3 Cyrus

3

There is a waiting stillness about the morning, as the sun emerges from the horizon, lighting up a bank of clouds that glow red like a floating fire above the dark sea. My running shoes make a soughing sound on the pavement, and the ground moves towards me and beneath me and behind me.

Evie was still asleep when I left the guest house. She probably won't wake until I'm back, but I closed the adjoining door and left her a note saying I wouldn't be long. That was an hour ago. Since then, I have explored St Claire, running along empty streets, past darkened terraces, shops, factories and blocks of flats. Many are built from the same red granite and give the impression that the town sprouted directly from the rocky cliffs, taking root like the stunted trees, which lean away from the prevailing winds.

The lowest part of the town is on the shoreline where the shingle beach is blanketed by seaweed. Further east, protected by a breakwater and twin lighthouses, is the harbour, surrounded by factories and warehouses. Pausing at the end of the southern breakwater, I watch a fishing trawler return to port, towing seagulls like white kites.

Retracing my steps, uphill this time, I pass a man in a tweed jacket and peaked cap, walking his Jack Russell. I stop on the corner, waiting for him.

‘You picked a tough climb,' he says, sounding more English than Scottish.

‘More fool me.'

The dog sniffs at my shoes.

‘It's a lovely morning,' I say. ‘Are you a local?'

‘No, I'm visiting my grandchildren.' He points along the lane. ‘My son married a Scottish lass. A Jock. Are we allowed to call them that? I'm not sure these days.'

‘Where is home?'

‘Cornwall. My wife died last year. This is my first trip without her.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘It is what it is.'

He crouches to scratch the dog behind her ears.

‘I'm looking for someone who knows about the fishing industry,' I say. ‘In particular, an accident. A trawler sank off the Scottish coast about twelve years ago.'

‘Dylan might know. He volunteers at the lifeboat station, when he's not delivering the post.'

‘Where would I find Dylan?'

‘At home having breakfast. You're welcome to join us. Call me Patrick.'

‘Cyrus,' I reply. He has a firm dry handshake that feels like I'm squeezing a wad of crumpled paper.

I follow him to the end of a lane where the terraced cottage matches all the others in the street. Patrick takes off his boots in the entrance hall. The dog runs ahead of him. The place smells of boiled milk, porridge and brown sugar. Toys are scattered along the hallway. One of them squeaks under my feet and a young woman appears. Pretty. Careworn.

‘Have you picked up another stray, Dad?' she asks.

‘Found him on the road,' says Patrick.

I begin to apologise, but she waves me to the table where two small children with food-smeared faces are seated on matching highchairs. Twin boys.

‘I'm Jessica,' she says. ‘These two terrorists are Rory and Lachlan.' She wipes their grimacing faces with a flannel.

‘And I'm Dylan,' says a bearded man, who is built like a brick outhouse, dressed in dark cargo shorts, a red Royal Mail shirt and heavy boots.

‘Cyrus is looking for details about a fishing trawler that sank off the coast,' says Patrick, who shows me where to wash my hands.

‘The Arianna II,' I say.

‘Willie Radford's boat,' says Dylan. ‘That was south of here. The lifeboat crew from Aberdeen got the call-out, along with the coastguard chopper.'

‘What happened?' I ask.

‘A fire in the engine room. One crewman lost. Two more airlifted to hospital.'

‘Lost?'

‘Cameron Radford,' says Jessica, her voice tinged with sadness.

‘Jessica used to date him,' says Dylan.

‘In primary school,' she laughs. ‘We didn't even hold hands.'

‘Everybody knew the family,' says Dylan. ‘Three brothers. Cam was the youngest. Finn was never the same afterwards. You still see him around St Claire, off his head on booze and talking to hisself.'

‘Who is Willie Radford?' I ask.

‘Their father. He's a big gaffer in town. Runs a fish processing plant. Employs a lot of locals.'

‘And the mother?'

‘They divorced after the sinking. She went back to her maiden name, Maureen Collie. She owns a guest house here in St Claire.'

‘The Belhaven Inn?'

‘That's the place.'

I think about the woman who signed us in last night. She'd be about the right age.

‘Maureen is a force of nature,' says Jessica. ‘One of eight – four boys and four girls. Bit of Irish Catholic in them.'

‘You mentioned three brothers,' I say.

‘Angus is the eldest. He was the skipper,' says Dylan. ‘Why are you interested?'

‘Angus Radford was arrested down south. I'm looking at his background.'

‘What's he done now?' asks Jessica, sounding resigned.

‘He was on a trawler that collided with a migrant boat.'

Dylan whistles through his teeth. ‘The one in the news. All those people washed ashore.'

‘He's been charged with murder.'

‘Fuck me,' says Dylan.

Jessica glares at him. ‘Mind your language in front of the bairns.'

‘Sorry, hen.'

‘And don't call me hen.'

Jessica lifts the twins from the highchairs and takes them into another room before returning.

‘Are you with the police?' she asks.

‘I'm a forensic psychologist. I study criminal behaviour.'

‘Well, we're all pretty normal up here,' says Dylan.

Jessica gives a derisory laugh. ‘Yeah, apart from the underage drinking, youth suicides, wife beating and drug dealing.'

‘OK, but not here in St Claire.'

‘How would you know? You're a well-known eejit.' She ruffles his hair and smooths it down again.

Dylan gets to his feet and takes a high-vis jacket from a hook on the back of the door.

‘I'm off. I'll be home at six.'

Jessica stands on her tiptoes and pulls down his face in both her hands, kissing him on the lips. ‘Give Cyrus a lift.'

‘That's OK. It's not far,' I say.

‘No. He'll take you.'