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
“Why not? It’s just words. I bet Jesus knew a few choice ones. You were pretty colourful yourself at one time.”
Donald folded his arms. “What’s your point, Fin?”
“My point is, it’s all right for you to make a mistake. But God help that wee girl of yours, or Fionnlagh, if they do the same. You gave yourself a second chance because there was no one around to judge you back then. But you’re not prepared to cut the same slack for your own daughter. What is it? Fionnlagh not good enough for her? I wonder what Catriona’s parents thought about you.”
Donald was almost white with anger. His mouth was pinched and drawn in tight. “You never get tired of judging others, do you?”
“No, that’s your job.” Fin jabbed a finger at the ceiling. “You and Him up there. I’m just an observer.”
He turned to leave the vestry, but Donald grabbed him. Strong fingers biting into his upper arm. “What the hell’s it to you anyway, Fin?”
Fin turned back and pulled his arm free. “Language, Donald. We’re in the house of the Lord, remember? And you should know that hell is very real to some of us.”
Fifteen
Fifteen
It was cold in here. A place suitable for the dead. The white-coated assistant slid open the drawer of the chill cabinet, and Fin found himself looking down on the remarkably well-preserved peat-stained face of a young man with boyish features who could not have been much older than Fionnlagh.
Gunn nodded to the assistant, who discreetly slipped away. He said, “This is between you and me, Mr. Macleod. Anyone finds out about this, I’m dead meat.” And he flushed slightly. “If you’ll pardon the pun.”
Fin looked at him. “Don’t think I underestimate the size of the favour, George.”
“I know you don’t. But it didn’t stop you asking.”
“You could have said no.”
Gunn tilted his head in acknowledgement. “I could.” Then, “Better be quick, Mr. Macleod. I’m led to believe that decomposition will progress rapidly.”
Fin slipped a small digital camera from his pocket, and lined himself up to take a photograph of the young man’s face. The flash reflected back off all the tiles around them. He took three or four, from different angles, then slipped the camera back in his pocket. “Anything else that might be useful for me to know?”
“He lay in a blanket of some sort, for several hours after death. It’s left its pattern on his back, buttocks, his calves and the backs of his thighs. I’m waiting for the photographs from the pathologist, and we’ll get an artist to make a sketch of it.”
“But you’ve nothing to compare it with?”
“No. There was nothing found with the body. No blanket, no clothes . . .”