Chapters (43)
- Pronunciation
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Acknowledgments
From his dormer window, he looked down on the pier in the fading light as the CalMac ferry from Oban, with its red twin funnels, emerged from the rain to manoeuvre itself up to the ramp and lower the door of its car deck. Tiny figures in yellow oilskins braved the weather to wave the cars off. Fin wondered how it must have been for those poor bewildered kids, plucked from everything they had known and dumped here on the pier to face their fate. And he felt anger at the men whose religion and politics had dictated it.
Who had known about it then, apart from those involved? Why had it never been reported in the press, as it certainly would be today? How would people have reacted had they known what was going on? His own parents, he was sure, would have been outraged. Anger welled within him as he thought about it. The anger of a parent. And the hurt of an orphan. His ability to empathize with those wretched children was almost painful. He wanted to lash out and hit something, or someone, on their behalf.
And the rain ran down his window like tears spilled for all those poor lost souls.
He crossed his room to sit on the edge of the bed in the evening gloom, and as he turned on his bedside lamp felt depression descend on him like a shroud. From the address book on his mobile phone he tracked down George Gunn’s home number and hit the dial key. Gunn’s wife answered, and Fin recalled the invitations George had extended on more than one occasion to come and eat wild salmon with him and his wife. He had still never met her.
“Hello, Mrs. Gunn, it’s Fin Macleod here. Is George there?”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Macleod,” she said, as if they were old friends. “One moment. I’ll go and get him.”
After a few moments he heard Gunn’s voice. “Where are you, Mr. Macleod?”
“Lochboisdale, George.”
He heard the surprise in his voice. “What on earth are you doing down there?”
“I’m pretty certain that Marsaili’s dad came from Eriskay. And I think there might be a way of identifying who he was. Or is. But I have to play a wild card, George, and I need your help.”
There was a long silence. “In what way?”
“Did you ever get those drawings done of the blanket pattern bleached into the lividity of the body?”
More surprise. “I did. The artist was in today, actually.” He paused. “Are you going to let me in on this?”
“I will, George, when I know for sure.”
There was a sigh at the other end of the line. “You’re stretching my patience, Mr. Macleod.” Fin waited. Then, “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to fax the drawings to me here at the Lochboisdale Hotel.”
Twenty-seven
Twenty-seven