The Comforts of Home Page 6

  ‘When are you going to get used to me and stop growling, Wooks?’

  Cat read on for another minute, and then closed the novel.

  ‘Just ignore him.’

  ‘I’ve lived here for four months and he still treats me like a burglar.’

  ‘Wouldn’t make much impression on one.’

  ‘If I snap my fingers in front of him he bares his teeth.’

  ‘Then don’t. Hello, you. Went the day well?’

  Kieron sighed. ‘Too much admin, an overlong meeting with the Commissioner, and a madwoman. No, correct that – an obsessed woman. I feel very sorry for her actually – her daughter disappeared a few years ago, presumed kidnapped, she’s sure she knows who did it, so are we, he’s in prison for two murders as it is – he confessed to them, but he’s adamant he didn’t have anything to do with this one. She wants justice, understandably – she wants closure. Impasse.’

  ‘Marion Still.’

  ‘You know about her?’

  ‘She’s a patient. So was Kimberley. How did she seem?’

  ‘Fixated. Not overtly emotional.’

  ‘What did you say – that there’s nothing you can do?’

  ‘More or less. But I was thinking about it on the way home …’

  ‘Russon’s responsible, isn’t he?’

  ‘It seems likely but I don’t know all the details, it was before my time here. I’m going to call up the files and have a look.’

  ‘I had an email from an old med school friend this morning. Luke Renfrew. I used to quite fancy him.’

  ‘Not rising to that. Just don’t tell me he’s moving to Lafferton.’

  ‘Starly actually, and don’t worry, he’s gay.’

  ‘Leopards change their spots.’

  ‘Not Luke. His partner’s a very rich Italian who has just bought the hotel. He wants to talk to me about a project … the least I can do is let him give me lunch there. Old times’ sake and all that.’

  She shrieked in mock fright as Kieron lunged over at her. It was not evident to Wookie that the lunge was in play.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  The dog had nipped his arm sharply, leapt off the sofa and fled.

  ‘I could die of this,’ Kieron said.

  ‘No you couldn’t, presuming you’ve had a tetanus jab. If it starts to throb or gets swollen, I’ll give you penicillin but let’s put a plaster on it for now.’ Cat swabbed the bite with disinfectant.

  ‘There’s a Dangerous Dogs Act, you know.’

  ‘Wookie is not a dangerous dog.’

  He stuck his forearm out. ‘He just isn’t used to you living here. I’m going to cook supper.’ Kieron followed her. ‘And for goodness’ sake stop clutching your arm like that.’

  ‘It’s throbbing.’

  ‘No it isn’t, it’s just sore.’

  He sat down and looked mournfully at the plaster. ‘Anyway, what did this Luke guy who you fancy, say?’

  ‘He didn’t … just something he wants to pick my brains about.’

  ‘Joining up with your lot?’

  ‘I doubt it, and anyway, that wouldn’t be my call, I’m not a partner. Here, top and tail these beans for me.’

  ‘I don’t think I can move my right arm.’

  ‘You can move your right arm.’ She dumped pan, beans and knife in front of him. ‘Meanwhile, you said you had some thoughts about Kimberley Still’s murder?’

  ‘Not very useful ones. I’m going to look through the files when I’ve got time.’

  ‘Which will be when, exactly?’

  He groaned.

  ‘Surely there’s someone who’s got more time than you.’

  Kieron had picked up a handful of beans. He put them down again. ‘Now you mention it …’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Simon,’ he said.

  Eight

  The storm had been brewing up all afternoon and by the time the last ferry turned into the harbour the boat was bucking and rising through huge waves, the gale blowing across its bows, so that it had to turn and come back into the dock three times. When they tied up, only the crew were steady on their feet and cheerful.

  Sam had never been seasick but this trip had tested him. He steadied himself as he stepped onto the quay, and the ground seemed to surge beneath his feet. He hauled his rucksack onto his shoulders and looked up the slope to where the lights of the pub still shone out. He had not meant to arrive so late. The plan had been to catch a ferry in the early afternoon, but what with one thing and another, including oversleeping, not being able to hitch a lift and then racing for a train just as it left and which turned out to be going in the wrong direction, he had only just made it before they shut down.

  ‘You’re lucky. Likely they won’t set out at all in the morning if the forecast’s correct.’

  It was dark and there was no one waiting on the quay. The only other passengers were a man wearing a rucksack, who strode off alone towards the car park, and a party of field trip students, who were climbing into a waiting minibus that would drive them across to the other side of the island and the field centre. The crew were clearing out the boat and making ready to leave. Sam went up the slope to the pub. There were a couple of bikes and a battered Transit van outside. Inside, it was quiet, except for the sound of the gale and two men drinking at the bar. They turned as the door opened.

  ‘Come in and shut that door, laddie, or we’ll be swept out to sea.’

  Sam had not taken any steps nearer once the door was closed.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a whisky maybe, looking as green as you do.’

  ‘I’m fine. Does anybody have a car that would pick me up?’

  ‘They do not, not at this time of night in this weather. Where are you heading?’

  ‘Come on, boy, have the dram on me.’ The red-headed man pushed some coins across the bar top to the barman. ‘I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘I’ve been here before.’

  ‘Go on then … Here’s to you and a long life.’ Sam looked at the whisky. He had never tried it but they were watching him. All three of them. He raised his glass and drank it in two gulps, like the medicine it tasted of, set the glass down and asked again if there was any chance of a lift across the island.

  The barman sighed. ‘My junk heap’s away to the garage with a split sump, the wife rides a bike and you wouldn’t want to be borrowing that tonight. You’ll be leaving yours here as well, I take it, John?’

  The red-headed man slid off the bar stool. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Thanks for the drink,’ said Sam.

  He nodded, then slipped out of the door, letting in a further blast.

  ‘He only lives a hundred yards up the hill. If you’re talking about going to the other side, you’ll be out of luck tonight. I dinnae have an empty room but you’re welcome to sleep on ma couch. You’re Simon’s young cousin, aren’t you?’

  ‘Nephew.’

  ‘I remember. He’s about three miles but you can’t walk in this.’

  Sam looked at his rucksack. He could sleep on the couch a few hours and be up at dawn, when the storm might have blown itself out, but as he was about to accept the offer, wheels slewed up outside and the door was flung out of the hands of the person entering. Outside was a maelstrom of spray, rain and wind.

  The landlord let out a roar of laughter. ‘Now then, here’s the only person mad enough to be out in this, truck or no.’

  The woman who came in was wearing a green oilskin, boots, and a sou’wester she tipped off her head, letting water stream off it onto the mat.

  She hesitated for a few seconds, glancing round the room and noting Sam and the other drinker at the bar, who now decided to call it a night.

  ‘I need a new gas bottle if you’ve any left off the last stack, Iain. Damn thing. I’m sure it wasnae empty. I’ve never used a whole one already.’

  Iain laughed. ‘You never have, Sandy. I’m forever telling you and now you’ll have me out the back in this weather lugging your gas bottle.’<
br />
  ‘I’ll have half a lager to soften the blow.’

  Iain pulled her drink. ‘I’ll get your gas. Look after this young man for me.’ They exchanged a quick look, which Sam took to mean, Keep an eye on him and mind he doesn’t help himself to a drink or anything else.

  Sandy turned. She gave him the once-over, summing him up, he thought. He felt uncomfortable. ‘Sandy Murdoch. Did you come off the last boat?’

  Sam nodded. ‘I thought I could get a lift from here but no luck.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be, night like this. Where are you heading?’

  He hesitated. Anywhere else and he would never have told a stranger, but on the island it must be OK. Everyone knew everyone else’s business and shared it freely, every visitor was noted and assessed.

  ‘My uncle’s. He’s at Stane.’

  ‘Simon? Well, aye, now I look at you. You’ve his good bone structure, though not his colouring – or his eyes.’

  ‘You know him all right then.’ Sam looked sideways at the woman. She had a bony face, rough, straw-coloured hair.

  ‘You’re not drinking,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, I won’t say I never drink alone but I’d rather have company. When Iain comes back, what will you have?’

  ‘A lemonade?’

  ‘Away with you.’

  Sam did not answer and they sat in silence until the landlord came back.

  ‘It’s in the jeep and now look at the state of me.’

  ‘Thanks, Iain. A dram for Sam and I’ll take the other half off you.’

  She ignored Sam’s protest, and brought his whisky to the table, along with a half-pint of lemonade.

  ‘That’s the way to chase it down,’ she laughed, raising her own glass.

  Fifteen minutes later, she had got Sam’s life history out of him. He had a second whisky, and the bar took on a golden glow. He was pleasantly tired, and suddenly ravenous.

  ‘Right,’ Sandy said, slapping down her glass and standing. ‘I’m taking you off to your uncle before I have to carry you out of here. And I could, mind.’

  Sam felt slightly unsteady but walked with determination to the door. When he opened it, the gale took it out of his hand and slammed it back.

  ‘Hold on there – forgotten something.’ Sandy went back into the bar quickly. Sam watched her. She seemed a decent person, someone he felt a sudden burst of affection towards. Whisky seemed to bring out the best in everything.

  It was warm in the jeep once the heater was blasting out, making a noise like a turbine over the rattling of the rain on the roof and the wind whistling through the badly fitting windows. Sam thought he would have been happy to travel like this for a thousand miles. His head sang.

  ‘What was all that stuff about?’

  ‘What stuff?’

  Sam was trying to get his tongue round the question he wanted to ask her, but by the time he did, he had forgotten it.

  The windscreen wipers found coping with the torrential rain too much and just scraped weakly across and back, pause, across and back, pause.

  ‘How can you see out?’

  ‘You get used to this. I know the road.’

  Were you born here, Sandy?’

  ‘No. But I love this place, Sam. People come here in June, July and it’s all peaches and cream and they don’t see it at all. Simon loves it, don’t you think? Christ.’

  The jeep skidded sideways across the wet road. Sandy righted it skilfully, and they were on the last straight. Sam looked out of the window but could make out nothing.

  ‘Is this far out of your way?’

  ‘Not far.’

  They were turning. ‘There you are … home. Now you mind yourself – it’s streaming water and there’ll be a slick of mud.’

  ‘Thank you very, very much. It’s really kind of you. I’m really grateful. Thanks. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Sam.’ He saw that Sandy was laughing. At him? It annoyed him and he was about to challenge her, standing there in the rain and wind, but then she was backing away, wheels spraying up mud and water, and before he reached Simon’s front door he had forgotten what he was going to say.

  Half an hour later, after a hot bath, a change of clothes into some of Simon’s and the contents of his rucksack put into the wash, Sam sat in front of a mug of tea, watching eggs, bacon and fried potatoes sizzling on the range. Simon had said little beyond the initial ‘Bloody hell’ as he had taken in the drenched, unsteady figure standing outside. Now, he listened to his nephew’s perfunctory but slightly more sober account of his journey. He did not ask what he had drunk, guessing that it had not actually been a great deal.

  ‘What’s happened to your hair?’ Sam asked suddenly, staring at him as if he had only just seen him in the room.

  ‘Bit drastic?’ Simon ran a hand over it. The blond mop, which usually flopped over his forehead, had been cropped very short, showing up the bones of his face and the length of his neck.

  ‘Bit like a convict.’

  ‘Thanks. Just that Geordie can’t cut it properly so I’d rather have him get the clippers out. Lasts longer as well. Do you want fried bread?’

  ‘No thanks. Tomatoes though?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Simon put the plate in front of him, and waited until Sam had wolfed down three or four mouthfuls and was pausing to drink. Then he said, ‘OK, you’ve told me how you got here. But why?’

  ‘Well, you know, I was nearby.’

  ‘Nobody is nearby Taransay.’

  ‘Well, sort of. Haven’t seen you for a bit. I thought I should.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘How’s … ?’ He nodded towards Simon’s arm.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Great.’

  Simon left him alone, made more tea and put a ginger slab cake on a plate. Kirsty made them at home and sold them, along with several other bakes, in the store. They went quickly and added a bit to their family income, as did the eggs from the chickens. Life was frugal on the island. Nothing was wasted.

  In the short summer tourist season, everyone hoped to make up for a long winter of low earnings. It was a way of life Simon liked but doubted if he was hardy enough to enjoy for long. Besides, he bored too easily for such a limited existence.

  They sat opposite one another, hearing the storm still lashing outside. Sam raised his mug. ‘Thanks, Si.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘There is something I kind of want to run past you.’

  Simon waited, discounting Sam’s casualness of tone.

  An uproar of wind and rain surged at the windows. ‘I hope she got back to her house OK.’

  ‘Who, Sandy? Don’t you worry about Sandy – she’s a survivor if ever I met one. And when there’s unloading, she does the work of two men.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Over the hill towards the shore.’

  ‘With a family?’

  ‘No. On her own. If there’s a family elsewhere she’s never talked about them.’

  ‘You know her well?’

  ‘As neighbours – everyone looks out for everyone else here. They have to. She’s been in for a cup of tea when she’s brought over something. Why?’

  Sam shrugged and looked away. Simon laughed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘You have to be joking. She’s … well … NO.’

  ‘OK. Your girlfriends are always uber glam, that’s true.’

  ‘What about yours?’

  ‘Get off!’

  ‘Ella, wasn’t it?’

  Sam threw a cushion. ‘Listen … I was going to ask Kieron about this but then, I … I suppose I just trust you.’

  ‘No reason not to trust him, Sam, he’s a good man … good cop. You’re OK with him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, and Mum’s happy so … keeps her off my case.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘The police. This SO17 thing I’ve always had.’

  Sam had wanted to be a member of t
he armed police ever since he, and Simon, could remember. The original plan had been to get a good degree and join the force, fast-tracking into the armed unit as soon as possible. He had been rifle shooting for the past couple of years and quickly become skilled. He had topped the county tables as a clay-pigeon shooter, but refused to have anything to do with killing wildlife. It had been the subject of several heated conversations with Kieron, who could not understand how his stepson could contemplate, as he must, shooting a human being dead, when he would not, on principle, shoot a pheasant. Sam had simply insisted that the two were unrelated. In the end, at Cat’s insistence, they’d agreed to avoid the subject altogether.

  ‘I’ve been thinking … maybe reconsidering.’

  ‘About being a cop?’

  Sam shifted about. Reached for his mug. Drank. Shifted about again. Simon waited.

  ‘When you left med school halfway through –’

  ‘Less than that. I’d barely finished my second year.’

  ‘OK, why did you? I mean, the real reason?’

  ‘The real reason is the same as every other reason. I didn’t want to be a doctor. I knew it before I started but I was … oh, I don’t know, Sam, persuaded, pushed. In this family, we are doctors. And I wasn’t absolutely against it – not till I started anyway. And by then, I knew it was the police I wanted to join not the medics.’

  ‘Did you ever regret it? Think you might change your mind again?’

  ‘Not for a second. I’d have made a rubbish doctor.’

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘I do know that. But I wanted to be a cop and I have loved every minute of it. Well – almost every minute.’ He touched his arm. ‘It was a no-brainer.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, where’s your thinking leading you?’

  ‘Can I have another tea?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard against a sudden roaring of the wind.

  Sam was not inarticulate but he was cautious. He did not commit himself to serious words until he was sure of exactly what he wanted to say, but Simon guessed that he had been thinking hard about this for some time and now only needed to take a deep breath. He would not have come all this way, on a complicated journey, without many a rehearsal.