‘Down at the boatyard,’ he mumbled. ‘In the workshop.’
The door snicked shut.
We went back to the car. The harbour was a turmoil of crashing waves and churning boats. Out on the jetty, the ferry pitched and rolled at its berth. The sea churned wildly, the spume so thick it was indistinguishable from the rain.
Fraser drove down to the corrugated shack on the seafront that I’d passed on my way to Brody’s the previous day. It was set close to the foot of the tall cliffs that encircled the harbour, and which protected it from the worst of the weather.
‘The yard’s communal,’ Brody said as we climbed out of the car and hurried over, having to fight against the wind. ‘Everybody with a boat chips in to the running costs, and if they need repairs everyone pitches in.’
‘Is that Guthrie’s?’ I asked, indicating the dilapidated fishing boat hauled up on blocks that I’d noticed the day before. It appeared in even worse condition up close. Half of its timber hull was missing, giving it the skeletal look of some long-dead prehistoric animal.
‘Aye. Supposed to be making it seaworthy again, but he doesn’t seem in any hurry.’ Brody shook his head in disapproval. ‘Rather spend his money in the bar.’
Skirting the covered piles of building supplies stacked nearby, we hurried for the workshop entrance. The wind threatened to wrench the door from its hinges when we opened it. Inside, the workshop was stiflingly hot, thick with the smell of machine oil and sawdust. Lathes, welding torches and cutting gear littered the floor, while the walls were covered with shelves of tools, stained black with ancient grease. A radio was playing, the tinny melody fighting against the chug of a generator.
About half a dozen men were inside. Guthrie and a smaller man were crouched over the dismembered remains of an engine that was spread out on the concrete floor. Kinross and the others were playing cards at an old Formica table, on which stood half-drunk mugs of tea. A tin foil pie case doubled as an ashtray, overflowing with cigarette stubs.
They had all broken off what they were doing to stare at us. Their expressions weren’t exactly hostile, but neither were they friendly. They regarded us blankly. Waiting.
Brody stopped in front of Kinross. ‘Can we have a word, Iain?’
Kinross shrugged. ‘I’m not stopping you.’
‘I mean in private.’
‘It’s private enough here.’ To emphasise his point he opened a pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette with oil-stained fingers.
Brody didn’t bother to argue. ‘We need to use the ferry’s radio.’
Kinross ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper, then smoothed it down. He nodded towards Fraser.
‘What’s wrong with his? Don’t the police have radios these days?’
Fraser glared back without answering.
Kinross plucked a piece of tobacco from his mouth. ‘Fucked, are they?’
I could hear the sergeant’s heavy adenoidal breathing, like an angry bull’s, as he started forward. ‘Aye, and so will you be if-’
‘We’re asking for your help,’ Brody cut in, laying a restraining hand on Fraser’s shoulder. ‘We need to get in touch with the mainland. It’s important, or we wouldn’t ask.’
Kinross unhurriedly lit the roll-up. He shook out the match and tossed it into the overflowing ashtray, then considered Brody through a plume of blue smoke.
‘You can try, for what it’s worth.’
‘Meaning what?’ Fraser demanded.
‘You won’t be able to transmit from the harbour. The radio’s VHF. Has to have line-of-sight, and the cliffs block the signal to the mainland.’
‘What if you need to send a Mayday?’ Brody asked, incredulous.
Kinross shrugged. ‘If you’re in the harbour, you wouldn’t need to.’
Fraser had bunched his fists. ‘So take the bloody boat out to sea, where you can transmit.’
‘You want to try going out in this, go ahead. But not on my ferry.’
Brody kneaded the bridge of his nose. ‘How about the other boats?’
‘All VHF, the same.’
‘There’s Mr Strachan’s yacht,’ one of the card players suggested.
Guthrie laughed. ‘Aye, that’s got communications coming out of its arse.’
I saw Brody’s face close down. ‘Look, can we try the ferry anyway?’
Kinross took an indifferent drag of his roll-up. ‘If you want to waste your time, it’s up to you.’ He nipped out the glowing end of his cigarette and put it in his tobacco pouch as he rose to his feet. ‘Sorry, lads.’
‘I was losing, anyway,’ one of the card players said, throwing in his cards. ‘Time I went home.’
Guthrie wiped his hands on an oily cloth. ‘Aye. I’m off for something to eat.’
The other card players were already throwing their cards down on the table, reaching for their own coats as Kinross pulled on an oilskin and went out, letting the doors swing back on us as we followed. Rain and spray filled the air with an iodine tang as he strode bareheaded along the harbour to the jetty, oblivious to the breaking waves. The ferry was bucking against its moorings, but he walked up the gangplank without hesitation.
The rest of us were more cautious, holding on to the gangplank’s railing as it tipped and swayed. It was barely any better once we were on board, the slippery deck pitching unpredictably. I looked up at the ferry’s aerial, bent and quivering in the wind, then at the cliffs surrounding us. I could see now what Kinross meant. They hemmed the small harbour in on three sides, rising up like a wall between us and the mainland.
Kinross was already fiddling with the radio set when we crammed into the claustrophobic bridge. I braced myself against the wall as the deck pitched queasily underfoot. A medley of discordant hums and squeaks came from the radio set as Kinross spoke into its handset, then waited vainly for a response.
‘Who are you calling?’ Brody asked.
Kinross answered without turning round. “Coastguard. They’ve got the biggest radio mast on Lewis. If they can’t hear us no one else will.’
We waited as he spoke into the handset, receiving only a hollow hissing in return.
Fraser had been watching the ferry captain with an expression of sullen dislike. ‘You remember bringing any strangers across on the ferry about four or five weeks ago?’ he asked suddenly.
Brody gave him an angry look, but he took no notice. Kinross didn’t turn round.
‘No.’
‘No what? No you didn’t bring anyone, or no you don’t remember?’
Kinross stopped what he was doing and turned to stare at him. ‘This to do with the murder?’
‘Just answer the question.’
Kinross’s smile threatened violence. ‘And if I don’t?’
Brody cut in before Fraser could respond. ‘Take it easy, Iain, no one’s accusing you of anything. We just came out here to use the radio.’
Deliberately, Kinross lowered the handset. He leaned back against the swaying bulkhead, folding his arms as he regarded us.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’
‘It’s police business,’ Fraser growled.
‘Aye, and this is my ferry, and my radio. You want to use it, you can tell me what’s so urgent.’
‘We can’t yet, Iain,’ Brody interposed, smoothly. ‘But it’s important. Trust me on that.’
‘This is our island. We’ve a right to know what’s going on.’
‘I know, and you will, I promise.’
‘When?’
Brody sighed. ‘Tonight. But right now we need to contact the mainland.’
‘Now listen-’ Fraser began, but Brody spoke over him.
‘You’ve got my word.’
Kinross stared at him, his expression giving nothing away. Then he got up and headed for the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Brody asked.
‘You wanted me to try the radio, I have.’
‘Can’t you keep trying?’
‘No. Anyone could hear, we’d know by now.’
‘What about other ships? Someone could relay a message back to the mainland for us. The cliffs wouldn’t block that.’