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
The church at Scarista stood proud on the hill above a strip of mown grass peppered with headstones marking the final resting place of generations of worshippers. A hell of a view, Fin thought, to take with you to eternity: the smudged and shadowed blue of distant mountains beyond the yellow of the Scarista sands; the ever-changing light from a never-resting sky; the constant refrain of the wind, like the voices of the faithful raised in praise of the Lord.
Fin looked up at the church building. As plain and unadorned as the church at Crobost. “I want to see if there’s a boat inside,” he said.
Gunn scowled. “A boat? In the church?”
“Aye, a boat.” Fin tried the door and it opened in. He passed through the vestibule into the body of the church, Gunn at his heels, and of course there was no boat. Just a plain beechwood altar draped in purple, a pulpit raised high above it from which the minister, in his exalted and privileged position closer to heaven than the masses to whom he preached, would deliver the word of God.
“What in heaven’s name made you think there would be a boat in the church, Mr. Macleod?”
“Tormod Macdonald spoke of a boat in the church, George. A church built by fishermen.”
“He must have made it up.”
But Fin shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think Marsaili’s dad is confused and frustrated; he has trouble with words, and memories, and how to communicate them. And maybe he’s even hiding something. Consciously or otherwise. But I don’t think he’s lying.”
Outside the wind had, if anything, grown stronger and less forgiving. They felt the blast of it as they stepped from the church.
“The whole of Harris is pretty much a Protestant island, George, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is, Mr. Macleod. I suppose there might be one or two Catholics around, like sheep who’ve strayed from the fank, but for the most part they’re all in the southern isles.” He grinned. “Better weather and more fun.” He lowered his voice. “I hear the supermarkets even sell you booze on a Sunday.”
Fin smiled. “I think hell will freeze over before we ever see that on Lewis, George.” He opened the car door. “Where to now?”
“Back to Tarbert, I think. I’d like a copy of Tormod’s birth certificate from the registrar.”
The office of the registrar was to be found in council offices occupying the former school hostel in West Tarbert, a drab, flat-roofed building erected in the late 1940s to provide accommodation for pupils from far-flung corners of the island attending the town’s secondary school. The house opposite hid in seclusion behind a profusion of trees and shrubs, almost certainly cultivated to hide the ugliness of the building on the other side of the road.