The Sound of Whales (8 page)

CHAPTER 11

O
n a crisp September afternoon in 1942 a German U-boat surfaced off the coast of Skulavaig, a fire in its torpedo bay spreading to all parts of the boat. The crew swam or rowed ashore, waved a few pistols at the gathered islanders, then scattered. Within a week they had all been captured.

On a dark February morning during the fierce winter of 1963, two small fishing boats from Skulavaig harbour sailed out into a choppy sea and were never seen again. Seven crewmen lost, two of them brothers.

During the scorching August of 1988 a film crew from Hollywood shot parts of a movie in Skulavaig and several tinsel-town celebrities took rooms at the Harbour Hotel. A few locals got work as extras and even though most of the scenes ended up on the cutting-room floor, for a brief moment Skulavaig had glamour.

Dramatic events were few and far between on Nin, but the talk this day was of a dead man washed ashore. Fraser walked along the narrow road from the harbour, finally released from his grounding, officially at least. The early evening air was still warm and he listened to the conversations of the townsfolk, swapping news of murder and mystery. Fraser was going against the flow, everyone else heading towards the Fisherman's Mission and the ceilidh that took place once a month. He wanted to put some distance between him and the harbour, in no mood for the accordion and fiddle he could hear warming up with a lively tune.

A police car passed him, the blue light flashing. Skulavaig had no police station, the nearest was on Skye and that was mainly country coppers. A dead body washed ashore called for a squad from Inverness, especially when the corpse appeared to have a knife wound in the gut. Earlier in the day a couple of uniformed officers had disembarked from a police boat and then the ferry had brought police cars and detectives in suits and forensic officers in white overalls who had trudged along the beach with various pieces of equipment. Only in the last half-hour had the body been finally removed. From the road above the beach Fraser had watched a heavy black body bag being carried away and loaded on to the police boat. He had silently wished Jonah farewell, surprised to feel his eyes fill with tears. Who had murdered the shipwrecked African? And why? He could have done more to help. Much more.

He walked away from the town now, gripped by a growing anxiety about the bloody knife that was under his bed. The road curved north but he cut across the grassland that led to the top of the cliffs beyond the castle. The police had searched the caves and found nothing. Fraser wondered if Jonah had hidden away his few possessions before he was stabbed and his body thrown into the sea. Where were his father's boots? If they were discovered, it could lead back to him. The thought filled him with a sudden panic.

Just before the clifftop, where the ground sloped up, there was a scattering of trees which weren't quite thick enough to be called a forest. As Fraser approached he glimpsed movement. It was his brother, flitting among the trees like a deer. Fraser ducked behind some gorse and watched. Dunny chose the biggest beech tree and sat down in the shade of its branches.

From his pocket Dunny carefully removed a stack of scallop shells, his tell shells. He separated them and laid the five of them out in front of him. From his other pocket he pulled his pen. Fraser watched his brother just sit for a while, staring at his shells, the only movement the flickering shadows of the tree, the only sound the distinctive ‘pee-wit' cry of a lapwing. The grass, long and beginning to seed, swayed in the breeze and there was the distant sound of the sea.

Dunny picked up one of the scallop shells, wrote something on it, then laid it carefully back down and did the same with the second. He wrote on all five shells, then piled them one on top of the other at his feet and leant back against the tree, looking up at the sky. Only the thin vapour trail of a plane broke the blue but far to the west the sky was grey, a band of clouds indicating the approach of another storm.

Dunny sat quite still for a few moments, listening to the breaking waves. Then he pulled himself to his feet and lifted his tell shells, headed up the hill towards the cliff edge. Fraser followed, darting behind trees and keeping low to stay unseen.

What are you up to?
Fraser said to himself. Dunny had always been puzzling but in the last few months his behaviour had become truly enigmatic. Fraser didn't know his brother any more.

When he reached the top Dunny sidled towards the drop, then lay flat and pulled himself up to the very edge of the cliff. He leant his head over and looked down. Below him was the beach and the boulders but Fraser knew the cliff face curved inwards at the bottom, so the entrances to the caves could not be seen. The tide was coming in and the surge of the breaking waves was another portent of the coming storm.

Dunny now carefully laid his scallop shells out in a line on the grass beside him. He picked up the first one, reached out over the drop and let go of the shell. He did the same with the second and third, then he stood up, pulled back his arm and launched the fourth shell into the air. Fraser watched it somersault as it fell, its pearly inside glittering in the sunlight before it vanished below the cliff.

Dunny lifted his last shell and turned to face away from the ocean. He looked in Fraser's direction and held up the shell as if he knew his brother was watching from somewhere.
For you
, he seemed to say. Dunny laid the shell carefully on the grass, then moved away along the cliff path, disappearing down the slope to the beach.

Fraser waited until Dunny had gone, then crept over to the cliff edge. The shell lay on the grass. He kicked it over the drop. The ocean shimmered in the sun. There was a dark line on the horizon that was the mainland, and sailing up the sound a tanker carrying an unknown cargo to an unknown destination.

Fraser headed back to town, sticking to the road and avoiding the beach. As he arrived at the harbour he heard a familiar voice say, ‘Fraser, son, where have you been?' It was his father. ‘You're going to miss the ceilidh.'

‘I'm not really in the mood,' Fraser said.

‘Are you OK?'

‘I'm fine.'

His dad placed a hand on Fraser's shoulder. ‘There have been other bodies washed ashore on Nin. It happens. We live by the sea. People drown.'

‘Aye.'

Duncan Dunbar frowned and shook his head. ‘Though I hear this fellow had a knife in the gut. Drowning was the least of his worries.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘There's talk.'

‘Has anyone been arrested?'

‘I don't think so.'

Fraser wondered about Ben, who had been out sailing all day. He must be back now; a light shone from the cabin of his boat. Fraser had yet to speak to him about the knife.

‘So are you coming to the ceilidh?' his dad asked.

Fraser sighed. ‘Maybe.'

‘Will your American friend be there?'

There was an implication in the question. ‘Don't ask me.' He added for emphasis, ‘And she's not my friend.'

His dad laughed. ‘I've promised her a Strip the Willow.'

‘You've seen her?'

‘Aye, up at the mission.'

‘So why did you ask if she would be there?'

‘It must have slipped my mind.' His dad gave him a knowing smile. ‘So I'll see you there?'

‘If I can be bothered.'

His dad put a hand on Fraser's shoulder again and said softly, ‘Try to be bothered.'

Fraser watched him head up the hill towards the Fisherman's Mission and realized there was a bit of him that desperately wanted to follow – to hear a sad lament on the fiddle, to listen to the gossip concerning dead men, to see Hayley Risso and meet her on the dance floor.

CHAPTER 12

H
ayley loved dancing, had been to dance class, enjoyed cheerleading, which was dancing and gymnastics all in one, but she'd never seen dancing like this. It was similar to line dancing except everyone moved round in a circle. It was a bit like a barn dance too, though nobody much whooped and there was no caller coordinating the steps. The band played in a small space beneath the stairs and were led by an old man on a fiddle and a boy younger than her on an accordion, with a drummer and guitarist as backing. Everyone seemed to know the moves, which involved a lot of twirling and swapping partners. There
was
something infectious about it; several times she'd had to stop her foot from tapping.

So far she had resisted all invitations to dance. She had promised Dunny's father a dance later but that could be dodged. Her mother had entered into the spirit of the evening as the spirits of the evening entered her. Hayley had never seen her drink whisky before. Several whiskies, to be precise. The whole island seemed to be here, although there was no sign of Ben McCaig, or of Fraser.

In the corner of the hall a makeshift bar had been erected and an ancient man with unruly white whiskers poured shots into small glasses. If she'd been asked to draw a picture of an old Scottish fisherman, she would have sketched
him
and then rubbed it out as too much of a stereotype.

The dance came to an end with a sustained note on the accordion and Sarah Risso twirled off the dance floor to where Hayley sat by herself.

‘Have you danced yet, honey?' she asked, gasping.

‘Not yet, no.'

‘Why not? It's fun, it really is. You love dancing.'

‘I'm not in the mood.'

‘Nonsense. How can you not be in the mood with this music?'

‘The music's terrible.'

Her mother laughed. ‘OK, the slow ones are a bit depressing but the fast ones are wild.'

Right on cue, the ceilidh band announced another tune and dance. Sarah grabbed Hayley's arm.

‘Come on.'

Hayley pulled free. ‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because.'

‘Because why?'

‘Because.' Hayley sighed and remembered the disaster that was the church teens' spring banquet. For Timmy Melikian to ditch her for Cheryl Gaskill was mortifying enough, but to do it during the first dance of the evening was just downright rude. ‘Because
 . . . 
I've no one to dance with.'

Her mom laughed and gave her a hug. ‘You can dance with me.'

Hayley snorted at the suggestion. ‘No, thanks. Dancing with your mother is way more embarrassing than sitting by yourself.'

Sarah laughed again, then something caught her eye as she looked over Hayley's shoulder. ‘OK, if you won't ceilidh with me, there is someone over there in serious need of a dance partner.'

Hayley turned and looked towards the door of the mission. At first she could see only a crowd of townsfolk but then a figure reluctantly pulled himself further into the room. He looked around as if seeking someone and his eyes found Hayley's. Fraser Dunbar. The eye contact lasted a moment longer than she intended and then he was lost behind a group of bodies readying for a reel. Her mom was snatched away by an islander, each man, it seemed, wanting a dance with her. Hayley saw Dunny and his mother standing together in the dance line. The boy looked fragile, squashed in among the hefty adults, but he was smiling and confidently took his mum's hands as the first chord was struck. The tune started and the crowd began to move around the dance floor.

She saw Fraser moving towards her and she stared resolutely at the group of dancers, her eyes not following any of the couples, which was a hard thing to do. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, perhaps to convey a disinterest in dancing. Hayley hoped so.

‘How's it going?' he said, loud enough to be heard above the band.

‘Fine,' she said, adding quickly, ‘Just so you know, I don't intend to dance.'

‘Just so you know, I wasn't planning to ask you.'

‘Good.'

‘Good.'

It wasn't silence that followed, not with the ceilidh band in full flow, but the pause was awkward none the less.

‘How did it go with Mr Wallace?' Fraser asked.

‘It was fine. He called the police.'

‘I noticed. What have
you
heard?'

‘Nothing. I've been in the cottage all day.'

It had been a long, boring day but she had wanted to stay as far from the beach as possible. The only reason she had come to the ceilidh was to get rid of the cabin fever that was setting in. Cottage fever, she called it. They watched the dance for a few minutes, the music too loud, the movement too frenetic for more conversation. The tune came to an end and there was a ripple of applause. The circling dancers stopped. Most remained on the dance floor and there seemed to be a rearranging of partners.

‘What have
you
heard?' Hayley's voice was loud now the band had quit.

Fraser glanced around to see if anyone was listening but everyone in the hall was talking, drinking, preparing for another dance, or doing all three. The fiddler announced, ‘Lads and lassies, the Gay Gordons.' The band struck up once more and the dancers moved into position to begin.

‘They're saying it was murder,' Fraser said.

‘We knew that already. And we know who the murderer is.'

‘We don't know that. Not at all.'

‘It was Ben McCaig's knife.'

‘That doesn't prove anything.'

‘You have to go to the police. Tell them what you found.'

‘Not yet. Not till I see Ben.'

Hayley saw panic cross Fraser's face and an image flashed into her head of Ben McCaig behind her, knife raised. She turned sharply. Fraser's mother was upon them and she realized what he had guessed: they were to be coerced into a dance.

‘Come on, you two,' said Jessie Dunbar, grabbing both their arms. ‘This is an easy one to get you started.'

Fraser and Hayley said in unison, ‘No!'

Jessie ignored their cries and dragged them on to the dance floor. She squeezed them into the line of dancers and nodded sternly towards Fraser to take a hold of Hayley.

‘Let Fraser lead you,' Jessie said to Hayley. ‘Just follow the couple in front.'

The rest of the dancers were in position, the men slightly behind the women, holding hands with their partners, who had their arms raised to shoulder height. Everyone faced in the same direction, ready for the off. Hayley grudgingly raised her arms and Fraser took hold of her hands.

The dance began: four steps forward, turn, back another four steps, still holding hands, turn again, the women now twirling under the outstretched arms of the men, then come together in the classic dance hold and polka around the floor for eight beats, still in a line, then back to the starting position and repeat. During the first progression Hayley got it mostly wrong, scowling and tripping over the feet of Fraser and the couple in front and the couple behind. She mumbled several embarrassed apologies as Fraser tried to lead her but she resisted his guidance.

She was better second time around, picking up the steps and relaxing a little, the scowl fading but still no smile. By the fourth progression she had mastered the Gay Gordons and was practically leading Fraser around the dance floor. In the polka section, when they faced one another, she kept her eyes on the floor while Fraser looked over her shoulder. There was no eye contact, not even by the sixth progression, but Hayley felt his body a little closer to hers, she no longer bent her back in an effort to increase the distance between them. She began to enjoy the mix of movement and music and the feel of his hands in hers.

He caught her smile and said, ‘You've done this before.'

‘It's not so hard.' Hayley twirled under his raised arm. ‘I used to go to dance class.'

They came together and whirled around in the polka and Hayley realized she was properly enjoying herself. She hoped no one had noticed. The people of Skulavaig, and especially her mother, were not to think for even one moment that she was glad to be here.

On the other side of the dance floor she now saw Ben McCaig. He threw his head back as he laughed, clutching a woman close as they danced; he seemed oblivious to Fraser and Hayley, oblivious to everyone else in the room. If this was a man who had knifed someone in the gut that very morning, he was as cool as they came. There was no twitch of the eye, no bloodstained fingers, no guilty glance from face to face. Ben McCaig was having a rare old time.

And as Hayley paused to ready herself for the next progression she realized Ben's dance partner was her mother.

‘No way,' she said aloud.

Her mom and Ben were twirling around the dance floor, bodies close together, having far too much fun. Hayley had not been dragged all the way from the States to this wet place, with wetter boys, just so her mother could have fun. She wanted to go over and confront her mother but the Scottish boy held her tight. They continued to progress around the room, Hayley watching her mom and Fraser watching Ben. Her mom and Ben watched only each other.

‘It's disgusting.'

Fraser said, ‘I know.'

‘What are they doing?'

‘They're supposed to be dancing the Gay Gordons.'

‘Well, Gordon may be gay but Ben certainly isn't.'

‘It's not that kind of gay.'

‘Clearly.'

Fraser and Hayley polkaed around the floor one final time and the music came to an end with a triumphant chord. There was hearty applause and the circle of dancers broke up, heading for some liquid refreshment. The fiddle player announced a short break and the musicians made for the bar and drams of their own.

Fraser released her and stood awkwardly, arms by his side. What was the tradition now, Hayley wondered? Did she thank him for the dance, fetch a drink, kiss him? She was neither thankful nor thirsty, and she certainly wasn't going to kiss him.

‘I need to talk to my mom,' she said.

‘I need to talk to Ben,' Fraser said.

‘Yes, ask him about his intentions.'

‘How do you mean?

‘With my mom. What are his intentions with my mom?'

Fraser gave a scoffing laugh. ‘I think it's more important to ask why his bloodstained knife was beside a dead man.'

‘Yes, find out that as well.'

She went to find her mother, knew she had to say the right thing; it couldn't sound selfish or unreasonable.

‘Mom,' she said coldly as she arrived.

Ben lifted two empty whisky glasses. ‘I'll get us a refill. Would you like something, Hayley?'

‘No,' she replied sharply.

‘OK.' Ben shot Sarah a sympathetic glance and headed for the makeshift bar.

‘I saw the way you were dancing,' Hayley said.

‘And how was that?'

‘You were touching. You were together.'

‘That's the nature of the dance.
You
were holding Fraser.'

‘Not the way you were.'

‘And how exactly was that?'

‘As if
 . . . 
as if you were enjoying yourself.'

‘I
was
enjoying myself. I'm allowed to enjoy myself.'

‘Not like that. Not with some random guy. You're married to Dad.'

Her mom took her hand, said softly, ‘It's time to move on, Hayley. I have to try live my life again.'

‘No.' Hayley said it again, forcefully, ‘No!'

If her mother moved on, then gone was the last hope of her mom and dad getting back together. Hayley knew that only her mom could save the marriage and that when her mom lost interest the marriage was over.

With sudden, crushing clarity Hayley realized that the marriage
was
over.

She moved away, towards the door of the mission, heard her mom call her name but didn't stop. She had danced a Highland dance and that would do for this evening, would do for this entire trip, would be enough for a lifetime. She walked through the door into cool air and a darkening sky.

An empty police car remained by the harbour, the
Moby Dick
bobbed in the swell, and the only sound was the hubbub of voices from inside the mission and the incoming tide breaking against the jetty. On the beach there was a line of dark, churned sand where many feet had trodden before examining and removing the body. The police tape was gone, the sea already surging over the spot where the body had lain and washing away the evidence of murder.

Hayley walked a few paces along the beach, then stopped. It was beginning to get dark and the wind had picked up, flurrying the sand. She turned back towards the harbour and caught her breath as a shadow crossed the sand ahead of her. A man was moving along the bottom of the harbour wall, his body pressed against the old stones. For a moment Hayley thought it must be a policeman but there was something in the way he moved that she recognized.

She fell flat on the sand and became driftwood, then carefully raised her head to watch the moving figure. He didn't want to be spotted either, crouching behind the wall and carefully peering over the top of the jetty. And then she recognized him. At first she didn't believe it, thought it not possible, but there he was. His build was unmistakable, his borrowed clothes distinctive, his skin dark.