Kenneth Creech had a boathouse just north of the town. It was six in the evening when Reeve got there, having driven through town without stopping. The sky to the west, out over Skye and the Minch, was a palette of pinks and grays, thin threads of silver and softly glowing red. Reeve gave it all of a second of his time then kicked at the boathouse door, which rattled on its hinges.
The door was locked, but that didn’t mean Creech wasn’t inside. At last a bolt slid back and the door opened.
“You’ll pay for any damage,” Creech snapped, examining his door first and his visitor second. His mouth made an O when he recognized Reeve.
“Well now, Gordon,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“Money,” Reeve said, holding up a thickish fold of notes. “To wit, my desire to give you some.”
Creech couldn’t take his eyes off the cash. “Well now, Gordon,” he said, the tongue darting in and out of his mouth, “you must be wanting a boat.”
“How did you guess?”
Creech didn’t say anything, just ushered him inside. The back of the boathouse opened onto the Sound of Sleat. Reeve could see the southern tip of Skye. The larger of the two boats was tied up in the water; it had bench seats both sides, and could carry a dozen passengers. In the middle of the deck stood the control console with a small steering wheel, like that of a sports car. In fact, if you looked closer, there was the MG insignia in the center of the wheel. Creech had stolen it from a crashed car south of the town. By the time the insurance investigators reached the vehicle, there hadn’t been much left but a shell.
Creech’s other boat was smaller, but boasted an outboard motor and was a lot nippier as a result. It had been hauled out of the water and now hung by winches over the wooden floor. Old newspapers were scattered beneath the hull, which Creech was in the middle of repainting.
“You’re painting over the barnacles,” Reeve told him. Creech was wiping his hands on a rag. The paint tin looked to Reeve like ordinary vinyl silk emulsion. The color, according to the lid of the tin, was taupe.
“Well, it’s a sight easier than scraping them off.”
Reeve nodded, and smiled at Creech, who looked nervier even than usual. He kept jerking his head and blinking his bulbous eyes.
“You know about me?” Reeve said.
Creech started to deny it. Denial was an instinct, like breathing. But then he broke off, knowing Reeve knew.
“I’ve heard a few stories,” he said at last, sounding like it didn’t bother him in the slightest.
Reeve looked around. “You’ve no phone here, Kenneth?”
Creech shook his head slowly, then spoke carefully. “I wouldn’t turn you in, Gordon.”
“That’s unusually friendly of you, Kenneth. What’s wrong, isn’t there a reward?”
The momentary look in Creech’s eyes told Reeve he’d never considered the possibility until now.
“Don’t,” Reeve warned him.
Creech got back some mobility and went over to the boat, picking up his paintbrush. He’d left it lying on the edge of the newspaper, and some paint had dribbled onto the floor. He wiped the spot with his rag, but that just spread the stain farther.
“I’m painting this boat,” he said.
“I’d never have guessed.” Reeve paused. “But that’s the boat I want.”
Creech glanced towards him. “Now?” Reeve nodded. “Can’t it wait till I’m finished?”
“Do I look like a man who can wait?”
“No.” The word took a long time coming out. “But you surely don’t want to take a boat out at night?” Creech paused. “No wait, of course you do. There’s less chance of them spotting you at night.”
“Well done, Kenneth. How many police are there?”
Creech considered lying, but looked at the money again, the money Reeve was still holding in his hand.
“There’s more where this came from,” Reeve told him.
Creech wet his already glistening lips. “Well, there’s nobody in Mallaig,” he said, “but I’ve heard tell there are a couple of strange faces on Skye.”
“Anywhere else?”
“Oh, aye, they were in Oban yesterday.”
“And Tarbert?”
“I couldn’t tell you about Tarbert.”
“And on South Uist?”
“Well, they’ve been to your house a couple of times, that much I’ve heard. You’re big news around here, Gordon.”
“I didn’t do anything, Kenneth.”
“I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it, but the police used to have a saying in Glasgow: you don’t arrest an innocent man. If they take you in, they’ll try their damnedest to find
Reeve smiled. “You sound like you’ve been there.”
“I was in trouble enough in my early days. I’m from Partick, remember. One look at my face-I know it’s no beauty-and the polis would stop me.” Creech spat into the water.
“You’ll help me?”
Creech considered the question. The tension left his shoulders. “Ach, maybe I’m too sentimental for my own good,” he said. “Of course I’ll help you.”
And he held out his hand for the cash.
Reeve helped him move the boat back over the water and lower it in, so that its side scraped that of the larger vessel, leaving smears of paint on the wood. Creech went to check that the boathouse doors were locked. When Creech returned, Reeve was standing at the workbench, his back to him. Creech licked his lips again and moved forward quietly. When Reeve turned, Creech let out an involuntary gasp. Reeve was holding the biggest knife Creech had ever seen. He had it in his right hand, a coil of Creech’s best rope in the other.
“What… what are you going to do?” Creech said.
Reeve showed him. He sliced through the thick braids like they were string, then let the long part of the rope fall to the floor. “I’m going to tie you up,” he told Creech.
“No need for that, Gordon. I’ll come with you.”
“And you’d wait in the boat for me? You wouldn’t for example sprint off the minute I was on dry land and head for the nearest mainland telephone?”
“No,” Creech said. “You know I wouldn’t.”
But Reeve was shaking his head. “This way we both know where we stand. Or in your case, sit.”
And he made Creech sit on the floor with his back to the workbench, tying his hands behind him around one thick wooden leg of the structure. For good measure, he cut another length of rope-“That stuff costs a fortune,” Creech protested-and tied Creech’s ankles. He thought of sticking the paint rag in Creech’s mouth, but he wanted to restrain the man, nothing more. He doubted anyone would come to see Creech during his absence. Creech had no friends, no one who’d miss him; he spent most of his time in the boathouse, and had even put up a partition so he could sleep there, too. Reeve glanced into the “bedroom” to make sure there
Satisfied, he brought his bag in from the car and got to work, changing into dark clothes and balaclava, donning face-blacking. Creech’s face told him he had achieved the right effect. There was a good-sized moon in a clear sky. He wouldn’t have any trouble navigating; he knew the islands and the potential obstacles pretty well. He had a choice of two routes: one would take him into the Sound of Eriskay so he could approach the western side of South Uist. The advantage of this route was that he’d have a shorter hike at the end of it, two or so miles, but it meant a lot more time spent in the boat than the second route, which would land him in Loch Eynort, a seawater loch. This way he would land farther away from Stoneybridge, maybe as much as a six-mile hike away. It made for a longer time on land, more time for him to be spotted. Plus, of course, if forced to retreat, he’d have a lot farther to run to reach the safety of the boat.
He decided in the end to head for Loch Eynort. If all went well it would cut hours off the mission time, being a
