SIXTY-FOUR

The funeral of Murdo Munro took place on Vatersay a week later. Harry was the only mourner who was neither a relative nor an islander. Ailsa had asked him to attend if he could, though her husband's demeanour suggested he would have preferred him to stay away. Others may have felt the same. Dougie McLeish for one shot him several disapproving glances as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Nothing was actually said, though. Even by McLeish.

Much would be said later, of course. The rumour mill would grind on, probably for years. Harry knew that. He also knew that attending the gathering held afterwards in Vatersay's community hall would not be the smartest of moves. Murdo's friends were aware that a great deal was being kept from them about the circumstances of his death. They did not need Harry's company to remind them of the fact.

Ailsa was to some degree in the same position as Harry, though granted special consideration as the sister of the deceased and only surviving child of the late lamented Hamish. This, she explained when she drove Harry up to the airport in good time for his flight back to Glasgow, was the real reason why she had pressed him to come in the first place.

'You're the only person who experienced it all with me,' she said, as they crossed the causeway to Barra. 'I'm holding out on people to greater or lesser degrees and they know it. Aunts, uncles, cousins, old friends of the family. Even my own children. I tell them so much and no more. It's in their own interests, of course, but…'

'It rankles.'

'It does. With them and me. There's no alternative. I realize that. And Iain agrees. I've told him everything. As I assume you have your wife. Does she feel the same way?'

'Yes. Let sleeping dogs lie seems to be the general consensus.'

'Sleeping dogs — or dead ones.'

'What has Knox told you about Wiseman's death?'

'Heart failure. A congenital weakness, apparently.'

'Congenital — and convenient.'

'Quite.'

Wiseman's death was of course even more convenient than Ailsa knew, since it ensured no-one would need to ask awkward questions about who else might have killed Danger-field — and why. But Harry had no intention of mentioning that aspect of the affair, so it seemed safer to change the subject. 'Will you keep the croft in the family?' he asked.

'No, no. We'll let it go. There'll be nothing to bring me back here now. And in the circumstances…'

'That may be best.'

'Yes. It may.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry had spent the previous night at the Heathbank Hotel, close to the airport and diplomatically distant from Castlebay. They stopped there to collect his bag. The cycle of the tides had shifted flights to and from Barra into the afternoon since his last visit. The plane was not due to depart for Glasgow until 4.15, leaving him with time on his hands. Ailsa was in no hurry to return to Vatersay. It was clear to Harry, indeed, that she was glad of any excuse not to. She drove him out past the airport to a beach at the far northern end of the island, where they strolled across an empty expanse of white sand beneath a wide blue sky mirrored in the glassy plane of the ocean.

'Good weather for a landing on Haskurlay,' said Ailsa, after they had walked in silence for several minutes.

'Will you ever go there again?'

'I'm not sure.'

'I saw a photograph at the house of the three of you as children on a trip to the island with your father. You all looked… very happy.'

'That photograph is how I'd like to remember it. And them. And maybe I can. If I stay away. Ironically, of course, you've never been there.'

'No. Though if Wiseman had had his way…'

'Why did he do it? Killing Father and Andrew in a panic was… almost pardonable. But cold-bloodedly commissioning the murder of several of his old comrades fifty years later … How could he bring himself to do that?'

'As far as he made any sense on the subject to me, it came down to pride and vanity. He couldn't stomach the shame of admitting what he'd done. And it seems he never thought of us as his comrades in any true sense. We were just… problems he hired Frank to solve for him.'

'But in the process… he lost his own son. Poetic justice, I suppose. Blood for blood.'

'Is that how it seems to you?'

'No, Harry. It just seems like a madness that's run its course. And for that at least… I'm grateful.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Half an hour later, they were standing in the airport car park next to the terminal building, watching the small Twin Otter touch down on the broad, flat sands of Traigh Mhor. Soon, Harry would be on his way. Soon, very soon, he would be leaving this tranche of his past far behind.

'Has your wife gone home yet?' Ailsa asked as the plane taxied across the beach towards them.

'Last weekend. Duty called, I'm afraid.'

'When will you join her?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Will you see Barry before you leave?'

'Oh yes. We're meeting for a farewell drink before I fly out.'

'Is he up to that?'

'Apparently. He's been convalescing with his ex-wife in Swindon. I think he's feeling better than he's letting on, actually, for fear she'll turf him out. Which she will do, of course. Eventually.'

'What will he do then?'

'I don't know. I don't suppose he knows either.'

'Insecurity at his age can be difficult to cope with.'

'True. But like he said to me before he left hospital, it's better than oblivion. He could easily have died on that boat. We all could have. So…'

'We'd better enjoy everything life has to offer.' Ailsa beamed at Harry. 'Hadn't we?'