Over the Sea to Die

Book 425: Murder Room

by Richard Grindal

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

When both his holiday plans and love affair collapse, London doctor Charles Mackinnon agrees to act as locum in Skye, looking forward to a peaceful stay. However, within hours of his arrival he witnesses someone being thrown off a distant cliff into the sea. When the body of Jamie Gillespie is discovered in the water, the police remain sceptical of his report, and he begins to doubt what he saw. Then a pregnant, disabled woman disappears, and Charles finds himself drawn into a primitive ritual of superstition and violence.

Release date: January 14, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 210

Sample

The day was grey. Across the narrow stretch of sullen sea Skye waited, grey too, its peaks hidden by low clouds or mist, Mackinnon was not sure which. As he had driven through
Glen Shiel and past the Five Sisters of Kintail a fine drizzle had spotted the windscreen of his car, but only briefly and the rain had held off. The ferry had left Kyleakin and he watched it
approaching, crabbing its way through the currents of the straits. He could count no more than half a dozen vehicles aboard.

The stretch of tarmac opposite the Lochalsh hotel where he was waiting had been neatly marked out in parallel lanes for the cars and coaches that would be queuing for the ferry when summer
brought the tourists. Today there was only a fishmonger’s van, white once but now edged with rust and stained with the mud of a long winter, and a Volvo estate car driven by a man wearing a
shooting jersey and with two black Labradors asleep in the back, their heads between their paws. He had stopped his car behind them to form an incongruous file of three.

His first sight of Skye had not disappointed him. Knowing its reputation and its average rainfall, he had never been tempted to believe the brilliant colours of the picture postcards and the
photographs in the Scottish Tourist Board’s brochures. The Cuillin mountains and the barren hills would, he supposed, be hidden in mist more often than not.

Island of mists and barren fruitlessness, he thought, paraphrasing a poem he must have learnt at school.

He had bought, with a twinge of shame, a guide book on Skye from Hatchards in Piccadilly, feeling that since his roots were in the island he should not have needed one. But he had been born in
Aberdeen and had spent his boyhood in England, and when he was studying medicine in Edinburgh had never somehow found the time between examinations and a frenetic social life to visit the island
where his father had been born. Even now his visit had come about more by chance then by intention; if his plans had not gone agley he would be embarking not on the ferry but on a plane for Corfu
with Judy.

The quarrel that had led them to cancel their holiday had seemed to be no more than one of the squalls that from time to time had upset the calm of their relationship, but unlike previous rows
it had not blown itself out. Instead it had been prolonged into almost two weeks of acrimony and reproaches which had become progressively more bitter, until they had agreed that neither of them
could face the prospect of spending two weeks together abroad. Only afterwards had he learned that Judy had been given a better offer, a drive through the Loire in the Lotus of a Sloane Ranger
friend to the Côte d’Azur where they would stay in the villa of his parents behind St Tropez.

Mackinnon had been resigned to having no holiday that year, for it was too late to make other arrangements and in any case the money he had paid for the package holiday in Corfu would not be
refunded. Then the head of the medical department had approached him. An old friend, a GP in Scotland who had himself been at Guy’s, needed a locum urgently for four weeks. When he learned
that Scotland meant Skye, Mackinnon had made up his mind unquestioningly. He had never believed in fate or predestination or whatever one might call it, but this seemed like some sort of signal and
the opportunity was not likely to recur. Extending his holiday from two weeks to four was easily arranged by the head of the medical department and all he had needed to do was to pack a suitcase
and set out in his little Toyota on the 600-mile drive to Lochalsh.

Now, when he had driven aboard and the ferry had begun its short journey across the sound, he left the car and stood watching the island as they approached it. Over the sea to Skye, he thought,
and smiled. No flight of fancy could compare the ferry to a bird. An ungainly metal box, it juddered uneasily on top of the choppy water, missing the weight of its full load. Besides the
fishmonger’s van and the two cars, a dozen foot passengers were making the journey. Judging by their dress and their manner they were not holidaymakers and Mackinnon wondered what reason they
might have for travelling to Skye. Were they mainlanders who had found work on the island? He thought it unlikely. The member of the ferry’s crew who came to collect the fare had time to
talk.

‘You’ll not be on holiday, I suppose,’ he said to Mackinnon.

‘No, to work, but only for a month. I’m a doctor.’

‘Then you’ll be here to take Dr Tait’s place.’

‘That’s right. Do you know him?’

‘He was on the ferry first thing today. His wife was driving him to the hospital in Edinburgh.’

‘Already?’ Mackinnon knew that Dr Tait’s reason for needing a locum was that he had to undergo open-heart surgery, but he had assumed that Tait would not be going into hospital
until after he had arrived, allowing at least a little time to hand over the practice.

‘The doctor will be all right,’ the crew man said. ‘He’s a strong fellow.’

The driver of the van had also left his vehicle and was lighting a small cigar. He was not Mackinnon’s idea of a fishmonger, not much more than a lad with curly black hair that hung to his
shoulders and wearing jeans and a tee-shirt and a wristwatch that looked like a gold Rolex Oyster. The crew man was meanwhile having a long conversation with the driver of the Volvo, who had wound
down his window. Mackinnon thought that they glanced briefly at him with the curiosity of islanders wondering about a stranger.

Kyleakin was no more than a village but it had the look of a dilapidated English seaside town with faded paintwork and signs hanging outside every shop and house offering bed and breakfast,
souvenirs, petrol and bar lunches, but half-heartedly, without any real expectation that they would tempt holidaymakers to stop there before moving on into the island.

Mackinnon did not stop either, driving through the village quickly and shrugging off a slight sense of disillusionment. Scenic beauty and a romantic history were what Skye offered visitors, and
the islanders had a right to flaunt and exploit its attractions.

As he drove towards Broadford he turned his attention to practical matters. He had spoken to Dr Tait twice on the telephone, the first time simply to find out what doing the locum would involve.
Then, the following day, he had called him to confirm that he would do it and when he could start. Tait had suggested that he should arrive at his home in north Skye early in the evening in time
for dinner. The journey from Edinburgh, where Mackinnon had spent the previous night with friends, had taken a much shorter time than he had anticipated, for the roads to the north had been greatly
improved. Now if he drove directly to Tait’s house he would be there in not much more than an hour, between one and two o’clock, in all probability well before Mrs Tait returned from
driving her husband to Edinburgh. So, not wishing to be an embarrassment, he decided it would be best if he were to spend the afternoon exploring Skye.

Broadford, the second largest town on the island, was far smaller than he had expected and as he drove through it he had time to make only two mental notes which might later prove useful: the
police station was on the left of the main street and further on he saw a road off to the right which led apparently to the Doctor Mackinnon Memorial Hospital. He knew that the Mackinnon whose
memorial the hospital was could not be a relative, for his father had told him that they had none left on Skye.

As the road wound round Loch Ainort, one of the many sea lochs that cut into the islands like fiords, the clouds seemed to lift until he believed he could almost see the summits of the mountains
to his left. Then the weather closed in, abruptly as though regretting its moment of clemency, and rain came, soft and fine but dense enough to obliterate everything, so that when he reached
Sligachan he could not even make out the outlines of the Cuillins.

A hundred years ago, his guide book had told him, the inn at Sligachan had been one of the most famous climbing centres in Europe, each year drawing scores of climbers who wished to tackle the
finest and most awe-inspiring mountain range in Britain. Artists used to come as well, to sketch and paint and try to capture the ever-changing pattern of light and shade over the peaks and lochs.
Today there was no more than a handful of people around, couples mainly, hoping for good weather on an early holiday. As he ate his bar lunch at the inn, Mackinnon watched them staring dejectedly
through the steamed-up windows and wondering when the rain would stop. Skye was putting on its dreariest face to receive him, as though telling him that he must love the home of his ancestors,
warts and all.

A man sitting next to him at the bar was inclined to talk. He told Mackinnon that he was a shopkeeper in Broadford and had left his wife to run the business while he escaped for a couple of
pints of beer. They chatted about the weather and Mackinnon was not surprised to be told that the previous three days had been warm and sunny, the best weather that the man could remember for that
time of the year.

‘Will it clear up this afternoon, do you think?’ Mackinnon asked.

‘Now it might. As you’ll have heard, the weather here changes from one hour to another.’

‘If it does I was thinking of taking a walk up into the Cuillins. I’ve the afternoon to fill.’

The man looked to see what he was wearing. ‘You’ll have other clothes with you?’

‘I’ve an anorak in the car.’

‘I was thinking of footwear mainly. You’ll be needing boots if you go hill walking. The paths will be boggy and treacherous.’

Mackinnon smiled. ‘All I had in mind was a leisurely stroll. I’m no rock climber.’

‘Even so. Anyway, I’d advise you not to go alone. In this weather you could easily find yourself lost.’ Mackinnon must have looked incredulous for he added, ‘It’s
easily done in the mist. You’d be astonished how many times the rescue team has to go out in a year just to find people who have got themselves lost in the mountains.’

He began talking about the Mountain Rescue team, an organisation of volunteers who were called out when there was a climbing accident or when people were lost. Not infrequently a helicopter
would be sent out from the mainland to help the rescuers. He could recall three fatal accidents within the past twelve months on the mountains and at least twice that number of people who had been
lost.

‘Some idiots go up into the Cuillins wearing no more than jeans and a tee-shirt and with training shoes on their feet. Training shoes! I’ve seen them.’

Although he was inclined to believe that the man was exaggerating, Mackinnon decided to take his advice. By the time he had finished his lunch the rain had stopped, but instead of taking a walk
he set out to explore Skye by car. Turning inland from Sligachan, he drove past Loch Harport to Loch Bracadale, more of a bay than a sea loch with a fine natural harbour. The loch was a breeding
ground for young seals, but he could not expect to see any in that day’s weather.

When he reached the ruins of a chapel he stopped, left the car by the road and was glad to breathe the soft island air after so many hours of driving in a closed car. Ahead of him was the
peninsula of Harlosh, which jutted into the loch and where there were several ruined duns or ancient forts, but Mackinnon was more interested in the land around the mouth of a small river which ran
into the loch at that point, for it was there, by the River Caroy, his guide book told him, that the Clan MacLeod had gathered armed for the last time. They had come there in 1745 expecting to be
told that they were going to fight for Prince Charles Edward, only to hear from their chief that he had declared his loyalty to King George II. Disillusioned by what they felt was a betrayal, most
of the 1800 clansmen drifted away, many of them to go and die on their own for the Young Pretender.

As he gazed at the scene of that poignant moment in history, Mackinnon experienced an emotion stronger than the one he had felt when he had first sighted Skye that morning. His own names were
Charles Edward. Ian, his father, although he had spent no more than his boyhood on Skye and had lived and worked abroad for most of his life, had been an ardent Jacobite. Like the majority of
exiled Scots he had clung tenaciously to his Scottish origins and had encouraged his son to do the same. Mackinnon could still recall the hilarious laughter of the other small boys when he had
arrived wearing a kilt for his first term at a preparatory school in the south of England. He had survived the hilarity and the teasing and in time his pride in his Scottishness had won the
good-natured respect of the other boys. Skye was full of memories of Prince Charles and of Flora Macdonald who had helped him to escape capture after his disastrous defeat at Culloden. Mackinnon
would have time to savour them all while he was on the island but this was his first experience of one and for that reason oddly moving.

He set out on foot towards Harlosh Point, wishing for exercise, but the rain cut short his walk and he returned to the car and drove on towards Dunvegan, the home of the MacLeod family for seven
hundred years. He could catch no more than a glimpse of the castle down the drive which led to it, but he knew that in any case the best view of it was from the sea. From Dunvegan the road turned
inland, past Fairy Bridge to Edinbane and then by Loch Snizort to Skeabost Bridge.

He had intended to fork left beyond Skeabost and drive up the Trotternish peninsula, which he knew was the real Prince Charles country, but the tedium of driving and the monotony of the
windscreen wipers was beginning to chafe, so he drove on instead to Portree and found a place to park in Somerled Square in the very centre of the town. Since he would be living and working about
fifteen miles to the north of Portree, he was likely to be visiting it frequently, so it would be useful to know his way around. The police station and the magistrates’ court, he noted, were
both in Somerled Square which, he knew, took its name from Somerled, the legendary Lord of the Isles from whom the Macdonalds, the other great family in Skye, could claim descent. In the half dozen
streets around it he found a post office and a chemist’s shop and then walked up to the hospital where he learned there was a health centre with a group practice of four doctors.

When he started walking round the pretty harbour, the rain became more than a drizzle, bouncing off the ground and slanting on a westerly wind that had sprung up so that the golf umbrella he had
brought with him from London was no longer keeping him dry. So, taking shelter in the Royal Hotel, he ordered afternoon tea. Here was another link with Prince Charles, for it was at the hotel, then
MacNab’s Inn, that the prince had taken his farewell of Flora Macdonald.

As he was taking his tea he thought not of the prince but of what life on Skye would be like. A history going back to the early Celts and Norse invaders and beyond that to heroic gods and
goddesses still gave the island a veneer of romance, but there was a different history as well, of bloodthirsty slaughter in senseless clan wars, of evictions and forced emigration, of a struggle
for survival by crofters living on land that was too meagre and too poor to support them. All that must have left its mark on the islanders, some of whom were going to be in his care for the next
four weeks.

After tea he drove north towards Staffin, slowly, for he was conscious that he might still be too early. As he was passing the Storr with its cliff face of black rock and the pinnacle of the Old
Man of Storr beneath, the fickle rain stopped and for the first time that day there was a break in the clouds. By the time he reached Loch Mealt he could see away to his left a small sunlit patch
on the hills. Not much bigger than a man’s hand, he thought, but surely a good omen, as though Skye was at last welcoming him with a promise of peace and contentment.

To his right between the loch and the sea a small car-parking area had been asphalted for those who might wish to stop and admire the view. Feeling that he still had time to waste, he pulled off
the road, left the car and walked to the cliff’s edge. From where he stood he could see to his right the water spilling over from the loch falling in a spectacular cascade to the sea below.
To his left, towering above him, was the black basalt cliff face of Kilt Rock, almost three hundred feet high, he supposed, grooved with vertical folds that resembled the pleats in a kilt.

As he stood admiring its grandeur he saw two figures walking along by the cliff’s edge at the top of the rock. Seen from that distance they were no larger than dolls. Both were wearing
cords or jeans; one a man, tall and burly, but the other much shorter, slight in build and wearing a pinkish sweater; must be a woman, he decided. He wondered who they were. It was not a day to be
walking the cliffs.

Suddenly, as he watched, the figures stopped walking. The man turned and picked up the woman as easily as though he were picking up a small child. The woman seemed to struggle and for a long
moment Mackinnon could see them against the sky. Then the man swung the woman, in much the same way as a parent playfully swings a child in its arms, and threw her, easily, even casually it seemed,
over the edge of the cliff. Horrified, Mackinnon saw the figure falling, its arms whirling as though clutching for anything that would check its fall. He heard no scream, no sound of a body
striking the rocks below or splashing into the water, nothing except the plaintive cries of gulls circling out at sea.

As he drove back to Portree, Mackinnon tried to convince himself that what he had seen was not an illusion, a trick of the evening light. After the momentary paralysis of
horror he had remembered the binoculars in his car. Fetching them, he had gone as close to the cliff’s edge as he could and scanned the base of Kilt Rock. There had been no body that he could
see, either on the rocks below or floating in the water. Nor, when he swung the glasses upwards, was there anyone at the top where he had seen the two figures walking and the brief struggle before
one had flung the other over the edge. He found himself wondering whether anyone would believe him.

In the police station at Portree a sergeant who had been working in the office at the back came out to the counter. Mackinnon could hear voices crackling over a radio telephone somewhere.

‘Good evening, sir. What can I do for you?’

‘I have to report a murder.’ The words that Mackinnon had rehearsed on the drive back to Portree sounded forced and unreal.

The sergeant looked at him steadily. ‘May I ask who you are, sir?’

‘My name is Mackinnon. Dr Mackinnon. I’ve just arrived on Skye to do a locum for Dr Tait at Staffin.’

‘You would be from London, then?’ Evidently the sergeant knew that Dr Tait had arranged for a locum while he would be in hospital. Many people on Skye prob. . .