The Malice of Waves Read online

  He tied up the RIB before walking the island’s south coast which sloped from the central ridge down towards the sea. He found the shieling a few hundred metres away, situated at the bottom of a widening gully above a sandy beach and a small, horseshoe-shaped bay. The building’s atmosphere of desolation was familiar to Cal. The west coast and the islands were disfigured with dozens similar. They were abandoned or ruined, the lives that were lived there, the stories told, long forgotten. Cal always found the experience affecting, the emptiness of the building resonating with the loss of his own connection to an island way of life. His grandfather on his mother’s side had been born to that tradition off the north coast. Eilean Iasgaich or Fishing Island had been abandoned after World War Two, the village deserted. The house where his grandfather was born had become roofless and ruined, occupied only by sheep taking shelter from storms or by roosting jackdaws. In that respect the shieling was different. It was wind-and weather-tight: the roof still intact, the windows boarded and secured with metal bars. The door was solid and nailed to the frame. Attached was a printed notice enclosed in a box of toughened glass. The shieling was private property, it proclaimed. Anyone attempting to gain access for whatever reason would be prosecuted. The notice was signed by J. Close – ‘Mr David Wheeler’s legal representative’.

  To Cal, such a forceful reminder of individual property rights somewhere uninhabited seemed out of place. He thought of Ewan Chisholm and imagined how much more objectionable the warning would be to him. The shieling was where he had spent his summers, where he had been taught shepherding by his Uncle Donald. Somewhere close by, Ewan had planted a rowan tree in his uncle’s memory. David Wheeler had torn it from the ground, his ground. Cal felt indignation on Ewan’s behalf, as he always did when confronted with similar examples of a southern and urban mentality in a place where wildness and sharing – community – was more appropriate. The island had been turned into a memorial for one family, for one life, when multiple other lives had greater claim.

  It was the conundrum of possession in Highland Scotland – did this landscape rightfully belong to Wheeler or to those like Ewan and his uncle who worked it and had become captivated by it? Whether that provided the motive for Max Wheeler’s death, as Mr Close claimed, had still to be proved. But, in Cal’s opinion, it explained everything that had happened since: the alienation of the township and its hostile reaction to David Wheeler.

  Climbing the slope behind the shieling, he tried to work out where Max had pitched his tent. He knew the site was on higher ground somewhere to the west but couldn’t find exactly where it had been. Then he watched a raven soaring above the island ridge and envied its free spirit. On the plateau he leaned into the freshening wind and walked towards the sea cliff. Ahead of him was an elemental scene: a sky daubed different shades and textures of black and, below, a sea of leaden grey, rushing on ahead, as if now in competition with the wind to wreak havoc. Cal relished moments like these with the wind thuggish and bullying, the sea sliding and treacherous, its relentlessness of purpose masked by the magnificence of spectacle. After descending to the island’s northern shore, he watched the unfolding drama and marvelled at nature’s ability to deceive: how the beauty of waves hid their destructive force.

  It was just after five forty-five by the clock in Bella’s car. She had almost fifteen minutes to herself, time to think at last. So many problems were demanding attention. Driving to the disused quarry, her rendezvous with Pinkie Pryke, she fretted about Joss’s state of mind – the attack on McGill showed how emotional and disturbed she was. After listening to the animosity against her in the tea room, Bella also feared for her safety. Should Bella offer Joss her spare room until tempers cooled? Bella could imagine Catriona’s reaction. She’d sulk around the house, her face like thunder. Heaven knows where Catriona got the idea that Joss was interested in Ewan, or that Ewan was interested in Joss for that matter. Bella bit her lip. What a mess everything was!

  It was Bella’s bad luck the holiday chalet was booked for the next few days. Otherwise she could have put Joss there. Bella sighed. Nothing could be done. Helen Jamieson had emailed to say she was on the ferry. Bella had told Catriona to expect her between six thirty and seven, and to be sure she was in and not on one of her walks.

  As Bella drove on she wondered whether she gave Joss too much attention. Was that the cause of Catriona’s jealousy? Maybe it had nothing to do with Ewan. Was her niece feeling short-changed? She shouldn’t be, because Bella had dedicated her life to Catriona and to making sure the Deep Blue was a thriving business for her to take over. There was no winning with the girl. Bella thought of her white face, how lifeless it was, how lifeless she was. If only Bella could magic up some fun for her, but the township was hardly Glasgow. Dances as well as boys were few and far between, and Catriona had been careless to let go of a good one. What had gone wrong between her and Ewan? This time the split looked permanent. Catriona had even talked of leaving the township to study in Aberdeen or Edinburgh. She’d announced it as though she intended to punish Bella. After all Bella had done for her! The girl had been born ungrateful.

  As Bella was feeling thrown off course by events, so a gust of wind buffeted the car, making it veer across the narrow road. Now there was another problem: the storm was arriving sooner than forecast, the wind already strong. By nightfall, it would be blowing a gale and the crossing to Priest’s Island in the dark would be dangerous even for someone who knew the safe channels as well as Ewan. Bella decided on a change of plan. Instead of crossing the sound as soon as it was dark, Ewan would take Pinkie across at dusk. The gathering gloom would provide some cover but there would be sufficient light for Ewan to find his way. Every imaginable disaster passed through her head – Ewan capsizing, the police waiting at Ewan’s mooring when he made the return crossing. What was it that Mary-Anne said about a foreboding of something awful about to happen? Bella took a deep breath. She had to hold her nerve. What she was doing was right. Ewan should have the grazing rights on Priest’s Island. Morally, they belonged to him. If one crop on the island couldn’t be exploited for his benefit, another should be. Selling four or five eggs would do no harm. Chances were the ravens would lay again later that spring, since Pinkie would be removing the clutch before incubation was properly underway.

  The money would make all the difference to Ewan. Four thousand pounds would set him up nicely. He’d be able to enlarge his meagre flock of sheep and pay for improvements to the croft house. Bella had also hoped the money would make it possible for Ewan to propose to Catriona. In that regard he was a traditional young man, the type who wouldn’t take on a commitment like a wife until he could offer her a decent house. He was still sleeping on Donald’s single mattress and the kitchen was only an old range and sink. There was no proper bathroom. The house wasn’t in a state Ewan would wish for his bride, or so Bella thought. Still, they’d broken up now, and that had happened after Bella told Ewan about the money. She allowed herself a twinge of regret. Was there something different she could have done to help the course of love?

  Bella parked in the disused quarry, as arranged. She hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when a gentle tap at the window made her jump. Pinkie Pryke was outside, wearing waterproofs and a brown corduroy cap. Bella beckoned to him to come round to the front passenger door. She glanced at the clock as she leaned across to unlock it: six precisely. Pinkie Pryke was as good as his reputation. Bella’s admiration was short-lived. The stickler in Pinkie’s personality made him question every detail of Bella’s new plan.

  ‘Crossing the sound at dusk increases the risk of being seen,’ Pinkie said.

  ‘It’s either that or you won’t get across. This storm will have passed by tomorrow morning and there’ll be an hour or two before the next one arrives. That’s when you’ll be brought back. But if you don’t go this evening there might not be another opportunity to make a return crossing for a couple of days.’

  Pinkie snarled, ‘This wasn’t what
we arranged. I don’t like surprises.’

  ‘Tell that to the weather,’ Bella replied.

  Pinkie banged his hand against the dashboard. ‘I don’t like it.’

  Bella said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Pinkie reclining his seat. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed until it’s time to go,’ he growled. While Pinkie rested, Bella watched the clouds racing across the sky and suffered in silent exasperation. Why did Pinkie, like Catriona, blame her when all she was doing was trying to help?

  At six thirty, she woke Pinkie and handed him a balaclava to replace his cap. She waited while he put it on. ‘On second thoughts,’ she said, ‘you’d better duck below the dashboard when the car leaves the quarry. If anyone sees me with a male passenger, there’ll be gossip. I assume you’d prefer to avoid that. I most certainly would.’

  Bella detected reluctance on Pinkie’s part, as if she had sprung yet another surprise. She wondered whether he was married. If he was, she pitied his wife. Bella couldn’t imagine having to tiptoe around a man as fastidious as this. Soon she was passing Joss’s caravan. Round the next bend, Grant’s Croft came into view, the house and the side barn jutting against the sky. Ewan, as instructed, was waiting by the rough path to his jetty. A balaclava was pulled over his face. Bella checked her mirror before telling Pinkie he could sit up again.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Ewan pointed behind her, ‘Wheeler’s yacht is in the harbour. He’s sheltering from the storm.’

  ‘That’s marvellous,’ Bella said before explaining to Pinkie the chances of them being observed were negligible now. ‘A weight off my mind, I must say.’ The news about the Jacqueline made her realize how stressed she had been, how worried. ‘Thank goodness, no danger of witnesses,’ she said.

  Pinkie looked at Bella as though she was untrustworthy. ‘I thought that was the arrangement.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell that to the ravens?’ Bella snapped. ‘It’s not my fault they finished laying their eggs early, when the owner of the island was still here.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The arrangement,’ she said, ‘was that you would pay one thousand pounds before you were taken to the boat.’

  Pinkie stuck his hand in his pocket and put a roll of money on the dashboard.

  Bella counted twenty fifty-pound notes and gave them to Ewan. ‘That leaves two thousand to pay when you’ve got the eggs.’

  Cal checked the time. It was almost seven. Soon it would be dark and the squalls would start. He imagined the thump and crash of wind and waves, the sound and fury of unrestrained power – and felt the pull of it, the certainty that came over him at such times, that this was where he belonged, the only place: alone, on some wild coast in a storm. He listened for the sea breaking on the shore, for the rattle and shift of stones. Then he heard a different noise: rhythmic, like the stones, but mechanical. In the gloom, he saw a boat heading towards him. It bounced and tossed in the waves. Two hunched figures were aboard, one by the stern, the other at the bow. Cal shrank into the shadow of a rock. Thirty metres from him, the engine cut out and the boat pushed ashore. Both men got out. The one from the stern appeared agile and stocky. His companion appeared older and walked stiffly, a large backpack in his right hand. Both had their faces covered. The younger man pulled the boat higher on the shingle beach before tying it up. After a brief exchange – Cal could hear indistinct voices – they set off together, going uphill, the younger man leading, the older unsteady, his legs seeming still to be at sea. Cal watched them until they were lost in the evening. He shuffled further back in the shadows of the surrounding rocks.

  What had Mr Close said? ‘The island is a shrine to Max Wheeler. It must be respected at all times.’ Someone didn’t seem to know.

  It was just as the man on the ferry said. ‘Take the road south – there’s only one,’ was his reply to Helen Jamieson’s question about directions. ‘At the first junction – again there’s only one – you’ll see a wee slip road straight ahead. You can’t miss it.’

  She hadn’t missed it, though she had parked outside the Deep Blue with a sinking feeling. The tea room was in darkness, the door shut and locked. There didn’t seem to be a bell and night was falling. ‘My niece Catriona will be there to let you in and take you to the chalet,’ Bella MacLeod had reassured Helen after apologizing for her own absence. Though Helen hadn’t said so, she’d been pleased. Having Catriona to herself would allow her to make the nineteen-year-old’s acquaintance, woman to woman, broken heart to broken heart. Where was she, though? As Helen knocked on the door and called Catriona’s name, a voice behind her said, ‘I came as quickly as I could.’ Despite the distorting effects of the wind, Helen detected truculence. The girl’s face matched the voice, as Helen saw when she turned round. Catriona was standing a few paces away. She seemed fixed as though she had been there for a while, watching.

  ‘Oh, thank heaven,’ Helen exclaimed. ‘I thought I was going to have to spend the night in my car. Catriona … you are Catriona?’ From her description in the case files, Helen knew it was her. Even so, the girl’s white face was a shock, a pale moon.

  Catriona stared as if she too was matching a description to the person in front of her. Helen knew what it was – the potted biography she had deliberately let slip to Bella MacLeod when she was booking the chalet: thirty-two years old, no boyfriend, holidays alone, likes eating cake. After a moment’s consideration, Catriona said, ‘You’re Helen Jamieson, right?’

  Even though she was probably the only visitor expected that evening, the question disconcerted Helen. Did she look like that kind of woman?

  ‘Yes, I’m Helen.’ She was careful to drop the surname. The sooner Catriona and she were on first-name terms, the better. ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. Your aunt – Bella, she is your aunt, isn’t she? – told me to ask for you.’

  ‘I was looking out,’ Catriona said defensively. She pointed above Helen’s head, over the Deep Blue, to a looming, shapeless blackness against the dark sky. ‘Up there, on the hill. I came as quickly as I could when I saw your headlights.’ Helen registered the change: truculent one minute, almost apologetic the next.

  ‘That’s a hill, is it?’ Helen said doubtfully. ‘What were you doing, walking?’

  ‘There’s reception up there,’ Catriona said, ‘three, sometimes four bars.’

  ‘Ah, phone reception,’ Helen said. ‘I was wondering whether my phone would work.’

  ‘There’s no reception down here. That’s why I go up the hill when the tea room’s shut, or over that way.’ Catriona pointed to Helen’s right. ‘The hill’s better, though.’

  ‘Better reception?’

  ‘More bars and no one can see me from the road when it’s daylight.’

  ‘Well, Catriona,’ Helen said, ‘your secret’s safe with me.’

  In the car, Helen had devised a plan of attack. Call her Catriona whenever you can. Let her know she can trust you. Pay her a compliment. Build a relationship around coincidental similarities.

  The opportunity to compliment the teenager presented itself when Helen moved aside to let Catriona unlock the door. ‘It seems to me, Catriona, that you’re an important person to know.’ She made it sound casual, light.

  Whether that made the difference, Helen wasn’t sure. But she noticed a change in Catriona. As she led Helen through the tea room and out of the back door – ‘a short cut to the chalet, you’re welcome to use it when the tea room’s open’ – she appeared less watchful. She pointed out the side gate where Helen could come and go without everyone inside knowing her movements and where she could park her car. At the door of the chalet, Catriona was apologetic. She hoped it didn’t feel unlived in – it had been shut up during the winter. Helen was the first visitor of spring.

  ‘A swallow,’ Helen ventured.

  Catriona gave her a funny look.

  ‘Hmm,’ Helen said, ‘I see you don’t think I’m exactly built for flying between continents.’

  Catriona laughed, Helen too.


  ‘When I leave here you won’t recognize me. A new me …’

  Catriona opened the chalet door, turned on the light and stood back to let Helen precede her into a large square room. The walls were pine-panelled, a warm orange-yellow. Two tweedy sofas were on either side of a wood burner by the left-hand wall. A silver-coloured flue extended up to the ceiling. A rocking chair was by one of a pair of large windows. The sills of both were lined with books. ‘This is perfect,’ Helen said, ‘I won’t want to leave.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you lived here.’

  Helen waited before answering, making sure the pitch was just right. ‘No, it’s always different when you’ve grown up somewhere. It seems to close in on you, doesn’t it? Even a place with wide horizons like this.’

  Catriona looked wistful. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘In Edinburgh.’

  ‘Maybe we can change places.’ Her voice trembled a little with nerves.

  Helen pretended not to notice. ‘That’s an idea. You can have my flat and my ex. That sounds like a good deal to me.’

  Suddenly the tension left Catriona. She laughed. ‘And you mine. My ex, I mean.’

  ‘No! You too?’

  Catriona nodded.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Two months and four days.’

  Helen replied, ‘Six days, five hours …’ She looked at her watch, ‘and twenty minutes, give or take. That’s why I’m here. You see, we live across the street from each other. I couldn’t get away from him.’