should go and check out what’s happened. Do you feel all right about coming along?” Gillies asked me.
“Of course.”
We were now driving by a cluster of small houses, most of them grey or dun-coloured, the colour of the moor. Here and there were what I assumed were the peat stacks, looking like large plops of dinosaur dung. A woman was pushing a stroller along the side of the road and waved to us as we passed. Gillies waved back.
“The constable from the village is at the house. He knew about the MacDonald accident, which is why he called in to headquarters when the neighbours spoke to him. The dead man’s name is Tormod MacAulay. I’ve met him a few times myself. An older bloke. Good chap. I’d heard he was in poor health.”
“Good,” I said, knowing he’d understand what I meant.
“I’ll still make a stop at the accident site. It’s on the way.”
The terrain was changing again, and rock-strewn low hills rose up to the left. The road snaked. On the right, fields, more rock than grass, swept down to the sea, which had turned slate grey. The sun had vanished and rain was spattering the windshield.
Gillies turned a bend, then slowed and pulled off the road onto the shoulder.
“There’s the spot.”
He pointed across from us, but I could see no signs of what had happened. A guardrail that followed the crest of the road was intact. Gillies reached into the back seat for his wind-breaker and we both got out and crossed to the other side. The wind was blustery and I clutched the collar of my raincoat, bowing my head against the chill of the rain. I fancied the rock spirits were trying to drive me away like nesting birds dive-bombing approaching predators. There was a narrow verge at the edge of the road, and one step beyond that the hill fell off into a steep incline. Grey lichen-encrusted rocks broke through the ground, as sharp and vicious as the snouts of sharks. A small car crashing onto those rocks would have been shredded. The sea was about a quarter of a mile away and, in direct line from the site, was an inlet, the waves foaming white at the feet of the cliffs. It seemed too far away for anyone to have accidentally just fallen into it, but I did wonder if Joan — or rather, Joan’s body — was drifting somewhere in that frigid water. I glanced around. Shards of glass were scattered among the rocks, but other than that there was little indication there had been an accident. The few low-growing bushes were sculpted by the constant winds into frozen motion. It was hard to tell if they had been flattened or not.
“Seen enough?”
The tip of Gillies’s nose had turned red, and he had his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“Yes, thanks. Let’s get back into the car.”
Once in, he turned on the heater.
“You can see how sharp a curve that is. She mustn’t have been able to control the turn.”
“I suppose there’s no doubt about which direction she was coming from?”
“None. The angle of the car was conclusive. She was coming from the south.”
He pulled back onto the road. I checked my watch, a deeply ingrained habit from being in the front line when it might be essential to pinpoint the time of an incident. Less than six minutes later,we were passing habitation again. Five minutes more and we turned right onto a narrow, unpaved road.
“The house is just along here,” said Gillies. “Mr. and Mrs. MacLean live on that side.” He waved acknowledgement to some invisible people. The front lace curtain twitched, but I didn’t see them.
One hundred metres and the road dipped suddenly, then swerved sharply left, ending at a fence and wooden farm gate, which was open. The house stood alone in a rough, grassy field. A long, rutted driveway ran down to the front door, then made a loop in front. In the island formed by the loop was a flower garden, the pinks and yellows of the flowers a splash of colour in the sombre landscape. Directly in front of the house were two vehicles: a
“Of course.”
We were now driving by a cluster of small houses, most of them grey or dun-coloured, the colour of the moor. Here and there were what I assumed were the peat stacks, looking like large plops of dinosaur dung. A woman was pushing a stroller along the side of the road and waved to us as we passed. Gillies waved back.
“The constable from the village is at the house. He knew about the MacDonald accident, which is why he called in to headquarters when the neighbours spoke to him. The dead man’s name is Tormod MacAulay. I’ve met him a few times myself. An older bloke. Good chap. I’d heard he was in poor health.”
“Good,” I said, knowing he’d understand what I meant.
“I’ll still make a stop at the accident site. It’s on the way.”
The terrain was changing again, and rock-strewn low hills rose up to the left. The road snaked. On the right, fields, more rock than grass, swept down to the sea, which had turned slate grey. The sun had vanished and rain was spattering the windshield.
Gillies turned a bend, then slowed and pulled off the road onto the shoulder.
“There’s the spot.”
He pointed across from us, but I could see no signs of what had happened. A guardrail that followed the crest of the road was intact. Gillies reached into the back seat for his wind-breaker and we both got out and crossed to the other side. The wind was blustery and I clutched the collar of my raincoat, bowing my head against the chill of the rain. I fancied the rock spirits were trying to drive me away like nesting birds dive-bombing approaching predators. There was a narrow verge at the edge of the road, and one step beyond that the hill fell off into a steep incline. Grey lichen-encrusted rocks broke through the ground, as sharp and vicious as the snouts of sharks. A small car crashing onto those rocks would have been shredded. The sea was about a quarter of a mile away and, in direct line from the site, was an inlet, the waves foaming white at the feet of the cliffs. It seemed too far away for anyone to have accidentally just fallen into it, but I did wonder if Joan — or rather, Joan’s body — was drifting somewhere in that frigid water. I glanced around. Shards of glass were scattered among the rocks, but other than that there was little indication there had been an accident. The few low-growing bushes were sculpted by the constant winds into frozen motion. It was hard to tell if they had been flattened or not.
“Seen enough?”
The tip of Gillies’s nose had turned red, and he had his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“Yes, thanks. Let’s get back into the car.”
Once in, he turned on the heater.
“You can see how sharp a curve that is. She mustn’t have been able to control the turn.”
“I suppose there’s no doubt about which direction she was coming from?”
“None. The angle of the car was conclusive. She was coming from the south.”
He pulled back onto the road. I checked my watch, a deeply ingrained habit from being in the front line when it might be essential to pinpoint the time of an incident. Less than six minutes later,we were passing habitation again. Five minutes more and we turned right onto a narrow, unpaved road.
“The house is just along here,” said Gillies. “Mr. and Mrs. MacLean live on that side.” He waved acknowledgement to some invisible people. The front lace curtain twitched, but I didn’t see them.
One hundred metres and the road dipped suddenly, then swerved sharply left, ending at a fence and wooden farm gate, which was open. The house stood alone in a rough, grassy field. A long, rutted driveway ran down to the front door, then made a loop in front. In the island formed by the loop was a flower garden, the pinks and yellows of the flowers a splash of colour in the sombre landscape. Directly in front of the house were two vehicles: a
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