“How can anyone call this an ugly place?” he asked, “It’s perfectly charming.” I had to agree with him. From here, at least, it did all look rather lovely, as it sparkled in the sunshine.
“Just goes to show, you can’t believe everything you read. Besides, a lot of places like this have improved enormously over the last twenty years or so.” I pulled our bags from the helicopter. Shay slung his laptop pack on one shoulder and his holdall on the other as I passed them over. “I think that must be our ride.”
I shouldered my own bags and gestured with my head to where a local patrol car had parked up in front of the blue-trimmed green and white bulk of the Coastguard Station. A tall, blond, uniformed figure waved at us from the side of the car.
“Detective Chief Inspector Keane?” he asked as we came up to him. “Welcome to Lewis and Harris, Sir. Constable Ewan MacLeod.”
I shook his offered hand. Ewan was a well-weathered blue-eyed blond lad in his mid-twenties. He was almost as tall as our friend Liam, topping me by a good four inches, and carried considerably more bulk. He was built like a blacksmith.
“I was told it’d just be the two of you, for now, Sir?” he said questioningly, a little puzzled. He must have been under the impression that Anderson meant to send an entire invading force of CID over from the mainland.
“Just me and my assistant, yes, but we can always call more people in if it becomes necessary.” I gestured towards the boot, and he rushed to open it for us, flushing a deep crimson at his oversight. We dumped our holdalls in, and Shay hopped in the back. I walked round to let myself in the front passenger door.
“The station’s only round the harbour,” Ewan told us as he climbed in, “Less than a mile, actually. We’ve booked you into a little hotel on Francis Street, just a couple of minutes’ walk from us, if you’d like to drop your bags off on our way in?”
“No, that’s fine,” I told him, buckling my seatbelt. “I’d rather go and introduce myself to Area Commander Morrison first.”
“As you say, Sir.” Ewan got the car running and set off. I noticed him stealing curious glances at my cousin in the rearview mirror as he took us down to Newton Street, and we began our run along the waterfront, but Shay was too busy staring interestedly out of the window to notice. Yeah, those sunglasses might disguise his eyes effectively, and the long, flopping fringe helped, when it wasn’t blowing about, but he still looked like he belonged on a Hollywood film set or a fashion magazine cover, no airbrush required.
The drive took all of four minutes. Ewan nipped up a side street and around a corner onto Church Street before turning into a little walled car park opposite the Police station. We all climbed out again and walked across the road. Their station was a long, pebble-dashed two-storey building, the higher end pinkish and the lower end white. It had some nice, darker tiling around the stepped and ramped entry, which had a flourishing little planter by it. Three colourfully flowering hanging baskets hung from the wall below that, a couple of metres apart.
Looking down the street, I could see a sliver of the harbour showing at the bottom. It all made me feel a little jealous. I knew they’d had a full renovation, and an extension done a few years back too. New CID offices, a conference suite and extra storage rooms. Trish Morrison had a much more attractive place to work out of than McKinnon or I did. ‘Northern Constabulary Western Isles Area Office’ was signed on the window to the left of the door. Ewan held that open for us, and we went in.
“This way, Sir.” He led us through the reception area and up to the office Trish Morrison had chosen to make her own.
“DCI Keane and his assistant, Ma’am.” Ewan snapped smartly after his knock had been answered by an authoritative ‘Come on in.’ He stepped to the side so we could enter and closed the door behind us all before taking up an easy stand against the wall. It was a roomy, comfortable office with great views of the harbour. My workplace envy level spiked as I took it in with a quick glance around. Area Commander DCI Trish Morrison stood, smiling warmly, and reached across her desk to shake our hands.
“Welcome to Stornoway, gentlemen,” she said. “I’m delighted to see you here. Chief Anderson told me he was sending me the best help possible to handle this case. He was very effusive, and after seeing your record, Inspector Keane, I can understand why. Please, sit, both of you.”
Morrison was a large-boned, black-haired woman. She was not tall, only an average five foot six, but her commanding, almost military bearing made her seem taller. She was forty-seven, I knew, from looking her up. Two could play at that game. Her husband was the first officer on one of the Coastguard’s two Search and Rescue helicopters that were based here, and they had two teenage sons, both volunteers with the local RNLI. Trish Morrison was not pretty, but she was what we would call a handsome woman. She had dark eyes that reminded me somewhat of McKinnon, although, thankfully, her nose hadn’t been remodelled over and over like a piece of plasticine.
“Very kind of you to say so, Ma’am,” I replied, taking one of the offered chairs as Shay plonked himself into the other one. She frowned as she took her own seat again.
“Oh no,” she warned in a superb, no-nonsense voice, “Don’t even think of ma’aming me, DCI Keane! I’ll not stand for it. We can be Inspector Keane and Inspector Morrison if you insist, but I’d prefer Trish
