A Double Death on the Black Isle (8 page)

“I have ma car.”

“Hector!” Beech commanded.

The landlord dropped Hec's arm. The others stopped and stared. Beech had Hector out the door and across the road and down to the harbor before anyone could think.

“This your car?”

“Aye. Not really. It's ma granny's.”

“Follow me to my house. We'll sort all this out there.”

Hector looked back, saw a gathering of young men, one of them pointing at him, and decided to do as he was told. For once.

Rob's Easter week had started with a phone call. The news editor at the Aberdeen daily newspaper had rung him. “Robert McLean, please,” he had asked. “The very one,” Rob had replied. “There's a position open on the paper, would you be interested?” the editor had offered.

“Yes, of course.”

A well-known, well-respected, big-circulation Scottish daily paper phoning me, asking me if I want a job,
Rob was so flattered he didn't stop to think.

“Can you come for an interview on Easter Saturday?”

“No problem.”

It had taken a whole day for him to come down to earth. That he might not be offered the job never entered his mind. But every time the future of the
Gazette
was discussed, which was almost constantly, a dirty puddle of guilt, viscous like nasty, well-used sump oil, sloshed around the pit of his stomach. To make it worse, the fire on the boat was shaping up to be a great story.

It's only an interview, I don't have to make a decision immediately,
he told himself,
besides, nothing may come of the Sandy Skinner story.
Aberdeen—the city held no attractions for him, as he did not know it well. His girlfriend, Bianca, was at the Glasgow School of Art. It was when he thought of her, which was often, that he faced the reality of how far everywhere was from the
Highlands—how big the mass of the Grampians, how long and occasionally dangerous the main road south, how expensive the trains, how exorbitant an aeroplane flight.

But Aberdeen? It's a city. It's cold. The newspaper is good; the people there may not speak English, but they can read it.

Easter Monday being a holiday, the
Gazette
news meeting was postponed till Tuesday morning. With only two days to produce an expanded edition, Joanne was trying to type up her notes as fast as possible, wrestling with her conscience almost as much as she wrestled with the typewriter.

How much can I write about the weekend without being disloyal to Patricia?
The phone interrupted her struggles with her sense of loyalty.

“Gazette.”

“Good morning.”

“Patricia.” Joanne laughed to cover her guilty conscience. “I was just this minute thinking about you. How are you feeling?”

“I'm well thanks. Joanne I called because . . .”

“I'm sorry, Patricia, can we talk later? I have a meeting in a few minutes. I need to organize my thoughts.”

“Oh I'm sure you will wing it. You always do.”

Joanne wondered if there was an implied criticism in that remark.

“Joanne, I need your help,” Patricia continued. “Sandy asked me to call. He is really angry about his boat being on the front page of the
Gazette
in such a sensationalist newspaper article. Now the Aberdeen paper has picked it up and they keep phoning this house for an interview, so Mummy is furious as well. Please tell Mr. McAllister the boat is gone, end of story.”

“I can't influence the editor, Patricia. Maybe Sandy should talk to him.”

“He won't talk to anyone, not even me.”

“Are you and the baby well?” Joanne tried bright and chatty. She didn't want the discussion—“sensationalist newspaper article” indeed.

“I'm healthy enough. It's everything else. Daddy is still insisting we live here, in the same house as my mother. Sandy agrees.”

“I'm sure she will come round when the child is born.”

“Your mother didn't.” And with that remark, Patricia was gone.

Sandy Skinner had been eavesdropping on his wife's phone conversation.

“That your friend, the interfering one from thon
Gazette
rag?”

“That was Joanne, yes. She's promised to do her best to help.” “That'll be the day.”

Sandy knew instinctively that this was not the time for a quarrel. But he was furious.

None of his plans were working the way they were supposed to. He had charted it all as carefully as the route to a new fishing ground. He kept note of her cycle for a good twelve months, he knew when she was ripe. He had bedded her, made her pregnant, married her, and now he wanted his due.

He lit a cigarette and stared out of the windows across the fields towards the firth, which showed up on the horizon as a grey strip of light.

The loss of the boat was a huge blow, financially and other-wise—he'd learned everything he knew on that boat. He would have said he loved her if he knew how.

Who'd have known a milk bottle and paraffin could sink a boat? He'd deal with the eejit that threw the bottle. He knew there would be no help from his family, even though the boat
and the business was rightfully his. He was the firstborn son after all.

No one in his village would help after he took on those west coast boys as crew instead of locals.

The Church would be no help: he'd been thrown out of the Brethren, all for a harmless drink or two.

Then there were the debts. Wriggling out of that situation was proving impossible.

I should've taken Pat to see the bank manager. That would impress him, show him what I've married into.

Missus Ord Mackenzie should have been a man,
he thought,
cold auld bag with no tits on her. There hasn't been a son in their family for generations, all inherited down the women of the family. But I'll put that right, and ma son will have it all in due course.

It might be fine for my boy, but me, I hate this farming catastrophe. Filthy places, farms, loads o' stupid animals and even more stupid fellows running around wi' tractors an' all, doing the same thing year in year out, never leaving the land, never going anywhere. Me, I'm a hunter, out on the high seas, out in all manner of weather and danger. Thon landsmen are cowards, not real men. They huddle round their fireside the minute a wee storm threatens.

Thinking is no goin' to get me anywhere,
he said to himself,
Patricia will have to get me out of this. I can twist her round ma wee finger. Just have to get her away from her ma. What was it she was bleating on about? A honeymoon? Complete load a shite, that. But still. On our own, I can work the charm. Then she'll see sense.

He put the cigarette out in his teacup and spoke.

“I've been thinking. Maybe we should go away for a few days, a wee break, eh? Sort of a honeymoon?”

Patricia's face said it all.

“Sandy, what a lovely idea. But not too far please, I get really carsick at the moment.”

“Somewhere along Loch Ness, maybe?”

“Perfect.”

Well done, Sandy lad,
he told himself.
It'll all work out. Her stuck-up friend from the newspaper will tip her the word on any developments. I'll squeeze the money out of her father somehow. The old duffer won't refuse, it being for his grandson and heir, after all. Aye, he thought, me, Sandy Skinner, I'll be the laird o' this place afore long.

“The cheek of the woman . . .” Joanne spoke aloud just as Rob arrived in the newsroom.

“What woman?”

“Patricia Ord Mackenzie. I was there for the Easter weekend . . .”

Rob wasn't listening, his own weekend still tingling in his veins. He felt guilty about the job interview.
I can't keep it secret; I'll have to tell her.

“Joanne, I went to Aberdeen for . . .”

Don and McAllister arrived. Rob said no more. Mrs. Smart came in and joined them at the table. Hec snuck in last, like a dog unsure of his welcome. He was the
Gazette
's photographer, but was he part of the team? He had his doubts about that.

The newsroom buzzed with a morning-after-holiday energy. McAllister spread out last week's pages on the big communal table.

“Right, let's get started. Overall impression?”

There was a babble of “great” and “very good” and “like it” and “very happy” and “smashing.” The last word was from Hector. It was currently his favorite word, and he used it for everything and anything.

“Any phone calls?” McAllister asked Don.

“A few” was the reply. “Well all right, more than a few. On Friday I did a ring around the newsagents and shopkeepers. They like it.”

“It sold out at the station,” Rob said. “I tried to buy a copy and they were all gone by ten o'clock.”

“Sold out in Fort William by lunchtime,” Don added.

“On Saturday morning, not usually a busy time for me, I took bookings for advertisements,” Mrs. Smart told them.

“My parents-in-law think it's easier to read,” Joanne contributed. “That means they like it, and my mother-in-law is not one for changes.” Joanne turned to McAllister. “You haven't given us your verdict.”

“Early days yet.”

There was a spontaneous groan.

“Sorry,” he laughed. “This edition is good, but we have to keep it up, every week, every year. . . . So, next edition? Front page? Anyone?”

“Last week's lead story is still good for a follow-up,” Don said, looking at Rob. “Any more from the police?”

“They've still no idea who threw the petrol bomb.”

“Maybe I can use my ‘Police Baffled' headline this week.” Don glared at McAllister, who had changed the heading to a more innocuous, “Police Search for Information.”

“I've done a think piece for page five,” Rob continued, “the state of fishing, small boats being squeezed out by the big trawlers, intense rivalry between ports, Icelanders trying to keep all their fish for themselves, that kind of thing. Some are even saying the herring won't last forever.”

“I've some smashing pictures of fishing boats,” Hec contributed.

“Talking of which . . .” McAllister nodded to Joanne, “the
fishing boat story. Have you found the skipper, what was his name? Skinner?” McAllister was looking at her, but she couldn't meet his gaze.

“I
did
meet the skipper of the boat.”

“And?”

“What I found out is not really relevant to . . .”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

“I was in the Black Isle for Easter, staying with Patricia Ord Mackenzie, an old school friend and . . .” She paused.

“
And?”
McAllister was getting impatient.

“Patricia was married on Thursday, I was her matron of honor, her husband is Sandy—Alexander—Skinner, the owner of the boat that went on fire.”

“Did you get an interview?” asked McAllister.

“An Ord Mackenzie married a fisherman?” Don.

“Can I take their picture?” Hec.

“I bet she's up the spout,” Rob.

“Goodness me,” Mrs. Smart.

All this was said all at the same time, simultaneously, overlapping, leaving Joanne flustered and guilty and completely lost as to how to reply to any of the questions.

“Order.” McAllister thumped the table. There was a momentary hush.

“Joanne, firstly, there is no ‘went on fire.' The boat was fire-bombed. That's a crime in Scotland. Second, this is a sensational new twist to the story—you should have told us immediately.” McAllister caught the warning glower from Don. “Sorry, I know it must have been awkward for you, but does this Skinner fellow know who threw the bomb?”

“Sorry. Sandy didn't speak to me much.”

“Did you ask?”

“Sorry, no. After seeing the front page, I doubt he will give
an interview to anyone at the
Gazette
, especially me. Patricia Ord Mackenzie called first thing this morning. She said her husband asked her to ask me to ask you to drop the story.”

“And?”

“I told her Sandy Skinner should speak to you himself.”

“Joanne,” he looked at her carefully, “do you have a conflict with this? Can you continue working on this story, no matter where it may lead?”

“I don't know. Sorry.”

She was seized by the sensation that she had somehow failed. On her first story, she had not been professional, had not taken the opportunity to question Sandy, to do her job, to grab a scoop, as Rob would have done.

And as the buzz of the newsroom continued around her, as stories were discussed, assignments agreed upon, she felt she would never measure up to the standards of a professional like McAllister.

The meeting over, Joanne and Rob had the reporters' room to themselves. Joanne was trying to decide how to approach Sandy Skinner for an interview.

Rob was reading the report from Graham Nicolson. “It says here that Sandy Skinner was in Mallaig a couple of months ago, looking for a crew. I bet they had to be Catholic.”

“Oh really?” She was not that interested. She kept starting a sentence, hating what she wrote, and tearing the paper from the machine, scrunching it up into a small ball and throwing it at the top-hat-cum-wastepaper-basket that sat under the only window in the room.

“Catholic crews can fish on a Sunday, or leave on a Sunday night, to get to the fishing grounds before the others. It's been a source of tension for years. You see, many of the families on the east coast are Brethren, strict Sabbatarians.”

“Sandy Skinner can't be religious, he married Patricia in the registry office.”

“Maybe that's what this is all about, a religious dispute,” Rob speculated.

“Maybe.” This time, as she ripped the copy paper from the typewriter, Joanne's fingers caught the ribbon, which unrolled into a fankle of black. As she tried to thread it back into the spool, the ink stained her fingers, the desk, and the cuff of her best white blouse.