‘And Kai?’
‘He was at the party the other night.’ Morag smiled. ‘But no, I don’t know anything about him. To be honest, I avoided that hotel unless Big Jim insisted.’
‘Someone drugged me,’ Hanlon said. ‘I thought it was because they didn’t want me snooping around their sex party.’
‘Maybe, I wouldn’t put anything past that old bastard – nothing about him would shock me any more,’ said Morag vehemently. ‘But you’re much better-looking than me and I was drugged for sex. I think you just got lucky somehow.’
So, Hanlon thought, if I hadn’t taken that coke off Franca, Big Jim could well have been in my room. Was that why he tried to kill me? He turned up in my room expecting to find me unconscious, unable to resist, found I wasn’t there, guessed I was downstairs, knew I’d seen what was going on?
Well, I guess we’ll never know.
‘Whose is the dog?’ asked Morag suddenly. ‘I think I’ve seen him around.’
‘Oh, it’s a friend’s,’ Hanlon said. No need to bring McCleod into it.
Morag didn’t pursue it. ‘Anyway, I quite understand why you ran off when you thought I’d grass you up to Big Jim. Thank God he’s gone.’
‘Thank you for telling me. Was there a man called Murdo Campbell there? At the sex party the other night.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t recall the name?’
‘Very red hair, green eyes, handsome.’
‘A good-looking guy with red hair?’ She smiled. ‘Yes, there was, but he got very drunk and passed out. Unless Big Jim Rohypnoled him too. I think Big Jim would’ve screwed anything that moved. Anyway, they had to carry him upstairs.’
For some reason Hanlon felt inexplicably relieved that Campbell hadn’t been shagging Big Jim’s clients. Morag stood up. ‘Do you want a lift? I’m going to Craighouse.’
Hanlon nodded. ‘I’m staying at the cottages near the hotel.’ She hesitated, ‘Let me give you my number. Just in case.’
‘Thanks.’
Morag took the number and the two of them, accompanied by their dogs, left the house.
32
Back at Donald’s, Hanlon made a cup of tea and lay curled up on the sofa with Wemyss lying in the crook of her legs. Soon she would be out of Donald’s house and moving from Jura to Islay and Tremayne’s B & B. She felt a pang of regret. The island had got under her skin in a way she could never have foreseen.
But right now, she felt flat, deflated by what she had heard from Morag. Big Jim, even more of a bastard than she’d imagined. Rapist, blackmailer, homicidal maniac, probable drug dealer. Arsehole.
Well, he was gone. Finished. What wasn’t finished was Murdo Campbell, the drug smuggling, and, she suspected, bringing the guilty to account for the actual murders, the drowned girls. And the really frustrating thing was, there was nothing she could personally do about it.
She had no proof. Only what she had overheard in the bothy, seen with her own eyes. Her earlier optimism vanished. Manny was hardly going to testify, and that was assuming Frank hadn’t killed him. McCleod believed her, well, maybe, but she wasn’t going to do anything that might jeopardise her career, certainly. At best, she would keep a suspicious eye on Campbell.
And Campbell was untouchable. Using Kai as his middleman to help move drugs, positioning him in the heart of the community in a job where he could come and go easily, going out to sea to meet an incoming boat to pick up the drugs. No questions asked. If Kai had just moved onto Jura people would have wondered what a Paisley hard man was doing relocating to an obscure hotel on a remote island. He would have been the subject of a great deal of speculation and observation. But not based in the Mackinnon Arms, in a job he had been tailored to courtesy of Murdo’s compliant sister, Ishbel.
And what a great way to launder money, through The Sleeket Mouse. Doubtless there would be other restaurants; other ‘backers’ would appear to explain the quantities of money that Ishbel Campbell would have access to.
Well, lying around staring at the ceiling wasn’t helping.
She stood up and went over to the small bookcase and picked up the book of collected Robert Burns that Donald had pointed to when he had told her the origin of the restaurant’s name. The only book Donald owned that wasn’t a cookery book.
She saw to her surprise that Burns had written ‘Auld Lang Syne’ amongst other things. Well, if that was the case he had a lot to answer for, in her opinion. She hated New Year. She read ‘To a Mouse’. It was quite touching really, a farmer apologising to a mouse for destroying its cosy home with his plough blade, just as cruel winter was approaching.
Well, she knew the feeling. Five hundred miles away the IOPC was steadily compiling a doubtless damning report. She was the mouse, the IOPC was the destructive, remorseless, implacable blade inexorably moving in on her. Hanlon had received an e-mail from her rep suggesting that there was an offer of resignation on health grounds available. This would mean she would keep her pension rights, she would just lose her job. But at least she wouldn’t be sacked.
He heartily recommended she take it.
‘Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin…’
Like the mouse house, her career now lay in ruins. She could fight on, but she wasn’t sure she had the heart for it. She thought of McCleod. It was two now. She’d walk Wemyss over, it’d take quite a while. She wanted sympathy and advice. McCleod, the resolute career woman, wedded to the police force, she’d know what to do.
She got up and went to the door. Wemyss, eager at the prospect of another walk, leapt from the sofa. Hanlon sat on the front step and pulled on her boots, looking out at the blue sea, the sun beating down and a cold, salt breeze ruffling her hair.
They could
