Wordlessly, Morag nodded. Imperiously Hanlon entered the house.
Half an hour later, showered and wearing borrowed jeans, socks and a jumper, Hanlon was sitting drinking scalding sweet tea in Morag’s spacious, comfortable kitchen. The clothes were two sizes too big on Hanlon; her host was a tall and large woman. She had a pretty face, lined and weathered by the wind and rain of the islands, her body strong and supple from the heavy graft of her job.
‘What happened out there on the loch?’ she asked. Boats didn’t just sink.
Hanlon stared momentarily at her tea. She had no evidence of anything; it was her word against Big Jim’s and Harriet’s. And right now, she did not want to be drawn into a complex retelling of events.
‘I underestimated things,’ she said. ‘My boat capsized. Stupid of me.’
‘What kind of boat were you in?’ Morag asked. A sudden thought struck her. ‘Were you alone?’
Hanlon nodded. ‘Yeah, I was in a kayak; I wanted to go and see the Corryvreckan. I got a bit more than I bargained for.’
Morag shook her head. ‘Well, that was…’ Bloody stupid, she was going to say.
‘I know,’ said Hanlon, ‘but someone told me that a one-legged man had swum over it so…’
‘Well, yes, but it’s the sea, it’s changeable – you can get thirty-foot waves out there.’ She sighed at the stupidity of tourists. ‘Anyway, you’re alive.’
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon.
Morag scratched her dog’s ears. She had the feeling that the woman opposite was holding something back. There was obviously a great deal more than just a casual kayak ride going on, but she sensed that was all she was going to get. ‘Good girl, Bridie,’ she said. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Mackinnon Arms,’ said Hanlon, then, ‘Do you know Big Jim and Harriet?’
Morag shrugged. ‘Everyone knows Big Jim,’ she said. Hanlon thought she detected a note of wariness in her voice. ‘But I don’t get out much. When you have to get up at five in the morning, you tend to just stay in and have an early night.’
Hanlon nodded. Morag said, ‘Would you like a lift back to the hotel? It’ll only take a quarter of an hour.’
There was no way she was ever going back to that place, Hanlon thought. She shook her head.
‘I’d better tell the owner I’ve managed to lose his boat first,’ she said. ‘Do you know Ardnamurchann Cottage?’
‘Aye, I do,’ said Morag. ‘Did Donald lend it to you, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon. ‘So you know Donald.’
Morag nodded. ‘Och yes, I know him well.’
Bridie yawned loudly and nudged her mistress; she gave a kind of demanding whine.
‘I’ll just take her out for a wee while – she hasn’t had her walk yet,’ said Morag, scratching the dog’s ears. ‘I’ll be about half an hour. When I get back, I’ll drive you down to Donald’s.’
She walked to the kitchen door, kicked her slippers off, pulled on a pair of walking boots and laced them up, the dog panting in anticipation. Hanlon smiled at the animal. It reminded her of Wemyss. God, I’m becoming a dog lover, she thought in alarm. Thinking of the dog made her think of McCleod. She hoped she would not have any difficulties in getting hold of the recorder that they needed for the bothy. She frowned. She couldn’t really blame McCleod for not wanting to go directly to her superiors with the suspicions over Campbell – nobody liked a whistle-blower. But she would have done, and she couldn’t help but feel that the DS would sacrifice a lot if it stood in the way of her career. It wasn’t a major stumbling-block in what she hoped might turn into a long-term relationship. Hanlon wasn’t looking for a fling, a casual holiday relationship, but it was a warning sign nevertheless.
She lay back on the old cracked leather chaise longue that had found its way into Morag’s comfortable, chaotic kitchen. The room was warm from the old cream enamelled Aga. A weathered wooden table, stained by age and decades of spills, with half a dozen chairs, filled most of the space and there was a leather armchair with horsehair stuffing visible through a gash in the covering in the corner. The kitchen smelt pleasantly of soot from the stove, cooking and dog, courtesy of Bridie’s basket. She stared idly at the antiquated wooden clothes-drying rack that hung from the ceiling on a pulley.
She thought back to a couple of hours previously. There was nothing she could touch Big Jim with. Her word against his and Harriet’s. No witnesses.
She thought about her near drowning and Eva, who hadn’t been so lucky. She could imagine Eva tied up on Big Jim’s boat, or more likely lured there on some pretext, probably the worse for wear on a combination of drink and drugs, driven into the middle of the sea between Jura and Scarba, near the Corryvreckan, and thrown in the sea. If you were drunk and drugged, you wouldn’t stand a chance. Let the Atlantic do the dirty work. She felt impotent anger start to well up inside her. It was the old feeling, that she had to do things with one hand tied behind her back. Without her relentlessly pursuing him, Big Jim would never be held to account for his crime. It was that simple.
The euphoria at simply being alive had faded. It was replaced with the familiar restlessness. The usual endless, gnawing ache that was her life. She stood up and went to the window. She would have to get him on the drug-dealing charge; that would be something. That should be provable at least.
There was an outhouse across the yard, like a small barn, with the bonnet of a 4 x 4 poking out. Something about it looked familiar. On the inside of the back door of the kitchen was a pair of wellington boots. Overcome with curiosity, Hanlon pulled them on and walked outside.
It was a Mitsubishi Barbarian, a deep dark blue. Hanlon’s heart sank.
