‘That’s exactly what my psychiatrist says,’ Hanlon replied.
‘Well,’ McCleod said, her hands exploring Hanlon’s body, ‘since you’re still breathing, perhaps we ought to try some kind of therapy.’
‘Let’s,’ said Hanlon.
Later, as they lay in bed, McCleod said, ‘What do you want doing about the hotel, then?’
‘Nothing, for now. They won’t know what’s happened to me, if I’m dead or alive, unless Morag called them. Let them stew for a bit.’
‘OK. By the way, I got this.’ McCleod unzipped her handbag and handed Hanlon what looked like a USB stick. Hanlon looked at her enquiringly.
‘It’s a voice-activated recorder, starts when you speak, stops when there’s no conversation. Neat, eh? Just press on, here.’ She showed Hanlon the button. ‘It’s good for fifteen hours’ running time.’
Hanlon marvelled at its tiny size. ‘This will be perfect. I’ll drop it off and hide it somewhere at the bothy tomorrow.’ She looked at McCleod.
‘I obviously can’t go back to the hotel – can I stay here with you for a couple of days?’
McCleod shook her head. ‘I’m sorry…’
Hanlon looked at her questioningly, surprised and hurt.
She had been expecting something along the lines of, ‘I was hoping you’d ask me that,’ or, ‘Of course, after all you’ve been through…’ Certainly not a ‘no’.
McCleod said, apologetically, ‘Look, this is the west coast of Scotland and I’m ambitious. I’m making no bones about it. It’s hard enough for a woman to get promotion at the best of times. I just can’t afford to be associated with you, I’m afraid. You’ve got quite a reputation… Please, no hard feelings, OK?’
‘No,’ Hanlon said, laughing a little, to show how impervious she was to the feelings of others. The truth was, it hurt. God, she thought, I really have no friends. I just can’t afford to be associated with you… That really hurt. Wemyss nudged her hard and rolled on his back so she could scratch his stomach. At least someone cared, she thought bitterly.
‘No, it’s fine, I quite understand,’ she said, trying to keep the hurt tone out of her voice.
‘And,’ McCleod said, ‘to be honest, I don’t want it coming out that I’m having a same-sex relationship.’
Hanlon nodded. She could understand that. McCleod’s job would be hard enough without a barrage of lesbian jokes or homophobia. She was probably correct that association with her would do her career harm, but it was still upsetting. The truth is, she thought, nobody really likes me. She felt a tongue lick her hand and saw two brown eyes staring devotedly at her. Not McCleod, Wemyss. Apart from one person, she thought, scratching the top of the dog’s head between his ears.
‘How did you get in, by the way?’ asked McCleod. ‘Here, I mean?’
‘The door was unlocked.’
‘What? I always lock it!’ McCleod suddenly looked very worried.
‘Shit,’ Hanlon said, throwing back the duvet.
The two of them frantically pulled some clothes on and searched the cottage, just to make sure. It didn’t take long. Downstairs there was just the living/dining room, the small kitchen (Hanlon’s heart sank at the sink piled with unwashed dishes), the upstairs spare room (more chaos), the bathroom, every surface covered with bottles of shampoo, quite a few of them empty (why not throw them away?) make-up and perfume. Hanlon had seen McCleod, hair and make-up immaculate, her two-piece skirt-and-jacket suit sharply tailored, her blouse crisply laundered, creases you could cut your finger on, heeled shoes polished to military gloss – the contrast between her appearance and the absolute mess bordering on squalor of her surroundings was amazing. It was as if she had some kind of split personality. It was such a bizarre contrast.
But the house was obviously empty. McCleod shrugged, defeated.
‘I’m sure I locked the door.’
The last room that they checked was the bedroom. Hanlon opened a wardrobe door, shelves groaning and buckling under yet more junk.
‘Jesus Christ, Catriona… How can you live like this?’
‘Fuck off, Marie Kondo,’ McCleod said.
Leaning at the back of the wardrobe was a serviceable-looking shotgun. Hanlon pointed at it. ‘Shouldn’t you have a safe for that?’
‘I know, I keep meaning to get round to it. One of these days.’
‘Well, promise me you’ll do it soon. You might live to regret it if someone does break in and finds that,’ Hanlon warned.
‘OK, OK,’ McCleod said. ‘I’ll do it next week.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
They relaxed for a while, chatting, then they went into the disorganised kitchen to get something to eat. Hanlon cooked some pasta, following the instructions on the packet; McCleod, who was equally clueless in the kitchen, the blind leading the blind, made some kind of tomato sauce. As they ate they talked.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ McCleod said, looking dubiously at her food. ‘You can stay at Donald’s place.’
‘What, the chef?’ Hanlon looked at her, surprised.
‘Yeah, I know him fairly well, through his brother.’
‘Do you?’
McCleod frowned as her teeth crunched on some penne.
‘Is this cooked?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ lied Hanlon, ‘it’s al dente, it’s supposed to be like that. Anyway, we were talking about Donald.’
‘Everyone knows everyone on Jura – how could it be otherwise?’ McCleod said. ‘You could stay there tonight, go to the bothy tomorrow, plant that recorder and pick it up later in the week after the meeting.’
Hanlon considered. ‘OK. If he’ll put me up.’
‘You’re a woman,’ said McCleod, ‘of course he’ll put you up. Donald’s ever hopeful.’
She reached for her phone. Hanlon, warm, drowsy, half asleep, watched as her thumbs darted over the phone with impressive speed.
She turned to Hanlon.
‘He says that’d be fine, meet him at the cottage tonight at half ten.’
At ten thirty Hanlon, wearing clothes, jeans and a hoodie, borrowed from McCleod, Morag’s clothes folded in a plastic bag, waited in the shadows by Donald’s cottage. It was still just about light. A short while later she heard the heavy footsteps of the
