8 Cyrus

8

There is an envelope waiting for me at reception. Unsealed. Unsigned. The message reads: If you want to know about the Arianna II, you're asking the wrong people.

It includes an address – a berth number at St Claire Bay Marina, but there's no indication of what time I'm expected or who will be there.

‘Did you see who left this?' I ask.

‘No, love,' says the receptionist, the same woman who signed us in last night.

‘Was it a man or a woman?' I ask.

‘Cannae tell you.'

‘What time were they here?'

She begins lifting folders and pens, searching the counter. ‘Ah must've made a note of it somewhere,' she says sarcastically. ‘Wrote it all down – what he was wearing, what he was driving, his date of birth, his favourite colour . . .'

‘A man, then?'

She is no longer amused.

‘We'll be checking out tomorrow, Mrs Collie,' I say.

‘Aye. Good.' She frowns. ‘How do yer know mah name?'

‘You must have told me,' I say, smiling.

‘I don't think so.'

‘Well, somebody must have mentioned it.'

Maureen Collie gives a caustic snort and watches me as I walk to the stairs. So much for keeping a low profile.

Evie is in my room, sitting cross-legged on the bed, eating crisps and watching TikTok videos on her phone. I tell her about my meeting with Finn Radford, who admitted nothing, but was clearly haunted by his brother's death.

‘Is he the Ferryman?' asks Evie.

‘No, he's a sad drunk, who sees ghosts.'

‘Maybe they're real ghosts,' says Evie, stealing my thoughts.

I show her the note left at the reception desk.

Her forehead creases. ‘I don't want you to go. Let's go home, instead.'

‘Tomorrow,' I tell her. ‘Now lock the door and don't open it for anyone except me.'

‘You're scaring me.'

‘You'll be fine.'

‘But what about you? Keep your phone on . . . and send me photographs . . . and don't do anything stupid.'

‘When do I do anything stupid?'

‘You want examples?'

‘No.'

Evie puts her arms around my waist and her head against my chest, which surprises me. Normally, she baulks at physical contact and stiffens when anyone hugs her. Intimacy embarrasses her. This is a legacy of the abuse she survived as a child, which has made her less trusting and prone to bouts of negativity and low self-esteem. Her history is littered with drug-use, petty theft, self-harm and anti-social behaviour, but these are symptoms not the disease.

In Greek mythology, Prometheus was a Titan who was sentenced to eternal torment because he defied the gods. Bound to a rock, Prometheus was visited each day by an eagle which fed on his liver. Each night the liver would grow back, only to be eaten again the following day. Evie is trapped in the same sort of vicious circle and I don't know if I can free her without breaking her in the process.

Leaving the guest house, I drive to a headland overlooking St Claire Bay. Parking the Fiat at a lookout, I gaze across the stone-grey sea, to where a bank of dark clouds is gathering on the horizon. Below me, a seawall juts out into the bay, providing a patch of calm water where the boats are moored at the marina. To the south are shipping warehouses and office accommodation of ASCO, the supply base that handles deck cargo, fuel and water for the container ships that use the port.

Having studied the lie of the land, I approach along an access road, past the sailing club. Leaving the car, I continue on foot. I can hear waves breaking against the seawall and taste the salt in the breeze. Yachts and pleasure craft are moored side by side and opposite each other along the floating pontoons. Each berth has a number, but the layout is confusing. I double back before finding the right one.

The boat is a large, blue-hulled cruiser with sloping angles, and a forest of antennae and radar dishes on the upper roof. The name painted on the stern is Watergaw. I notice a man appear at the opposite end of the dock. Another has followed me, blocking my escape. They seem small at first but get bigger as they get nearer. Both are dark haired and heavily built, dressed in matching waterproof jackets, black and orange.

I take out my phone and take a photograph of each of them, as well as the boat.

‘I'm taking holiday snaps for a friend,' I say, sending the images to Evie and Florence.

‘Put tha' away,' says the older of the two, who has a booze-stained nose and a single silver stud in his left ear. ‘Arms out.' He pushes me up against a handrail and roughly pats down my pockets, before frisking my legs and arms.

‘Shouldn't you buy me dinner first?' I ask.

‘Unbutton your shirt.'

‘I'm not armed.'

‘It's not weapons I'm lookin' fer. Unbutton your shirt.'

The younger one catches sight of my tattoos and whistles through his teeth. ‘Is that a hobby or an illness?'

‘Both.'

I tuck in my shirt and step on board, descending three steps into a luxurious cabin decorated in polished wood and marble. It has a circular lounge, a dining table and a galley area with an oven and cooktop. An older man is sitting at the table. A newspaper is spread out in front of him and reading glasses are perched on the end of his nose. He gets up and carefully folds the paper.

‘Thank you for coming, Dr Haven.'

He has thick, wavy grey hair, and trousers that are notched too tightly into his waist. The air smells of scented oil and aftershave.

‘I'm sorry, I don't know your name, sir.'

‘It's nae important.'

‘Maybe so, but it would help to call you something.'

There is a pause. The old man is deaf in one ear and cocks his head to one side, presenting his good ear.

‘Mah name is William Radford. Mah friends call me Willie. You can call me Mr Radford.'

A woman appears from an adjoining cabin. I recognise her bottle-blonde hair and the tight grey dress. It's Kellie from the pub.

‘Is this him?' asks Radford.

‘Yeah. Can I go now?'

Radford nods and Kellie stumbles up the stairs, eager to get away.

A bottle of whisky is produced from a mahogany drinks cabinet. Two glasses. A jug of water. I notice scars on the back of Radford's hands and the deep lines around his eyes, created by squinting into sun and wind.

He pours a whisky and pushes it towards me.

‘Nothing for me.'

‘This is a fifty-year-old Macallan, single malt, worth sixty grand a bottle. The least you can do is try it.'

I sniff the glass and let the whisky pass my lips, tasting the peat and the moss and woodsmoke.

Mr Radford does the same, sipping more liberally, smacking his lips. ‘What do you think?'

‘Very smooth.'

‘It's the juice of angels copulating in flight.'

‘Not the metaphor I had in mind.'

He smiles. ‘Why are you so interested in the Arianna II?'

‘Your note said you had the answers.'

‘Ah'm more interested in why ye're askin' the questions.'

‘Is that a problem?'

‘Aye, because ye're making a nuisance of yerself. Bothering good people.'

‘Are you bothered?'

‘Is nae about me.'

‘Yet here we are.'

Anger in his eyes. White knuckles on his glass. A long silence.

‘I met someone who was on board the Arianna when it sank,' I say.

‘Who might that be?'

‘Your son, Angus. He's been arrested down south and charged with killing seventeen asylum seekers, but I'm sure you know that.'

Mr Radford scoffs. ‘Gross negligence manslaughter – what sort of bullshit charge is that? And what does that have to do with the Arianna?'

‘I'm trying to solve a mystery.'

‘There's no mystery. There was an engine fire. An explosion. The boat sank.'

‘Your youngest son died. I'm sorry.'

‘Did you know Cam?'

‘No.'

‘Well, why are yer sorry?'

‘For your loss.'

His glass is empty. Mine barely touched. He pours himself another. The whisky tilts and flashes gemlike in the glass.

‘Have you ever lost a loved one, Dr Haven?'

‘Yes. My parents and twin sisters were killed.'

He frowns in surprise, his eyebrows almost touching. ‘Did you see them dead?'

‘I found their bodies.'

‘How old were your sisters?'

‘Just turned eleven.'

He shakes his head and seems at a loss for words. He gazes into his glass, the pain etched on his face.

‘Cam was nineteen. He would have been thirty-one now. Ah have other sons, whose lives have never been the same. You've seen what it's done to Finn. He blames himself.'

‘How does Angus feel?'

‘You'll have to ask him.'

He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. Whisky splashes over his fingers and beads on the table. ‘Let's get back to the subject, Dr Haven. I don't appreciate you coming here and opening up old wounds.'

‘That's not my intention.'

‘Ah think it is. Ye're picking on folks who have suffered enough.'

I glance around the luxurious interior of the boat and wonder whether Mr Radford has suffered as much as his sons.

‘Would you tell me something if I asked you?'

‘Aye, if I can.'

‘Would you be honest with me?'

‘Ah dinnae know if you deserve that, but fire away.'

‘Was the Arianna being used to smuggle refugees?'

His eyes change colour, growing darker and then lighter again, while his mouth opens and closes as though he's unclenching his jaw.

‘That's a dangerous accusation. I hope you have proof to back it up.'

‘The wreck was never salvaged.'

‘It went down in deep water. These things happen. An investigation was carried out. No blame was placed on the crew.'

‘I talked to Finn. He blames himself.'

His eyes swim. ‘We have an old saying around these parts, Dr Haven. The sea takes the saver of life, instead of the saved. Do you know what that means?'

‘People sometimes die when they're trying to help.'

‘Who are you trying to help?'

‘I'm just looking for the truth.'

A deep chuckle, low down, shaking his diaphragm. ‘Oh, that's a dangerous beastie, the truth, a monster in the loch.'