burning with anger. Fenton was transfixed by the look of hatred on her face, white flecks of spittle pocked her lips as she turned on her husband. 'What in God's holy name possessed you?' she demanded, 'To let this…this animal near our son?' Buchan looked shaken. 'And you,' she hissed at Fenton, her voice a coarse rasp, 'How dare you…how dare you.'
Mona Buchan's anger soared beyond the bounds of all reason and, unable to contain herself any longer, she flung herself across the room, fingernails bared, blind to everything except Fenton, the object of her hatred. As she lunged forward her foot caught the edge of the trestle bearing Jamie's coffin and sent it crashing to the floor to spill him out. Clad in his white shroud he lay there like a sleeping china doll among the toys.
Mona Buchan's rage evaporated. She collapsed to her knees and broke into uncontrollable sobbing as she rested her cheek against her dead son. Fenton knew that he would never be able to forget the sight. 'Go!' said Grant Buchan, 'Just go.'
The Honda was the centre of attraction for a group of small boys when Fenton returned to the harbour and their Star Wars gear suggested that they might have been contemporaries of Jamie. There was something familiar about one of the boys, thought Fenton, but he could not think what. Perhaps he was a relation of Jamie's. A brother? He could not recall if the Buchans had more than the one child. 'Your name isn't Buchan is it son?' he asked.
'No Mister. He's deid.'
'Yes,' said Fenton reliving the awful scene in the bedroom.
Fenton got on the bike and fastened the chin strap of his helmet.
'Can I have a hurl on the back Mister?' asked the boy, resting his hand on the handlebars.
'Another time,' said Fenton.
Fenton did not look back as he reached the top of the hill above the village; he gave a cursory glance to the left for traffic then joined the main road to head for Fraserburgh at an easy pace for concentrating was difficult. He stopped at a harbour cafe in Fraserburgh hoping that eating would help alleviate the awful emptiness he felt inside but it did not. He gazed out of the window at the boats nuzzling the quayside but all he saw was Jamie's lifeless body.
As he headed east on the coast road Fenton reflected on what his visit had achieved. Nothing, he decided,
