FORTY-NINE

The weather changed overnight. When Harry tugged back the curtains of their room next morning, he was met by a vista of blanketing grey. Low cloud had bonneted the hills and pulled in the horizon. The coast of Vatersay was barely distinguishable in the murk. The hummocked shapes of Vatersay's other hills and the uninhabited islands beyond, which Harry had seen the previous evening, were just a memory.

He washed and shaved, then made coffee, using the sachets and kettle provided. Chipchase stirred at the sound of the kettle boiling, but uttered no words until several gulps of black coffee had passed his lips.

'Are migraines contagious? I think I might have caught young Marky's.'

'I expect you'll find it's just a standard hangover.'

'Yeah, well, thanks for the sympathy. I didn't sleep well, you know.'

'That snoring was just for show, was it?'

'I mean I had some disturbing dreams. In one of them you came back from a midnight stroll with Dougie McLeish and claimed he'd told you Nixon and Maynard had been ferreting around here twenty odd years ago — and Nixon had gone drownabout after a day trip to Haskurlay.'

'That's what the man said.'

'I don't like the way this is shaping up, Harry old cock. You'd agree with me we've never been to the Outer bleeding Hebrides before, wouldn't you?'

'I haven't, certainly.'

'Well, neither have I.'

'I believe you. At any rate, I believe you believe it.'

'Don't start talking in riddles, Harry, for God's sake.'

'But it is a riddle, Barry, isn't it? That's the problem.'

—«»—«»—«»—

They knocked at Howlett's door on their way down to breakfast, but got no reply. Nor was there any sign of him in the restaurant. They reckoned he must be taking a shower and assumed he would join them before they had finished munching their way through porridge, bacon and eggs and several slices of toast. But he did not.

Harry gave his absence little thought, preoccupied as he was by what sort of a breakfast Donna would be having with Jackie in Swindon. As distracted a one as his, if not more so, seemed likely to be the answer. He longed to call her and set her mind at rest, but sensed that if he did she would start for Barra as soon as he put the phone down. Until he had spoken to Ailsa Redpath and knew what and who they were up against, it was safer to leave Donna in ignorance of his plans and whereabouts. But safe was not easy. Far from it.

—«»—«»—«»—

Chipchase popped out of the hotel for a cigarette after breakfast, leaving Harry to try Howlett's room again. When he reached it, he found the door held half-open by a rubbish bag. He stepped in to be greeted by a cleaning lady, who was busy making the bed.

'Good morning.'

'Good morning. I, er… was looking for… Mr Howlett.'

'An early riser, I'm glad to say. Maybe he's looking round the town.'

'Yeah. Right. Thanks.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Chipchase was coming back into the hotel, frowning in puzzlement, as Harry reached the foot of the stairs.

'Marky's Fiasco doesn't seem to be in the car park, Harry. What d'you make of that?'

'He must have driven over to Vatersay.'

'Without us?'

'Looks like it.'

'But… why?'

'God knows. We'll ask him — if we get the chance.'

'What are we going to do?'

'Follow him. What else?'

—«»—«»—«»—

Following was easier said than done. Taxis were not a Barra speciality and the landlady's recommendation of the bus came with a caveat: the service to Vatersay was infrequent and the next one was not due until 10.35. Harry was reduced to looking at the framed Ordnance Survey map in the entrance hall and wondering if they could walk it. But he reckoned they would be overtaken en route by the bus even if they set off straight away. And that assumed Chipchase's questionable stamina got him to the top of the first hill. Besides, there was no way to tell how much of a start Howlett had on them. In that sense, haste was pointless. The 10.35 bus would have to suffice.

Harry's eye drifted down the map beyond Vatersay's southern coast to the uninhabited islands strung out like a giant's stepping-stones across the broad blue expanse of the featureless ocean. There, among them, was Haskurlay, its contours and crenellations minutely represented. But no roads were marked, no place names, no settlements. The island had freed itself of man. It stood alone and apart. It meant nothing to him. Nothing at all.

Yet it seemed Harry meant something to Haskurlay. And it also seemed he was bound to find out what.

—«»—«»—«»—

The bus — more accurately, minibus — pulled away punctually from Castlebay post office at 10.35 on what the driver aptly described as 'a dull, dreich morning' and bore its two passengers — Harry and Barry — away towards Vatersay.

'Sparky Marky was planning to cut us adrift all along, wasn't he?' said Chipchase as the bus climbed into the cloudbank west of the town. 'Migraine my left buttock. He probably drove over to the Munro place last night, while we were in the bar pouring malt whisky down Dougie bloody McLeish.'

'More likely he waited until we were tucked up in bed. But, yes, the migraine does seem to have been a ploy. What I don't understand is—'

'We could draw up a bloody long list of things you and I don't understand about this, Harry, so I suggest you save your breath.'

'All I'm saying is: why wouldn't he want us with him when he confronted Ailsa Redpath?'

'Because there was something he wasn't telling us. That's why.'

'But what?'

'Dunno. But I'll bet Ailsa does. And Karen the comely archaeologist, who's probably skulking over there with her. And the stay-at-home brother too. McLeish as well, I shouldn't wonder. They all know. Everyone knows.' Chipchase fixed Harry with a look of uncharacteristic seriousness. 'Everyone except you and me.'