the best position for observing the group as they readied themselves for their trip to Kulsay.
His interest in Kulsay Island began years ago. Raised by his grandparents in a tenement on the east side of Edinburgh, his childhood had been colored by wild tales about Scottish mythology fed to him by his Glasgow-born grandfather. And the tale about the strange disappearance of the inhabitants of Kulsay was one of his favorites. His grandfather imbued and embellished the facts with mystery and intrigue, hinting at dark forces and witchcraft. They were stories that fired the young Bayliss imagination and stirred within him an insatiable curiosity about the unexplained and unexplainable.
The old man’s yarns infuriated Bayliss’s grandmother who was a staunch Catholic and thought such tales bordered on blasphemy. She was quick to counter her husband’s stories with some of her own; but these took the form of dire warnings about meddling in occult matters, designed, he was sure, to steer him away from such a course and to reinforce the need for strict Christian principals.
His grandfather died when he was eleven and left a void in his life that he filled with endless visits to the local library where he devoured any book he could find that could further perpetuate his grandfather’s storytelling legacy. The books helped ease the loss of the old man and temper the increasing dominance of the Catholic Church in his life brought about by his grandmother. He found the countless masses and enforced trips to confession repressive; they only served to pique his interest in the strange and unusual.
The older he grew the less hold the Church had over him. Born with a naturally enquiring mind, and a strong cynicism inherited directly from his grandfather, Bayliss eventually eschewed his grandmother’s church and its teachings, preferring to formulate his own beliefs, and Kulsay Island was a major piece in the philosophical jigsaw he was constructing.
When the Ministry of Defense held their investigation earlier in the year he’d gone across to the island, hoping to spy on the team the Ministry sent over there. He’d holed up in one of the deserted cottages on the south side of the island but he was discovered after a couple of days and kicked off the island without having the chance to learn anything useful. This time he’d be more careful. A small knot of excitement was forming in the pit of his stomach. Soon he would know the truth about Kulsay Island. If his grandfather’s stories were even half true, then Robert Carter and his people were in more danger than they could possibly imagine.
As he watched the small launch disappear into the distance he took the binoculars away from his eyes and walked back to the hotel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A Land Rover was waiting for them when the launch tied up at the island’s jetty. The driver, a young man in jeans and a tie-dyed tee shirt introduced himself as Mark Wallis and dropped a bunch of keys into Jane’s hand. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said.
Jane’s eyes registered surprise. ‘You’re not driving us up to the house?’
He shook his head. ‘Not in my contract,’ Wallis said easily, sweeping a blond bird’s wing of hair away from his face. ‘Meet you here, hand over the keys. That’s all I’m instructed to do.’
‘Fair enough. Do you have a map?’
He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, creased and dog-eared. ‘There you go,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘You’ll find the keys to the place on the bunch I’ve just given you.’
She unfolded the paper. Scribbled on it in pencil was a rudimentary map, showing the jetty and a torturous route of winding paths and tracks. Red ink arrows gave the directions. ‘And we’re supposed to find the place using this?’ Jane said.
‘I did. It’s more straightforward than it looks.’ Without a further word he threw her a smile and jumped aboard Cowan’s boat. Cowan cast off and went back to the wheel-house. Propellers spun, kicking up a spume of water and the craft edged away from the jetty heading out to sea.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Jane said to Kirby, who was hoisting a large backpack onto her shoulder. ‘We’re on our own.’
Kirby smiled nervously. ‘Better get this in the Land Rover,’ she said, jerking her thumb at the backpack, seemingly reluctant to talk.
‘Feeling better now?’ Jane said, pressing her.
Kirby grimaced. ‘Hollow,’ she said. ‘I mean, just how many times can you throw up in ninety minutes?’
‘You’ll feel better once we get to the Manse and get the kettle on. I, for one, could murder a cup of tea.’ She turned to McKinley who was stowing the last of the gear into the Land Rover. ‘John, take this and see if you can make heads or tails of it.’ She handed him the map.
He studied it for a moment. ‘Magical Mystery Tour,’ he said with a grin, then folded the map again and slipped it into his pocket.
John McKinley drove the Land Rover, singing softly to himself — an old Bob Marley song. Kirby sat in the passenger seat, taking the harmony part in her lilting little-girl voice. She held the map out in front of her and paused her harmonizing occasionally to offer directions.
Raj took snapshots of the passing scenery. He framed a shot of some particularly ragged-looking sheep grazing at the side of the road, but didn’t take the picture. Instead he put the camera down, closed his eyes and sat back in his seat. He couldn’t shake off the sense of gloom that had enveloped him the moment he’d stepped off the boat. He saw his feelings reflected in the eyes of the sheep; a deep melancholy hinting at a darker, deeper despair. He was starting to wish he hadn’t come.
Carter had a notebook on his knees and was scribbling sentences in his convoluted spider scrawl, occasionally glancing out at the passing scenery. As he wrote he whistled Mozart tunelessly, the noise providing a jarring counterpoint to McKinley and Kirby’s singing.
Jane sat next to him in the backseat of the Land Rover. ‘Do you want to talk about it now?’ she said quietly.
Closing his book with a sigh, Carter stared out over the bleak landscape. Even with a watery sun spilling its light over the heather and gorse, the place still managed to look depressing. ‘Sian’s still alive,’ he said without looking at her.
She took a breath. ‘How do you know?’
‘I just do.’ His mouth had the stubborn landscape she remembered from the end of the affair.
‘I see,’ she said, though nothing was further from the truth. How did he know Sian was alive? Where was she?
‘I doubt that.’
‘I want to help you.’ She began to lose her patience with him. If he had material information that affected this investigation, it was his duty to tell her.
‘What makes you think I need your help…or anybody else’s for that matter?’
Reining in her growing annoyance she tried the sympathetic approach. ‘What happened last night, when I saw you out by the fountain?’
‘Leave it, Jane. I’m not ready to talk about it.’ Carter’s voice rose and Kirby looked over at Jane, who gave her a ‘leave it’ signal with her eyes.
‘Christ, you’re pigheaded,’ Jane said.
‘No, I’m not. And I’m not being contrary either, but I need to get a few things clear in my own mind first.’ At last his tone began to soften and something of the old Robert peered out.
‘Well, as soon as you have, come and tell me.’ She’d had enough of fencing with him.
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ he said. He didn’t patronize her with a smile, but his voice was friendly.
‘Make sure I am,’ she said, and sat back in her seat, gazing out through the window. He was impossible when he was like this. She’d encountered his stubbornness many times in the past. It didn’t get any easier to deal with. She didn’t speak to him again until they reached the Manse.
Jane lifted her suitcase onto the bed and started to unpack. Obviously the KDC had spared no expense on the refurbishment of the old house. The decor was modern; the fittings of the bathroom state of the art, but the bedroom had an impersonal, anonymous feel to it. It could have been a room in any of the countless hotels she had stayed at in the past. Smartly furnished and comfortable, luxurious even, but unsympathetic and out of
