Rain battered against the window of the incident room, obliterating the view over harbour rooftops to the semi-derelict Lews Castle across the bay. There were nearly two dozen officers at desks around the room. All of them were turned towards Fin. Except for George Gunn and a couple of others who were still speaking on the phone. DCI Smith was flushed and exasperated. He had showered, and changed. His hair was smoothly Brylcreemed back from his face, and he smelled of Brut again. He might hold centre stage in the incident room, but he had been upstaged in his investigation by Fin. He was not a happy man, but he was being squeezed into a corner.
He said, ‘Okay, so I accept that this Artair Macinnes probably is our killer.’
‘His DNA’ll confirm it,’ Fin said.
Smith glanced irritably at the newspaper articles spread across the nearest desk. ‘And you think he copied the Leith Walk murder to lure you back to the island.’
‘Yes.’
‘To tell you that his son is really your son.’
‘Yes.’
‘And then kill him.’ Fin nodded. Smith let the moment hang. Then, ‘Why?’
‘I told you what happened on An Sgeir.’
‘His father died rescuing you on the cliffs eighteen years ago. Do you really think that’s sufficient motivation for him to commit two murders all these years later?’
‘I can’t explain it.’ Fin’s frustration bubbled into anger. ‘I just know he’s beaten that boy black and blue all his life, and now that he’s told me I’m his father he’s going to kill him. He’s killed once to get me here. On the evidence, I don’t think anyone can deny that.’
Smith sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m not going to risk the lives of my officers by sending them off to a rock fifty miles out in the Atlantic in the middle of a storm.’
Gunn hung up and swivelled around in his chair. ‘Latest weather report from the coastguard, sir. Storm-force winds in the vicinity of An Sgeir, and getting worse.’ He glanced almost apologetically at Fin. ‘They say there’s no way they can land the chopper on the rock in these conditions.’
‘There you are, then.’ Smith sounded relieved. ‘We’ll have to wait until the storm passes.’
Gunn said, ‘The harbourmaster’s confirmed that the Purple Isle is back from An Sgeir. She docked about an hour ago.’
‘I’m not asking a boat to go out in these conditions either!’
A uniformed sergeant came into the room. ‘Sir.’ His face was chiselled from grim, flinted rock. ‘We can’t raise the guga people on the CB.’
Fin said, ‘Then there’s something far wrong. Gigs always keeps a channel of communication open. Always.’
Smith looked to the sergeant for confirmation, and he nodded. The CIO sighed and shrugged. ‘There’s still nothing we can do about it before tomorrow.’
‘The boy could be dead by tomorrow!’ Fin raised his voice and felt an immediate hush fall across the room.
Smith raised a finger and touched it to the end of his nose. A strange, threatening gesture. His voice was a low growl. ‘You’re in serious danger of crossing a line here, Macleod. You are no longer involved in this case, remember?’
‘Of course I’m involved. I’m at the very fucking centre of it.’ And he turned and pushed through the swing doors out into the corridor.
By the time he reached the foot of Church Street and turned left into Cromwell Street, Fin was soaked. His parka and hood had protected his upper body, but his trousers were plastered to his legs, and his face had stiffened and set under the assault of the freezing rain that drove in off the moor. He turned into the doorway of a green-painted gift shop for some respite, and found foot-high replicas of the Lewis Chessmen staring at him with curious expressions from beyond the glass, almost as if they empathized. He fumbled for his mobile phone and dialled the number of the incident room two hundred yards up the road. One of the uniforms answered.
‘I want to speak to George Gunn.’
‘Can I tell him who’s calling?’
‘No.’
A brief pause. ‘One moment, sir.’
And then Gunn’s voice. ‘DS Gunn.’
‘George, it’s me. Can you talk?’
A moment’s silence. ‘Not really.’
‘Okay, just listen. George, I need you to do me a favour. A big favour.’