‘I’m staying at the Mackinnon Arms and they were supposed to pick me up.’
‘The Mackinnon Arms?’ the woman said in surprise.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Jump in,’ said the woman, indicating the Volvo. ‘I’ll give you a lift, it’s not far out of my way.’
Hanlon went over to the Volvo. The back of the estate had a black and white dog inside, a border collie. It was screened off from the car by a metal mesh dog-guard. The woman smiled at her and opened the back door so Hanlon could put her luggage in.
The dog bounded about in its confined space, hoping to be let out, curious as to what was happening, who this stranger was.
Hanlon stood motionless, mentally frowning at the disorder inside. The back seats had become a wide shelf for a variety of clutter. There were crumpled ordnance survey maps, plastic bags, a couple of beanie hats, a pair of muddy walking boots, a police notebook, a scrunched-up cagoule, her personal radio, a half-eaten packet of biscuits, a Thermos flask, and some empty water bottles.
The woman swept everything on one side of the car to the floor behind the driver’s seat with a casual hand, making room for Hanlon’s luggage. Let’s hope she doesn’t need that radio, Hanlon thought.
‘There you go.’
Hanlon put her bags inside and climbed into the front passenger seat. The foot-well was covered in mud and small stones, bits of gravel.
The woman started the engine.
‘I’m Catriona.’
Hanlon shook the proffered hand. Catriona’s handshake was firm, her nails were cut short. In person she was a lot cleaner than her Volvo.
She put the car in gear.
‘Are you with the police?’ Hanlon asked casually.
‘Aye, I am, I’m DS McCleod.’ She had that gentle west-coast accent that was a feature of the islanders, a far cry from the harsh Glaswegian tones of Tremayne. It sounded barely Scottish, almost Dutch.
‘Why the ambulance?’ asked Hanlon.
McCleod looked at her in an evaluating kind of way. Hanlon recognised that look, she’d worn it often enough herself – how much should I say?
McCleod said, cagily, ‘Unfortunately a girl drowned. She went missing a couple of days ago and we have only just recovered the body.’
‘Oh.’ Hanlon bit her tongue. It was nothing to do with her, but she couldn’t help but ask.
‘Was it an accident?’
McCleod gave her an irritated look.
‘It’s too early to say… probably.’ In other words, no, thought Hanlon.
McCleod changed the topic of conversation abruptly. ‘Did you know that George Orwell lived on Jura?’ she asked.
Hanlon wondered if this was a common question or if she had inadvertently stumbled across a fan club of the famous writer. First the taxi driver, now the cop.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ said McCleod. Hanlon glanced at her. She looked as if she was beginning to regret her act of kindness in offering this woman a lift. Hanlon turned her attention to the scenery through the car window. Ferns and more stunted birch and alder. A gannet plunged like an arrow into the gunmetal-grey sea. A couple of fishing boats were out in the sound between Jura and the mainland Argyll peninsula, their low raked lines graceful in the afternoon light. Hanlon felt her irritation at the inefficiency of the hotel begin to lift.
Behind everything rose the massive rocky domes of the Paps. Devoid of trees or bushes, just rock and grass, huge and rounded.
Everything lay in their shadow. They dominated the island. They were the kind of feature from which there was no escape. Hanlon gazed up at them, eager to climb them.
McCleod noticed her looking at them. ‘Impressive, aren’t they?’ she said. Hanlon nodded.
‘Shit!’ swore McCleod, stamping on the brakes as a large, brightly coloured bird with a long tail ran out from the foliage by the side of the road straight in front of the car. She managed to stop in time and the bird turned and looked at the vehicle incuriously. Then a smaller, dowdy brown-grey bird cautiously emerged from the grasses and bracken to join its mate and the two of them disappeared into the trees bordering the sea.
‘Pheasants,’ McCleod said. ‘The estate breeds them for the shoot. These two must have survived the season. Anyway, how long are you staying here on Jura?’
‘A couple of weeks.’ Hanlon decided to make polite conversation; Dr Morgan would doubtless approve. ‘I’m looking forward to swimming – the beaches are lovely, I hear.’
McCleod laughed.
‘Aye, well, that they are, more so on the other side.’
Hanlon said, ‘There’s a whirlpool, isn’t there?’ She’d gotten quite excited at the thought of it; she’d never seen a whirlpool before.
‘Oh aye, the Corryvreckan.’ McCleod braked sharply to avoid a rabbit running across the road. ‘It’s quite the thing. You should go and have a look at it while you’re here. You can pay someone to take you out in a boat to see it. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the hotel’s got one. They’ll take you.’
‘Is it dangerous?’ The idea of a famous whirlpool conjured up an image of a huge maelstrom, sucking ships down into the depths of the ocean.
‘Och, not really,’ McCleod said disappointingly. ‘I wouldn’t swim over it, people have. I think I mind there was a guy with one leg who did it a while ago. It’s interesting, in a low-key kind of way.’
So, no maelstrom, thought Hanlon. Not if a one-legged swimmer could cross it.
They drove through a small village.
‘Craighouse,’ said McCleod. ‘There’s only a couple of hundred people live here on the island, so this is by way of a metropolis. There’s another hotel there, if you get tired of the Mackinnon Arms.’
Hanlon shuddered inwardly. Only two hundred people. She was from London. Intensely solitary, she found the idea that everyone would know your business, as they had to in a place as small as this, a terrible thought. Hanlon had secrets; she didn’t want people ever knowing her past. The mistakes she’d made.
