The young man seemed startled. ‘Police? What could you possibly want to talk to us about?’
A chocolate Labrador, which had been stretched out in front of the fire, eased himself to his feet and came snuffling around Gunn’s legs. Gunn absently ruffled his head. ‘It was actually Neal Maclean I was looking for, but I hear he’s gone to the mainland.’
‘Yes,’ said the young woman. ‘We’re looking after Bran while he’s away.’
‘And you are Sally and Jon Harrison, is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ Jon said. ‘Is there a problem? Is Neal okay?’
‘As far as I know, sir. We’re just making some routine inquiries.’
‘About what?’ Sally, it seemed to Gunn, had paled a little.
‘We found a body on Eilean Mòr, out on the Flannan Isles, Mrs Harrison. And I understand Mr Maclean was a frequent visitor out there.’
Jon said, ‘Yes, he was. He’s writing a book.’ Then, ‘A body? Whose body?’
Gunn retrieved the photograph of the dead man and showed them it. ‘Do you know him?’ He watched carefully as they both took a good look but shook their heads, and he saw no sign of recognition in their eyes.
‘Who is he?’ Jon asked.
‘We don’t know yet, sir. But Mr Maclean was seen near where the body was found a couple of days ago, and we’d just like to ask him about anything he might have seen. Did he give you any idea when he might be back?’
The couple exchanged glances and she shrugged. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He didn’t. We’re not that close, really. Just neighbours who share the odd drink.’
Gunn glanced down at Bran and ruffled the dog’s neck. ‘Close enough for him to leave his dog in your care, though.’
Jon said, ‘He knows how fond we are of Bran. And it’s no trouble at all, really.’
Gunn avoided direct eye contact with Sally. ‘So what do you know about Mr Maclean?’
‘Very little, really,’ Jon said. ‘We’ve only been here for a year. Neal arrived about six months before us.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘We incomers tend to stick together.’
‘He’s on a sabbatical of some kind,’ Sally said. ‘To write his book.’
‘Sabbatical from what?’
They both shrugged, and it was Jon who responded. ‘He didn’t say. He’s a pretty private sort of bloke, and you kind of know instinctively when not to ask.’
‘But you know he was going back and forth to the Flannan Isles?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘In his own boat?’
‘Well, whether he owns it, or he’s just chartered it, I really couldn’t say. But, yes, he has one.’ Jon glanced again at Sally.
‘And he kept it where?’ Gunn asked.
‘Rodel,’ Sally said.
Gunn hesitated, and knew that this would be embarrassing. ‘Would you mind, Mr Harrison, if I had a word in private with your wife?’
Jon and Sally looked at each other in surprise. He said, ‘What on earth for?’
Gunn smiled awkwardly. ‘Well, if I were to say, then I wouldn’t need to speak to her in private, would I?’
Jon became defensive. ‘There’s nothing you can’t say to my wife in front of me.’
Gunn glanced at Sally, a wordless appeal for help, but there was none forthcoming. She said, ‘I’m perfectly happy to answer anything you might ask in the presence of my husband.’
Gunn’s mouth was dry as he turned towards Sally. ‘I’ve been led to believe, Mrs Harrison, that you and Mr Maclean have some kind of... relationship.’
Jon frowned, pre-empting any response from his wife. ‘Bollocks! Who told you that?’
‘You’ve been speaking to that nosy old cow down the road, haven’t you?’ Sally said, her face flushed, and Gunn couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or embarrassment. ‘Curtains twitching every time we’re in and out the house.’
Gunn said, ‘I thought you weren’t regular visitors.’
‘We’re not,’ Jon said. ‘But I’m back and forward to the mainland on business, and I know that Sally sometimes pops in for a drink with Neal. Only natural. But folk round here like to put their own twisted construction on things.’
Gunn wondered if that were true, or whether he might have got a different response had he been able to speak to Sally on her own. But there seemed no point in pursuing it any further now. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you,’ he said. And he fumbled through his pockets, the nylon of his anorak swishing loudly as he searched for another business card. When he finally found one, he handed it to Sally. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d let me know if you hear from him, or ask him to give me a call himself when he gets back.’
She took it, avoiding his eye. ‘Of course.’
At the door, he turned and said, ‘By the way, what is it, exactly, that you are doing here?’
‘We’re on a sabbatical of sorts ourselves,’ Jon said. ‘A year out.’
‘And what business are you in, back on the mainland?’
‘Concrete.’ Jon forced a smile. ‘Up to my neck in it. Have to go back to Manchester every so often to make sure the mixer’s still turning.’
Gunn nodded. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’
Outside, he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his anorak and hunched against the wind as he walked back down the road. That they were both lying about her relationship with Neal seemed entirely possible, although whether they were simply in denial about a fracture in their own relationship or there was some more sinister motive, he couldn’t judge. Whatever the truth, he didn’t much care for either of them.
He checked his watch. There was still plenty of time to get to the Post Office at Tarbert, but first he wanted a quick chat with the traveller who had installed himself on the far machair and liked to watch folk through binoculars.
Beyond the metalled road, the path that led down on to the horned peninsula at the far side of the bay was little more than two sand-filled tyre tracks. Gunn bumped his car over the humps and dips and wondered if he would ever manage to get back again.
It was hopelessly exposed here to all the incoming weather.
Not a place, he thought, that you would choose to site a caravan. Certainly not on a permanent basis. And when he arrived, he saw immediately how Buford had secured it by roping it all around to metal stakes driven deep into the sandy soil. There was a radio mast on the lee side of the mobile home, also pegged down with guys, and a small generator. A large satellite dish was securely bolted to the south-east corner. Gunn wondered what kind of ‘traveller’ it was who watched satellite TV and required high-tech radio comms.
An old, battered Land Rover with a canvas roof sat parked a few yards away. Gunn opened his car door and stepped out into the wind that drove in off the Sound of Taransay, and wondered how much more exposed it might be here if the island itself weren’t there. He crossed first to the Land Rover and rested his hand briefly on the engine cowling. It was stone cold. Then he turned to look at the caravan. It had seen better days, scarred and dented by who knew how many miles. The nearside tyre looked almost flat. A washing line extended from the caravan to a securely fixed pole, and several items of greylooking underwear strained in the wind at the clips that held them. A salt-bleached wooden box, pegged to the ground, stood below the door, acting as a step. Gunn leaned beyond it and knocked firmly on the door itself. He waited nearly half a minute before knocking again. Still there was no response. He tried lifting the handle, but the door was locked. Unusual for these parts. Still, the man was an incomer and wasn’t to know that no one around here ever locked their doors. There was no reason to. All Gunn’s instincts, however, were telling him that the man called Buford hadn’t gone off somewhere and locked up behind him. With his Land Rover sitting there, and no sign of the man on the road, Gunn had the strongest suspicion that Buford was, in fact, at home, had locked the door from the inside and was simply ignoring Gunn’s knock.