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.’