Coffin Road (12 page)

*

Gunn put on his greens and face mask before entering the autopsy room, but nothing ever prepared him for the smell. The perfume of putrefaction, and the gut-wrenching stink released by the bowels during dissection. In his limited experience, pathologists never seemed to notice it.

Outside, the light was fading fast and Gunn was hungry and anxious to get home for his tea. It had taken a considerable effort of will to force himself to attend this post-mortem, which he knew would rob him of his appetite, and he had been putting it off as long as he could. Unlike the professor, who had already expressed his delight at spending another night in the Royal at the Scottish government’s expense, and dining again at the Indian in Church Street, with its luridly coloured curries. He must, Gunn reflected, be a man blessed with a cast-iron constitution.

Much of the post-mortem had been completed. The cadaver lay opened up on the table, the liquids released by the pathologist’s knife draining into a bucket beneath it. The organs had been weighed and breadloafed. And the damaged brain, removed from its fractured skull, was suspended now in fixative.

The victim’s clothing was laid out on a separate table, along with the rock they had recovered from just outside the chapel. A jagged piece of gneiss, about twice the size of a fist, that a man could spread his fingers around. It had blood, hair and tissue still clinging to it, but they had been unable to secure any fingerprints.

‘Seems he put up quite a struggle,’ Professor Wilson said. ‘Forearms are covered in bruises and abrasions where he raised them to protect himself from the attack. Then his killer got through with the first blow to the head, and that, or maybe the second, might have dropped him to his knees, if he was on his feet. Considerable bruising there.’ He tapped both knees. ‘He was struck four times on the left side of the skull, any one of which might have been enough to incapacitate him. But his killer kept going anyway. The final blow was what killed him and did the worst of the damage. You’ll get all the measurements and gory details in my report.’

‘Can’t wait,’ Gunn said dryly, drawing a look from the pathologist. ‘You’re confirming for me, then, that he was murdered?’

‘That, Detective Sergeant, was never in doubt.’ The professor paused. ‘Have you found his car yet?’

‘No, we haven’t.’

‘Identification?’

Gunn shook his head. ‘The picture taken by the police photographer will be released to the press tonight. We’ll see what that brings.’

The professor grunted and lifted the dead man’s right hand. ‘Bruises and grazing on his hands as well. The chances are the poor sod got in a few strikes himself. His fingers are ingrained with dirt, and maybe oil, and his fingernails are short and filthy, so it’s impossible to tell if there’s blood or skin from his attacker under any of them. I’ve taken scrapings from them all, and the lab will reveal in time if they captured any DNA from his killer.’ He ran his latexed palm lightly over the back of the hand he was holding. ‘Strange thing, though, and I only know about this because my wife used to keep bees. He has several bee stings on the back of his hands.’

Gunn moved closer to take a look.

‘You see? These little red lumps with tiny scabs at their centre. Looks like he was stung quite recently, too.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Gunn enjoyed the drive down to Harris. South-westerlies had blown great ragged clumps of black raincloud across the islands overnight, and everything looked shiny and new in the early morning sunlight, as if freshly painted.

As he passed from Lewis into Harris, even the Clisham, whose peak was normally mired in cloud, stood sharp and clear against the deep blue of the autumn sky, casting its shadow west over the Abhainn Langadail, which ran north into Loch Langabhat itself, a continuation of the extended valley rift that transected the centre of the island from north to south.

On the long descent towards Tarbert, the southern half of the Isle of Harris, he knew, stretched off in obscurity beyond the hills, but it wasn’t until he crested the rise past the town itself, after the turn-off to the Episcopalian Church, that he saw it laid out before him, shimmering in this startlingly luminous morning.

The tide was out, and the sands of Luskentyre glowed silver, very nearly filling Gunn’s field of vision. They never ceased to take his breath away. Ringed by hills to the south, the mountains of North Harris, and the peaks of Taransay to the west, beyond all that simmering turquoise, he wondered if there could be any more beautiful spot on earth.

But he very quickly became firmly regrounded in reality when his car bumped and rumbled over the hardcore being laid for the new road, then sat for minutes on end at successive stop lights regulating the two-way flow of traffic during the roadworks.

Finally, gliding down over a new smooth unpainted ribbon of black tarmac laid only the week before, he reached the turn-off to Luskentyre itself, and spent the next five minutes avoiding the ditch as his glance was drawn repeatedly beyond the single-track road to the glimpses of paradise beyond the dunes. He had often spoken to his wife of buying a wee cottage down here when finally he took his retirement. But there were a few years to go before then.

He spotted the sign for Dune Cottage at the side of the road just beyond the cemetery, and then saw the police car parked behind the house itself. He turned in over the cattle grid, and parked beside it, stepping out into the fresh, blustery breeze that blew in off the beach, and zipping up his quilted black anorak. The uniformed sergeant from the police station at Tarbert eased himself out of a car that was far too small for his six foot, six inches, and unfolded himself to stand upright and shake Gunn’s hand. They knew one another well, the sergeant being of a similar age and having served most of his time on the islands. He nodded curtly, and ‘George’ was all he said.

Gunn retrieved his hand from the other man’s grip. ‘Donnie.’ He looked around. There was not much here. A handful of houses climbing the hill behind the cottage, following the road over towards the far beach. An agricultural building of some sort. A garden shed. And the graves of generations of
Hearachs
. He felt the wind lift his carefully gelled hair into a quiff. ‘Been here for long?’

‘Arrived just ahead of you, George.’

Gunn nodded towards the cottage. ‘Is he at home?’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

They walked around to the gable end and knocked on the door. When, after a full minute, there was no response, Donnie followed Gunn down to the front of the property, which looked out over the dunes to the beach. A couple of Hebridean ponies, one white, one grey, stood, heads down, grazing on beach grass. The two policemen climbed the steps of a weathered deck, to where a circular wooden table and two chairs sat looking out at the view. Gunn shaded his eyes and peered through the glass of the French windows into Neal Maclean’s sitting room. There was nothing much to see. Two sofas and a table with a lamp on it. A wood-burning stove in the corner. On the far side of the room, an archway led back through to the kitchen.

As he turned away to look out over the beach, he saw reflected light flashing several times from the far shore, and shielded his eyes from the sun to see a figure standing in front of a caravan, binoculars raised and pointed in their direction. ‘Who the hell’s that?’ he said.

Donnie followed his gaze. ‘Oh, that’s Buford. An Englishman. Claims to be a traveller. The locals have asked us repeatedly to shift him, but there’s nothing we can do.’ He lifted his cap to scratch his head. ‘We’ve had several complaints from folk that he’s been spying on them with those binoculars of his, but when we ask him about it he just says he’s birdwatching.’ He replaced his cap. ‘Seems to know his stuff, too. North Harris, apparently, has the highest concentration of nesting golden eagles in Europe. So he told me when I went to speak to him. I’ve lived here all my life and I didn’t know that.’

‘Can I help you?’ A sharp voice made them both turn to see a small, elderly lady standing at the end of the house. She wore knitted leggings and pink trainers, and a quilted body warmer over a green cardigan. Her silvered hair was drawn tightly back and gathered in a bun.

Gunn went to greet her, hand outstretched to shake hers. ‘Detective Sergeant George Gunn, from Stornoway, ma’am.’ He half-turned towards Donnie. ‘And Sergeant Donnie Morrison from Tarbert. We were looking for Mr Maclean.’

‘He’s not here,’ she said, still eyeing them suspiciously.

Gunn said, ‘And you are . . .?’

‘Flora Macdonald. I live across the road there, and Mr Maclean rents this house from me. Are you a Gaelic speaker, Mr Gunn?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not.’

He clearly went down in her estimation. ‘Pity. Though you’ve certainly got the
blas
.’ She looked towards Donnie. ‘Mr Morrison?’

To Gunn’s consternation, Donnie responded in Gaelic, and the two of them had a brief exchange that was warmer than hers with Gunn. Then Donnie turned to him. ‘She’d be happy to make us a cup of tea up at the house and answer any questions we might care to ask.’

Gunn smiled coolly. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ And wondered why she couldn’t have said that to him in English.

*

It was hard to tell whether Mrs Macdonald’s house was an old one remodelled, or a recent build. Gunn suspected the former. It was toasty warm, and double glazing protected them from both the wind and the sound of it. Although modern in its insulation and finish, it was like stepping back half a century when the policemen walked inside, Mrs Macdonald’s yappy little dog running about between their legs and snapping at their ankles. There was a clash between the floral wallpaper and the rose-patterned carpet. The furniture itself came, it seemed, from another era altogether. Soft, worn sofa and armchairs with embroidered antimacassars on the backs and arms, and cushions so giving it felt like they were trying to swallow you. Darkwood furniture polished to a shine. A dresser, a table, an old bookcase laden with china plates. A traditional tiled fireplace, with peat smouldering in the hearth, which filled the room with the timeless reek of the islands.

Gunn sank into the settee and wondered how he was ever going to get out of it. Donnie, having suspected there might be a problem, remained standing. ‘Milk, sugar?’ the old lady said, as she went through to the kitchen.

‘Both,’ Gunn called after her.

‘Not for me,’ Donnie said.

She called back to them, ‘This house is built on the site of the original crofthouse, you know. Not the blackhouse. You’ll see the remains of that out the back. The croft itself extends right down to the shore, and my son had Dune Cottage built on it for the rental. To keep me in my old age.’

‘And has it?’ Gunn said.

Mrs Macdonald appeared at the kitchen door, the sound of the kettle fizzing behind her. ‘Oh, son, it’s been a marvellous investment. I get a thousand a week for it during the season.’

‘But Mr Maclean has it on a long-term let?’

‘Yes, he has. Been here . . . now, let me see . . .’ Her eyes darted sightlessly around the room as she made the calculation. ‘About eighteen months. Arrived early spring, last year. We gave him a good rate, too, because in the winter months it would usually lie empty, and it made the administration of it a lot easier.’

‘But he’s not here just now, you said.’

‘No, he’s not.’ And when she didn’t volunteer to tell them where he was, Gunn sighed and asked. ‘Och, he’s away to the mainland, Mr Gunn.’

‘You’re expecting him back, though?’

‘Well, he didn’t say he wouldn’t be. Though his let runs out in about four weeks.’ A whistling from the kitchen distracted her. ‘That’s the kettle now.’ And she disappeared back into it.

Gunn raised his voice a little. ‘Do you have an address for him?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Her voice came back through the open door. ‘Funny thing, we never dealt with him directly. The booking was made through an agency and paid for up front with a bank transfer. He just turned up one day and moved in.’

‘And what’s he like?’ Gunn glanced at Donnie, who had started wandering around the living room, examining ornaments on the shelves, occasionally picking one up to look at it. He was paying not the least attention to the conversation.

‘Oh, a nice enough young man, Mr Gunn. Keeps himself to himself, mind. Except, of course, for . . .’ She broke off and Gunn waited patiently for her to finish. But she didn’t. And she then appeared carrying a tray from the kitchen, laden with teapot, cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl. All in chintzy china. She laid it down on the shiny surface of the coffee table.

‘Except for what, Mrs Macdonald?’

She started to pour. ‘I shouldn’t really gossip, Mr Gunn.’ Though Gunn could tell that’s exactly what she was going to do. She dropped her voice to conspiratorial. ‘His relationship with her along the road.’

Donnie paused, a china figurine held in his hand, interest finally piqued.

‘Her along the road being . . . ?’ Gunn prompted her.

‘Mrs Harrison.’ She stood up and drew in her chin. ‘Shameless, she is. In and out of his house –’ she corrected herself – ‘
my
house – at all hours of the day and night. And right under the nose of her husband, too.’

Gunn cocked an eyebrow. ‘So she and Mr Maclean are having an affair?’

‘I really couldn’t say, Mr Gunn. But anyone who’s been watching the goings-on across the road would be entitled to draw their own conclusions.’ She handed a cup and saucer to Gunn. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ Then she turned to hand a cup to Donnie, who quickly replaced the figurine and grasped the saucer with both hands.

Gunn struggled to escape the clutches of the sofa to perch on the edge of it and milk and sugar his tea. ‘And her name is . . . ?’

‘Sally. And her husband, Jon. They stay in the big house at the top of the hill. The one with the glass front. Incomers, too. But just renters like Mr Maclean.’

As he stirred his tea, Gunn said, ‘Have you noticed anything odd about Mr Maclean’s behaviour recently, Mrs Macdonald?’

She frowned. ‘Odd in what way?’

‘Well, anything out of the ordinary.’

‘There’s nothing very ordinary about Mr Maclean, Detective Inspector.’ And Gunn noticed she had promoted him. ‘Says he’s here to write a book, though I’ve never seen any evidence of it, and he doesn’t seem to spend much time writing.’

‘A book about what?’

‘The disappearance of those poor lighthouse men on the Flannan Isles.’ Though their disappearance was more than a century old, she spoke as if she knew them personally. ‘He was back and forth to the islands quite a lot, by all accounts.’

Gunn and Donnie exchanged looks. ‘So he has a boat, then?’ Gunn said.

‘Well, he must have.’ She paused to think about it. ‘Yes, he does. Because I met him on the road the other day and he said he’d had an accident with it.’

‘What kind of accident?’

‘He didn’t say. But he was in some state, Mr Gunn. Soaked to the skin, and wearing one of yon bright orange life-jackets. Came up from the beach, he did, shivering so much he could hardly speak. Bleeding from his head, too.’

‘When was this?’

‘Oh, let me think . . . About five days ago, it would be. He hardly even seemed to know me.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d know where he keeps this boat?’

‘I really couldn’t say, Mr Gunn. Tea’s not too strong for you, is it?’

‘No, no, it’s fine, thanks.’ Gunn sipped at it. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him? How he spends his days when he’s not writing? I imagine there’s not a lot to do around here.’

‘Well, he’s never once been to the church, I can tell you that. Godless folk they are that come from the mainland.’ She raised her cup to her lips, then lowered it again without drinking. ‘He goes for long walks with that chocolate-coloured Lab of his. Frequently on the beach, though he heads up quite often over the coffin road.’

Gunn had heard of the coffin road, and knew that these days it was a trekking route for hill walkers. ‘What’s up there?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothing. Rocks and heather and a few wee lochs and cairns. Though it’s a long time since I walked the coffin road myself.’

‘I suppose he must have taken his dog with him to the mainland?’

‘No, I’ve seen Mrs Harrison out walking it, so he must have left it with them.’

Which suggested to Gunn that his intention was to return. ‘Anything else you can tell me about him? Does he have visitors?’

‘Not that I’ve seen.’ She blew on her tea then took a sip. ‘But he’s back and forth all summer to the Post Office in Tarbert with wee packages.’

‘What sort of packages?’

‘Well, they’re not big, but, you know, quite bulky. He uses yon padded envelopes.’

‘How often?’

‘Every week or so, I’d say. I don’t always see him leaving, myself, but I have a friend at the Post Office, Mary Macleod, who tells me he’s in there all the time. He has one of those PO boxes, you know? I can’t imagine why; there’s a perfectly good postal delivery to the house. Mary says he’s in and out all the time, from May to September, but hardly ever in the winter.’ She sipped pensively on her tea. ‘Never goes up the coffin road in the winter months either, or very rarely, anyway. Not that I blame him. Very exposed to the weather up there, it is.’

Gunn placed his cup and saucer carefully back on the tray and stood up with difficulty. He searched in his pockets to retrieve the photograph of the dead man, taken at the mortuary the previous night. He held it out for her to look at. ‘Do you know this man, Mrs Macdonald? Has he ever been a visitor at Dune Cottage?’