6 Cyrus

6

‘Where are you going?' asks Evie when I drop her back at the guest house.

‘To look for someone.'

‘The crew?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can I come?'

‘No.'

She's about to argue, but I stop her. ‘If you were on board that boat, Evie, I don't want anyone recognising you.'

‘But I might recognise them,' she says. ‘I can help.'

‘Not this time.'

There is no point in lying to Evie. The best way to counter her questions is to give answers with more than one possible meaning. Ambiguity and doublespeak can sometimes conceal the truth from her, but I suspect she's beginning to work this out.

‘If you're hungry, get something delivered,' I say. ‘And if you do go out – don't talk to anyone or ask about the trawler.'

She makes a hmmmph sound and turns on the TV, choosing my room instead of hers.

I have two missed calls. One from Florence and the other from DI Carlson. Florence is the first to answer. I tell her about the explosion and fire on board the Arianna II and how Angus Radford suffered burns to his face and hands.

‘Evie has recognised someone else – Angus Radford's brother. He died in the fire.'

‘Were they trafficking people?' she asks.

‘According to the satellite tracking system, the trawler didn't leave the fishing grounds.'

‘What about an earlier voyage?'

‘It's possible, but Cameron Radford wasn't a regular crewman. There was another brother on board – I'm trying to find him.'

Florence has been searching company records, looking for the beneficial owners of the New Victory, the trawler impounded by the police on Humberside.

‘The shelf company is registered in the Cayman Islands. The listed address is a post office box linked to a vacant block of land. But I found another interesting connection. Do you remember the Panama Papers? A whistle-blower working for a Panamanian law firm leaked millions of documents to investigative journalists.'

‘It was about tax evasion.'

‘On a huge scale. Some of the richest, most powerful people in the world were using offshore tax havens and dummy companies to hide their wealth and avoid scrutiny. Plutocrats. Dictators. Financiers. Politicians. Intelligence officers. Even royalty. One name that came up was North Star Holdings.'

‘Why is that important?'

‘It's the family company of Lord David Buchan – set up by his father thirty years ago. Basically, it's an umbrella company with dozens of subsidiary businesses. Factories. Processing plants. Prefabricated building supplies. Hotels. Employment agencies. Freight companies.

‘When the Panama Papers leaked, David Buchan denied any knowledge of the arrangements, saying that he handed over control of his business interests to a blind trust when he entered the House of Lords. Everything at arm's length.'

‘Do you believe that?'

‘No.'

‘What does Simon Buchan say?'

‘He negotiated to sell his stake in the family trust when his father died.'

‘To his brother?'

‘I assume so, but I don't have more details and I'm reluctant to ask Simon because it might not be appropriate.'

I can understand her misgivings. She works for Simon Buchan and he's unlikely to be happy if she investigates his family's business dealings, regardless of the fraternal friction.

‘You mentioned a freight company. Does North Star Holdings have business interests in France or Spain?' I ask.

‘I can check, but it could take a while to unravel.'

‘Tread lightly.'

‘You too.'

I try Carlson and leave him a non-specific message, asking for news of Arben's kidnappers. He doesn't know I'm in Scotland and won't approve of a parallel, unofficial investigation into Angus Radford and his family.

St Claire has six pubs and a handful of bars and clubs, most of them clustered around the harbour in the older part of the town. At each, I nurse a beer and strike up a conversation with whoever is working behind the bar. I can't hide the fact that I'm an outsider – my accent marks me down as an Englishman – but the staff are friendly enough until I mention the name Finn Radford.

‘He's the friend of a friend,' I say. ‘I promised to look him up.'

The responses range from feigned ignorance to outright hostility, with one publican saying, ‘That fookin' drunk had better not come round here – not after the last time.'

At the fourth pub, I don't mention Finn's name. I buy a drink and sit in the corner, watching the regular patrons who have bellied up to the bar, buttocks spreading on stools, elbows guarding pint glasses, opinions given for free on all subjects.

A woman chooses something from the jukebox. We make eye contact and I hold her gaze for a beat too long. Moments later, she sways between the tables and approaches, leaning closer, cigarettes on her breath.

‘Buy a girl a drink.'

‘I'm waiting for someone.'

‘That can be me.'

She's older than I first thought, with lines around her eyes, but a nice smile. Her full hips are packed into a short grey dress. She holds out her hand. Red polish on long fingernails. ‘I'm Kellie.'

‘Cyrus,' I reply.

She tickles the inside of my palm with a finger as our hands touch. ‘I'll have a Rusty Nail.'

I go to the bar and order the drinks. Kellie takes out her phone and uses it as a mirror, checking her make-up. I wonder for a moment if she's a sex worker but reproach myself for making assumptions.

Back to the table, she pulls her stool closer to mine, parting her knees for a moment. She raises her glass. ‘Slàinte Mhath.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘In good health. It's Gaelic.'

I take a sip of whisky. She swallows her cocktail in three gulps. Her eyes seem to light up.

‘You're not a local, are you, Cyrus?'

‘No. I'm visiting.'

‘Alone?'

‘With a friend. I'm actually looking for someone. Finn Radford.'

‘Finn? Why?'

‘I hear he's struggling.'

‘That's one word for it,' she says. ‘This time of day, he'll be face down in a cot at the Fisherman's Hostel. But give it a few hours and he'll be drinking again.'

There is a poignancy in her tone – as though she remembers him as a different man.

‘Where is the Fisherman's Hostel?'

‘Opposite the lifeboat station.'

I swallow my whisky, feeling the burn.

‘You're not leaving, are you?' asks Kellie. ‘We only just met.' She runs her forefinger around the edge of her glass and licks it provocatively.

‘Next time,' I say. ‘Nice chatting to you.'

‘Your loss,' she shouts, as I push out of the door and get buffeted by a gust of wind that snaps at my trouser cuffs.

The lower floor of the hostel is an old storefront where the display windows have been sealed up and painted. The wooden building looks incongruous among the granite factories and workshops, most of them servicing the fishing industry. A brass call bell rests on the counter. I tap it twice and wait. Nobody answers. I hear a TV from somewhere along a corridor. Following the sound, I come to a lounge where two old guys are sitting in lumpy armchairs, one of them dozing and the other watching a nature documentary narrated by David Attenborough.

‘Have you seen Finn?' I ask, making it sound like I'm expected.

‘Top of the stairs. First door on the right,' says the TV watcher, without looking away from a hummingbird hovering beside a flower.

I follow his directions. Knuckles tap on the door. No answer. I knock more loudly. A moaned, ‘Piss off.'

I turn the handle.

Finn Radford is fully clothed, sprawled on a single bed. The room reeks of sweated alcohol, flatulence and stale cigarette smoke.

His eyes half open. ‘Who th'fuck are you?'

‘A friend.'

‘I have nae fuckin' friends.'

I pull a bottle of whisky from the brown paper bag that is bulging in my jacket pocket. ‘Let's have a drink.'

I take a glass from a sink in the corner and hold it up to the light, seeing every fingerprint. After rinsing it out, I pour him a shot. He signals for more. I top it up. He needs two hands to hold it steady.

‘Tell me about your brothers,' I say.

‘I only got the one.'

‘How did Cameron die?'

‘A fire. I should have saved him.'

‘According to the investigation, you did everything you could.'

‘How would you know?'

‘I read the accident report.'

‘Report,' he scoffs, breaking into a hacking cough – the early stages of emphysema. He reaches for a packet of cigarettes on the bedspread next to him. A sign on the door says ‘No smoking'. He lights up, cupping the flame. Inhaling. Swallowing. More coughing. More whisky.

‘Did the report get it wrong?' I ask.

‘You ever been to sea on a trawler?'

‘No.'

‘Ever seen one sink?'

‘No.'

A tiny vein twitches above his right eye.

‘What caused the fire?' I ask.

He grunts, ‘A worn fuel line, a short circuit, a loose bearing, a spark . . .'

‘Which one?'

‘Take your pick.' He drags more smoke into his lungs.

‘Maybe the engine overheated,' I say. ‘It's a long way from Dogger Bank to Northern Spain.'

Finn's eyes narrow, not because of the smoke. ‘Who said anything about Spain?'

‘You don't remember Avilés?'

He scoffs. ‘I cannae remember what I did yesterday.'

‘The Arianna II was smuggling people into Britain.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Somebody who was there.'

‘Get away from me,' he shouts, struggling to sit up. He swings his feet to the floor and grabs for the bottle of whisky. I hold it out of reach. He curses and lunges again, but suddenly his eyes go wide, staring past me. I have the eerie sensation that he's looking at someone behind me.

‘Can you see them?' he whispers.

I look over my shoulder. The room is empty.

‘I hear 'em, too,' he says, his eyes full of sadness rather than fear.

‘Who?'

‘The ghosts.'

‘What do they say?'

‘We can't breathe. We can't breathe.'

A single tear rolls down his unshaven cheek, getting caught in the greying stubble.

Suddenly, a car horn sounds outside, breaking the spell. Finn fixes me with a stare, scowling and squeezing the empty glass. Lumbering to his feet, he takes two paces towards me, lunging. I duck his fist. He stumbles and crashes to the floor. The glass shatters and pieces bounce across the floorboards.

‘Those voices you're hearing. I can help you silence them,' I say. ‘I'm a psychologist.'

‘Get away from me.'

‘Who are the ghosts? Why can't they breathe?'

He gets to his feet and cries out as he steps on a shard of broken glass. Hopping on one leg, he lurches for me again. I'm at the top of the stairs. Slipping, I grab the handrail to slow myself as I clumsily bounce down the steps on my arse. I turn and see Finn swaying on the landing.

‘Who are the ghosts?' I ask again.

‘They belong tae me,' he says. ‘Ah deserve 'em.'