FIFTY

The road to the causeway was wide and well maintained. On the Vatersay side, however, it became narrow and winding, clinging to the shore for the most part as it looped round bleak hills of rock and scrub en route to the island's main settlement.

A still narrower side-road served the houses whose lights they had seen from the Castlebay Bar the previous night, dotted along the spine of an exposed peninsula. The bus driver offered to take them down it, but Harry opted to be dropped at the junction, despite Chipchase's muttered protests. He preferred to approach the Munro croft on foot, judging that in such a bare landscape they would then see the house before they were seen from it. It was hard to say exactly why he felt such a precaution necessary, but Howlett's unannounced departure had worried him more than he was prepared to admit. Chipchase was right. Everyone, even the hapless Howlett, was a step ahead of them.

—«»—«»—«»—

The few habitations lining the road were widely separated — modern, pebble-dash, tile-roofed bungalows for the most part, usually with the ruin of an old stone cottage alongside. Castlebay, across the sound, looked positively metropolitan from this stark and empty vantage point. A flock of sheep scattered as the two of them rounded a bend by a deserted jetty. Otherwise, there was no sign of life. 'Bloody hell, Harry, I don't know about you, but this place gives me the creeps,' Chipchase complained. 'I never thought I was prone to agoraphobia, but I'm beginning to feel a bad bloody case of it coming on. Does anybody really live out here?'

'Murdo Munro does for one.'

'But there's nothing here except… more nothing.'

'Some people prefer a quiet life.'

'There's a difference between quiet… and silent as the bloody grave. It's enough to give an urbanite like me the heebie-jeebies.'

'Pull yourself together. We're not here on holiday, you know.'

'Thank Christ for that. I'd be asking for my—'

'Hold on.' Harry cut Chipchase short with a raised hand and stopped. A house had come into view ahead as they crested a gentle rise. It was another modern bungalow. But the old stone habitation it had replaced was not a ruin. It stood next to the bungalow, roofed in green corrugated iron, with a garage door installed in the gable end facing the road. 'That must be the Munro place.'

'There's no sign of Marky's motor.'

'It might be parked out of sight round the side.'

'Or this might not be the Munros' ancestral dwelling. McLeish could have sold us a dummy.'

'Why would he have done that?'

'Christ knows. But if you ask me, we were seen coming before we even got off the bloody ferry. Everything since… has smelt like a set-up to me.'

'What do you want to do, then? Slink back to the main road and wait for the bus? It'll be on its way back to Castlebay soon.'

Chipchase gazed ahead, then around at their featureless surroundings. 'Might not be such a bad move. The Castlebay Bar probably opens at eleven. It must be gone that now.'

'Leaving here empty-handed isn't an option, Barry. Unless you want to give Ferguson and Geddes a helping hand in fitting us up for triple murder.'

Chipchase winced. 'Ferguson and Geddes. Bloody hell. For a blissful moment, I'd forgotten those evil-minded bastards even existed.'

'Well, try to bear them in mind. And step lively. We have a house call to pay.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Nothing stirred at the Munro residence as they approached. The windows were closed and net-curtained. The garage door was shut. And Howlett's car was nowhere to be seen. If anyone was at home, they were lying low. And if they simply declined to answer the bell, there was little Harry or Barry could do about it. The absence of the Fiesta was particularly puzzling — and disturbing. If Howlett had not come here, where in God's name had he gone? And why?

'Didn't McLeish say the house was called Haskurlay?' Chipchase whispered as they neared the porched front door.

'Yes.'

'Then we've come to the wrong place.' Chipchase pointed to a hand-painted sign attached to a post at the edge of the road. It bore the mysterious name THASGARLAIGH.

'Probably Haskurlay in Gaelic'

'You've got an answer for everything, haven't you?'

'If I had, we wouldn't be here.'

'I suppose you think that's—'

'Shut up, Barry. Just shut up.'

'Pardon me for bloody breathing. I only…'

Harry strode decisively forward and rang the doorbell. And at that Chipchase did indeed shut up.

A general, all-enveloping silence followed. No sound emanated from the house. Squinting through the lozenge of frosted glass set in the door, Harry could discern no movement within. He rang again, more lengthily. A current of air stirred a wind-chime suspended from one of the porch struts into a passable representation of a Swiss cowbell, causing both of them to start violently. A distant sheep bleat reached their ears, faint and mocking. Then the silence reasserted itself. And they exchanged baffled, despairing looks.

'Told you,' whispered Chipchase. 'No-one at home.'

'No-one answering, at all events.'

'Same bloody difference. Unless you're planning on a spot of breaking and entering.'

'Of course not. But we could take a look round the back. There might be a… window open.'

'Yeah? Well, if there is, it'll need to be a decent size and at a low level if either of us is going to climb through it. Cat burglars retire young if they've any sense.'

'Just follow me.'

Harry set off round the corner of the bungalow, peering in the windows as he went, to no avail thanks to the net curtains hung at each of them. He walked along between the house and the blank stone wall of the garage and stepped round to the rear.

'Well, well, well.'

'Bloody hell,' said Chipchase, looming at his shoulder. 'That's careless.'

The back door of the house stood open, held on a stout, hooked stay. It was, in its way, as clear an invitation as could be imagined.

—«»—«»—«»—

The door led to a cluttered kitchen. It was clean and tidy, though. Either Murdo Munro was a houseproud bachelor or his sister had been on hand recently to maintain standards.

'Hello?' Harry called. 'Anyone at home?'

There was no response.

'Two mugs and a couple of plates on the drainer,' said Chipchase, pointing to the sink. 'Murdo's obviously not alone.'

'Where are they? That's what I want to know.'

'Fishing. Shopping in Castlebay. They could be anywhere.'

'With the door left like that?'

'Maybe it's always like that. Vatersay's hardly a crime hot spot, is it?'

'Unlocked, maybe. But wide open? Come off it. Hello?'

Harry pressed on into the short hall that led to the front door. There was a lounge to his right, simply but comfortably furnished, a bathroom and two bedrooms to his left. The doors all stood open. One bedroom was neater than the other, but both looked as if they were in use. After glancing into each of them, Harry went into the lounge.

Murdo Munro's domestic life was not overburdened with possessions, to judge by the bareness of the room. Beyond the furniture and a surprisingly large television set, there was nothing in the way of books, ornaments or pictures. The walls were virgin expanses of magnolia paint. A clock of some age stood on the mantelpiece, however. Next to it was propped a letter in a buff window envelope.

Harry walked over and picked up the letter to check the addressee's name. Mr M. H. Munro. Not much doubt that they were in the right house, then. The letter was from the Inland Revenue. Maybe that was why Murdo had not opened it.

Then Harry noticed the silver-framed photograph the letter had been propped against. It was a black-and-white snap of three children, wearing clothes dating from the post-war years, standing in a smiling group by a ruined stone wall, a grassy slope visible behind them. Two boys and a girl, the eldest boy in his early teens, the younger scarcely more than a toddler, the girl aged somewhere between. Andrew, Murdo and Ailsa Munro, circa 1950? It had to be. And was the wall all that remained of Hamish Munro's birthplace on Haskurlay? Was that the double significance of the photograph — a lost brother and a lost home?

'Harry,' called Chipchase from another room, his voice intruding between Harry and the grainy images of distant childhood.

'What is it?' Harry shouted back.

'Come here. I've found something.'

Harry went back into the hall. Chipchase was standing in one of the bedrooms, beckoning to him.

Behind the door, out of sight until Harry entered the room, was a desk, supporting a computer screen, keyboard and printer. Lying across the keyboard was a sheaf of printed pages, the topmost page bearing a single paragraph, its wording instantly familiar.

Peter: what follows went before us. It is as I clearly remember it. It is the truth. I—

Harry snatched the page aside and saw the next one beneath, filled with print. And then he saw the single capitalized word at its head.

HASKURLAY.