HUBRIS Page 2

  ‘So, the only question left for now,’ said West, ‘is where’s the perp?’

  ‘He could be anywhere,’ said Duncan. ‘Assuming he’s the one who scuppered the boat, he could have made off on foot, maybe even had a car waiting.’

  * * *

  West perched on the side of the boat and, scratching her head through the hood of her suit, stared pensively into the void below as Dougal, wearing an open-face helmet, a nylon windcheater, and waterproof leggings, called from the shoreline.

  ‘Are you wanting me up there?’ he said, wiping the rain from his goggles. ‘Only, it looks a wee bit slippery.’

  ‘Aye, get yourself suited and booted,’ said Duncan, ‘and hop aboard. This is right up your street.’

  Unlike Duncan, whose sartorial style had all the elegance of a penniless hobo, DS Dougal McCrae – who preferred to conduct his investigations from the comfort of a warm office rather than the great outdoors – took great pride in his Italian-inspired appearance.

  Tutting despondently at the state of his sodden, suede desert boots, he swapped his designer anorak for a set of coveralls, made a note of the boat’s registration emblazoned on the bow, and clambered aboard.

  ‘No, no!’ said Duncan, raising his arms. ‘That’s far enough!’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because if you see what’s down here, you’re liable to have yourself a cardiac, and I’ve not got the defibs with me! What you’re after is in the wheelhouse.’

  Excited by the sight of three small computer screens, the largest no bigger than an average iPad, Dougal immediately pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped the displays to capture their final settings as Duncan and West squeezed into the cabin behind him.

  ‘Jeez-oh!’ he said without turning. ‘Have you seen this lot?’

  ‘Seen one, you’ve seen them all,’ said West. ‘What’s the big deal?’

  ‘That,’ said Dougal, pointing to the monitor farthest away, ‘is a dedicated fish finder – sonar, if you will. It’ll pick up large shoals of fish so you know exactly where to drop your line.’

  ‘Line?’

  ‘Aye, this is a fishing boat, miss. It’s not a trawler. And this one here, is what we call a chartplotter. It’s GPS, no different really to the sat nav in your motor but it also connects with the NMEA to monitor wind speed, direction, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Riveting.’

  ‘But this,’ said Dougal, beaming like a kid in a sweetshop, ‘this is the jewel in the crown. It’s a standalone AIS unit.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘AIS. Automatic Identification System. It’s how ships track and identify each other.’

  ‘So why is that so special?’ said West. ‘I mean, couldn’t they just use a pair of binoculars?’

  ‘It’s special, miss, not because of the price, and they cost a wee fortune, but because I’d never expect to see a model like this on a boat this size.’

  ‘How not?’ said Duncan. ‘Is that not just a normal bit of kit for these sailing fellas?’

  ‘It is, aye. Even the chartplotter has a basic version installed as standard, but this is much more sophisticated. This is top-end, best of gear. It’s for larger vessels on the open sea.’

  ‘Well, what’s that out there,’ said West, pointing towards the window, ‘if it’s not the open sea?’

  ‘No offence,’ said Dougal, ‘but there’s a world of difference between the Clyde and the middle of the Atlantic, miss. And there are regulations too, and that’s what makes this all the more unusual.’

  ‘What regulations?’

  ‘Like the one that says a boat this size should never be more than twenty miles from a safe haven.’

  ‘That’s all very well, pal,’ said Duncan, ‘but you know what folk are like, they get a bit carried away, sail a bit farther than they should.’

  ‘Aye, maybe so, but to have this on board means they didn’t do it on a whim. Wherever they went, they went there intentionally, and what I don’t get is why they’d leg it and leave an expensive piece of kit like this behind.’

  Beginning to wish she’d joined a sailing club as a wean rather than spending her weekends grooming ponies at the local stables, West, frustrated by her ignorance in matters of a maritime nature, groaned as her patience wore uncomfortably thin.

  ‘The fact that they’ve left it behind is neither here nor there,’ she said brusquely, ‘what matters is whether it’s any good to us!’

  ‘Aye, it is!’ said Dougal. ‘More than you know! It has data back-up, which means we’ll be able to find out exactly where she’s been and what course they took.’

  ‘Never mind where it’s been!’ said West. ‘I want to know where it came from!’

  ‘Calm your jets, miss! That’s easy. It’s local. Dumfries.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The registration on the prow: DS155. The “DS” means Dumfries is the official port of registration.’

  ‘That’s the chief’s territory,’ said Duncan. ‘I told you he’d get involved.’

  ‘We’re keeping him out of it,’ said West. ‘I’ve told you already, no excitement for him, not so soon after his by-pass.’

  ‘I’ll ring around and see where it’s berthed,’ said Dougal, ‘it’ll not be far, Garlieston or Stranraer, maybe. So, what’s going on out there? I’m guessing you’ve not found a great white in the hold?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Duncan, ‘just a body. Mind you, he looks as if he’s gone ten rounds with one.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Let’s just say, he’s like a taco with no filling.’

  ‘That’s plenty,’ said Dougal. ‘Miss, are you okay?’

  Annoyed by the lack of pockets in her Tyvek suit, West leaned against the door, folded her arms, and scowled at Dougal.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘This is doing my nut in and we’ve not even started. I mean, an RTC is one thing, I can handle that, but what the bleeding hell do we do with a boat?’

  Dougal helped himself to the swivel chair and flashed her a reassuring smile.

  ‘It’s easy, miss,’ he said, ‘just a slightly different procedure, that’s all. The first thing we have to do is inform the MAIB, that’s the Marine Accident Investigation Branch. It’s not a big deal, their job is limited to establishing the cause of the accident. Once they’ve done that, then that’s them away.’

  ‘Cheers, Dougal. At least someone knows what we’re doing. And after that?’

  ‘The same as usual. Obviously we need SOCOs, but it’s not possible here. I mean, they’ll not even get a tarpaulin up, not in this weather. We need a crane, a low-loader, and an escort. The nearest harbour is Girvan, they’ve a couple of covered slipways and a dry dock. I’ll call the harbourmaster now and sort something out.’

  ‘You,’ said West, ‘are a diamond! Right, you deal with that while we have a word with this Baxter geezer.’

  * * *

  Sergeant Miller, with his greying hair and a complexion which suggested he’d spent most of his life pounding the beat with nothing for company but a packet of cigarettes and a whisky-filled hip flask, barely flinched as West and Duncan flung open the doors and leapt into the front seats.

  ‘Alright?’ said West, smiling as she flashed her warrant card. ‘DI West, and this is DS Reid. Sergeant Miller, I presume?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’

  ‘And you’re Mr Baxter?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Have you a first name, Mr Baxter?’ said Duncan. ‘Titles seem a wee bit formal in situations like this.’

  Baxter, swathed in a silver space blanket, smiled and nodded gently.

  ‘Willy.’

  ‘Smashing. So, Willy, how are you bearing up?’

  ‘Aye, not bad. In fact, I’m getting quite toasty, now. I’ve not worn one of these before.’

  ‘The miracles of modern science. You should get yourself a couple, they’re not dear.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘A
ye, might be useful if you’re out in all weathers.’

  ‘Quick question, Sergeant,’ said West. ‘Have you informed the marine investigation people, yet? About the boat?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Miller, ‘I’ve been sitting with Mr Baxter here, he’s had quite the shock.’

  ‘He’s not the only one by the looks of it. I take it you’ve seen the body, too?’

  ‘I have indeed. It’s a rare sight, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘And are you okay?’

  ‘Nothing a wee brandy couldn’t fix.’

  ‘Good,’ said West, ‘well, we won’t keep you long. Willy, I’m sure your missus must be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  ‘No, you’re alright. I telephoned her earlier, she knows what’s happened. Truth be known, I’m more concerned about the sheep. They’ll be wanting their feed.’

  ‘Then we’ll be as quick as we can. Why don’t you just talk us through what happened this morning.’

  Baxter pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders and settled back in his seat.

  ‘It’s really quite simple,’ he said. ‘I was on my way over to feed the sheep when I saw the beacon on the boat, so I came down for a look.’

  ‘Why was that?’ said Duncan. ‘I mean, you must see boats out here all the time, what made this one so different?’

  ‘It wasn’t moving. And the beacon was bright – too bright to be out in the firth.’

  ‘Okay, go on.’

  ‘Well, it was juddering about on the rocks. I figured for it to end up there, there must have been an accident, so I jumped on board. Got myself a right soaking into the bargain, too.’

  ‘And there was no-one there?’

  ‘Not a soul. Which was odd. That’s when I thought maybe they’d tumbled overboard.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ said Duncan. ‘I mean, I know it’s blowing a hoolie out there, but it’s not that bad, not for folk who sail these things.’

  ‘Right enough, Sergeant, but who knows what it’s like beyond the firth. That thing could’ve bobbed for miles on the tide, I don’t know.’

  ‘Fair enough. So, with no-one on board you had yourself a wee look in the hold.’

  ‘I did. I had a wee look in the hold, and then I lost my supper.’

  ‘Can’t blame you for that,’ said West. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us? For example, did you see anyone wandering about? Anyone walking down the road? Any cars? Another boat, perhaps?’

  ‘No, that’s it,’ said Baxter. ‘No folk, no cars, no boats. Just the poor fella down below.’

  * * *

  Dougal, sitting astride his scooter with the engine running while McLeod struggled to keep his umbrella from taking him on a parascending adventure along the beach, sounded the horn as Duncan and West stepped from the patrol car.

  ‘I’m away up to Girvan, miss,’ he said. ‘Dr McLeod’s going to wait for the MAIB then follow the low-loader up to the harbour.’

  ‘Aye,’ said McLeod, ‘I’ve arranged for an ambulance to meet me there. If you need to get a hold of me after that, I’ll be at Crosshouse.’

  ‘Blinding,’ said West. ‘All we have to do now is find out who actually owns this tub.’

  ‘You need to take yourselves off to Kirkcudbright,’ said Dougal. ‘That’s where it has a berth. The fella you need to speak to is Sandy McCain, he’s the harbourmaster.’

  ‘Nice one, Dougal, cheers. Duncan, do you know where this Kirkwotsit is?’

  ‘Aye, miss, it’s a way down the coast. It’ll take at least an hour for us to get there.’

  ‘Good, then we’d better get a wiggle on. That way we can have lunch when we arrive.’

  Chapter 3

  With long, unsociable hours, low profit margins, and the ever-present risk of disease amongst the livestock, a farmer’s lot is seldom rewarding. But for Willy Baxter, who shunned intensive factory farming methods in favour of allowing his animals to lead as normal a life as possible, the added anxiety of being married to a woman whose temperament wavered between the docility of a dormouse and the unbridled rage of a deranged Doberman, was enough to drive him to distraction.

  As a smitten twenty-two-year-old, the newly-wed Maureen Baxter had spent her days tending to the neeps and tatties, carrots and cabbages, and beans and broccoli she’d lovingly planted in the sprawling vegetable patch to the rear of the house whilst her evenings, despite her husband extolling the virtues of the local supermarket and the Indian restaurant, comprised a never ending cycle of cooking, cleaning, and baking.

  However, with the passage of time, what was once an enjoyable daily routine in a rural idyll had fast become a perpetual round of tedious chores made bearable only by the occasional tipple and an unhealthy intake of Tunnock’s teacakes.

  Keen to rinse the taste of bile from his mouth and wipe the image of a disembowelled carcass from his mind, Baxter dropped his coat to the quarry-tiled floor, kicked off his wellies, and hung his head in despair as her voice began grating on his ears before he could make it up the stairs to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

  ‘At last!’ she said as she scurried towards him. ‘Just where the hell have you been? Ten minutes, you said! Ten minutes! And that was nearly two hours ago!’

  ‘Aye, well, it took longer than I thought.’

  ‘Eleven times I called! Why could you not answer? Could you not have picked up even just the once?’

  ‘I was busy.’

  ‘So, who was the fella in the boat? What was all the fuss about?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Maureen! Give me peace!’

  ‘Did you see the police? Were they asking questions?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Baxter, pulling off his sweater. ‘They were asking questions, but not as many as you.’

  ‘And Rhona? Did you tell them about Rhona?’

  ‘Would it have been so bad if I had?’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘I did not. I said we lived alone, just the two of us, shackled together in wedded bliss.’

  ‘Good,’ said Maureen, lowering her voice. ‘We don’t want folk snooping around when what she needs is some peace and quiet.’

  ‘What she needs,’ said Baxter, gritting his teeth, ‘is to tell us just what the hell is going on instead of hiding away like some kind of a recluse! She’s thirty-one years old! She’s a grown woman!’

  ‘And she’s your daughter! The least you can do is show some compassion!’

  Baxter placed one foot on the stairs, grabbed the handrail, and cocked his head at his wife.

  ‘And why’s that?’ he said. ‘Why should I show her compassion?’

  ‘Because she’s lost her job, and she’s lost her flat, and she needs our help.’

  ‘Give me strength! You’re in denial, Maureen! Wake up and face the facts!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Rhona’s lost her job, has she? She’s been told to leave the flat, has she? Then tell me this, why did she pitch up here in the dead of night with just a handbag and the clothes she’s standing in? Where’s her belongings? She’s not even brought a suitcase with her!’

  ‘She… she had to leave them behind.’

  ‘Why? That’s right, Maureen, you’ve all the questions but none of the answers. Three weeks she’s been here. Three weeks and she’s not even left the house. She doesn’t watch the television, or listen to the radio, or even read the newspaper! She doesn’t even have her computer with her! The only time she comes up for air is when there’s food to be had!’

  ‘It’s not her fault,’ said Maureen, ‘she has stuff on her mind.’

  ‘There’s something not right here and she’s not saying. Well, I’m telling you this, I’ll not put up with it much longer.’

  ‘You listen to me, Willy Baxter, you leave her be, do you hear? She’s… she’s depressed.’

  ‘Is she, by Christ? And why’s that? Because she’s not yet a captain of industry with a six-figure salary?’

  ‘Aye! And because she shouldn’t have
to sleep in the cellar!’

  ‘It’s not a cellar, it’s my den!’

  ‘It’s underground!’

  ‘Aye, it’s underground,’ said Baxter. ‘And it has a carpet, and heat and electricity, and a TV and my books, and it’s where I go to escape!’

  ‘Escape from what?’

  ‘From yourself, Maureen! Yourself! I’m away to freshen up. If you see that daughter of yours, tell her to get off her backside and start looking for a job.’

  ‘Tell her yourself,’ said Maureen, ‘you’ve probably woken her with all your shouting!’

  ‘See here, Maureen. I’m trying my best not to lose my patience with you, so I suggest you take yourself off and have some of your medicine before I lose it altogether.’

  ‘What medicine?’

  ‘The one with “Glenfiddich” on the label!’

  * * *

  Baxter cleaned his teeth and eased himself into a steaming hot bath where he lay with his eyes closed, knowing full well that by the time he reached the kitchen there’d be a breakfast on the table and his wife, having indulged in a snifter, would be full of the joys of spring.

  Troubled by his daughter’s irrational behaviour, particularly as, with a raft of qualifications, a decent job, and a doting partner, she appeared to have the world at her feet, he dismissed a tiff with her boyfriend as insufficient grounds for her unexpected arrival and concluded that she was probably going the way of her mother.

  Angered by the lack of privacy and with it, the opportunity to gather his thoughts, he cursed as Maureen interrupted his musings with a ferocious knock on the door.

  ‘Willy!’ she said as she knocked again. ‘Willy! Are you listening?’

  Baxter took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and considered slipping beneath the surface.

  ‘Aye, go on,’ he said. ‘What is it, now?’

  ‘It’s Rhona! She’s not in her room! She’s gone!’

  Clad in just a towelling robe with bath water running down his legs, Baxter, tempted to follow the aroma of bacon sizzling in the pan, stopped by the door to his den and turned to face his wife.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ he said, trying to remain calm.

  ‘I’ve not said anything!’

  ‘Well, you must have said something to make her leave.’