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  ‘I did no such thing! I was making yourself some breakfast and I came to see if she wanted some too, but she wasn’t here.’

  Baxter, assuming his wife to be making a whisky-inspired mountain out of a molehill, padded down the stairs and glanced around the room where, aside from the light still burning, and the duvet neatly folded on the sofa, everything appeared as normal.

  ‘What will we do?’ said Maureen. ‘Willy, what on earth will we do?’

  ‘Did she not leave a note? Upstairs, maybe?’

  ‘No. I’ve not seen one.’

  ‘Well, perhaps she’s taken herself off on a walk. God knows, she could do with the exercise. And the fresh air. Does she have her phone with her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, woman! Did it not cross your mind to call her before flying into a panic?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, call her now!’

  Maureen dialled the number and held the phone aloft, her face blanching at the sound of her daughter’s voice requesting she leave a message.

  ‘Perhaps she called a taxi,’ said Baxter.

  ‘No, no,’ said Maureen, shaking her head. ‘I’d have seen it leave.’

  ‘Not if it picked her up at the bottom of the lane, you wouldn’t. What about her boyfriend, this Callum fella?’

  ‘She said we’re not to call him.’

  ‘I don’t care what she said, try him now! Perhaps she’s gone home. At last.’

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll take a wee drive,’ said Baxter, heading for the kitchen. ‘If she’s only just left, then she’ll not be far, unless she’s away up the woods. Then again…’

  ‘Then again, what?’

  ‘If she left at two in the morning, she could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘And if you don’t find her?’ said Maureen. ‘What happens then?’

  ‘Well, if she’s not with Callum,’ said Baxter, ‘we’ll call the police. There’s nothing they like more than a missing person, especially a depressive with delusions of grandeur and an alcoholic mother.’

  Chapter 4

  Blessed with a metabolism which enabled her to burn more calories than a thoroughbred on Derby Day, West, sporting an enviably slender figure, scoured the harbour in search of a café as the sound of rigging clattering against the masts filled the air.

  ‘I fancy a burger,’ she said. ‘A big, bloody burger with tons of ketchup.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ said Duncan. ‘Will you be wanting some raw liver to go with that?’

  ‘Right now, I could chew the hind legs off a donkey.’

  ‘Not that I’m wanting to put you on a diet or anything, miss, but do you not think we should take care of business first?’

  West considered her options and nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ she said. ‘But let’s make it snappy, I’m wasting away here.’

  * * *

  Expecting the harbourmaster to be a wily old seadog in a white, knitted sweater and black fisherman’s cap, West was disappointed to find Sandy McCain, a clean-cut forty-something, seated behind a tidy desk, looking as average as a bank teller.

  ‘Are you Mr McCain?’ she said, proffering her warrant card. ‘The harbourmaster?’

  ‘I am, indeed. And yourself?’

  ‘DI West, and this is DS Reid. I wonder if you can help.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Inspector. What is it you’re after?’

  ‘A boat.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ said McCain, grinning sarcastically. ‘Kirkcudbright’s the busiest harbour in the whole of Dumfries, and we’ve a marina, too. So, is it any boat you’re after, or have you a particular one in mind?’

  ‘Fair play,’ said Duncan, smiling back. ‘You’ll be needing some detail, then. It’s the Thistledonia. Registration DS155.’

  ‘I know it well,’ said McCain. ‘That’s Tam McClusky’s boat.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything about it?’

  ‘There’s not much to tell. It’s a boat. A thirty-two footer. Good condition. He runs it as a charter vessel.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said West. ‘I’m more of a land girl myself. What exactly do you mean by charter?’

  ‘He hires it out, with or without a skipper. Tourists mainly, on fishing trips, although a fair few locals use it, too. Those deluded enough to think they’ll land a tiger shark or some such beast.’

  ‘And these charters, are they… what then? Day trips?’

  ‘No, no,’ said McCain, ‘longer than that. Most folk will take the boat for a week or so. Ten days, maybe.’

  ‘And do they go far?’

  ‘Far enough. The most common trips are across to Ireland, or up the way towards Mull or Skye. You should speak with Tam, he’ll know more than me, that’s for sure.’

  ‘No danger of a number, is there?’ said Duncan. ‘Only, we’re in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘No need,’ said McCain, ‘you’ll find him across the street, he’s in the café.’

  ‘Now that,’ said West, ‘is what I call perfect timing. What’s he look like?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll not miss him,’ said McCain. ‘He’s a big fella. I mean, big.’

  * * *

  With the tourist season well and truly over, and the locals thin on the ground, the café, save for an elderly gent reading a newspaper and someone resembling a silverback in an ill-fitting sports jacket, was empty.

  ‘Tam McClusky?’ said Duncan. ‘DS Reid, and this is DI West. Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ said McClusky. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘It’s about your boat, the Thistledonia.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘I understand it’s a charter.’

  ‘It is, but if you’re after renting it, then you’re out of luck. She’s not back yet.’

  ‘We know,’ said West. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  McClusky leaned back, narrowed his eyes, and glared at West with a look of curiosity.

  ‘London?’ he said. ‘What’s a London lass doing up here?’

  ‘Actually,’ said West, ‘it’s Berkshire.’

  ‘Berkshire? Is that not what they call “the stockbroker belt”? All silver spoons, pin-striped suits, and privileged educations?’

  Having spent her teenage years carousing with the ne’er-do-wells in the less salubrious parts of the county where alcoholism, homelessness, and drug abuse was as rife as the capital, West was often willing to forgive most people their naïve if not misguided perception of her birthplace, but in McClusky’s case, she made an exception.

  Armed with a tactic she’d mastered for disabling opponents twice her size – a technique which, contrary to popular belief, did not involve a swift kick to the nether regions but relied instead on the bending back of the fingers until a loud crack was heard – she deemed McClusky an ignoramus who posed no threat at all.

  ‘You need to get out more,’ she said. ‘There’s only one thing worse than an old fool, and that’s an ignorant one.’

  McClusky locked eyes with West, held her gaze, and smiled.

  ‘I think we’ll get along, you and me,’ he said. ‘We’re cut from the same cloth.’

  ‘Good. Just as long as we understand each other. Now, do you fancy a brew?’

  ‘You’re alright,’ said McClusky. ‘I’m just about done.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Just give me a minute.’

  West turned to the counter, collared the waitress, and ordered two mugs of tea, two burgers, and a plate-load of French fries before taking a seat.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Right, about your boat.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘We’ve found it. In fact, we’re hanging on to it.’

  ‘Finders keepers?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Are you not telling me why?’

  ‘See here, Mr McClusky,’ said Duncan, ‘before we go into any detail, there’s a few
things we need to know first, so you’ll just have to bear with us, okay?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We need to know who you rented it to, how long they took it for, and where they were headed.’

  ‘No bother,’ said McClusky. ‘They’re regulars. They take her out every six weeks or so.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Aye, there’s two of them.’

  ‘I don’t suppose one’s a short-arse, by any chance?’ said West. ‘About five-six, slightly podgy, brown hair, beard?’

  ‘No. They’re two of a kind. Lanky fellas. Skinny. Red hair. Why?’

  ‘No reason. So, have you any idea where they went?’

  ‘That’s not my business,’ said McClusky, ‘but they usually head west, south-west.’

  ‘Ireland?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Is that not a bit far?’ said Duncan. ‘I mean, is there not some sort of regulation that says your boat can’t be more than twenty miles from dry land?’

  ‘Right enough, Sergeant. You’re well-informed, I’ll give you that, but here’s your wake-up call. It’s only twelve miles or so to the Antrim coast from Southend, and from here, the trip across to Bangor’s not much more.’

  ‘That’s me told. Every six weeks, you say? That’s a lot of holidays. How do they pay?’

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘And do they work?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said McClusky, ‘but they enjoy their fishing. You should try it some time, it’s very relaxing.’

  ‘So is a pint of lager in front of the football,’ said Duncan. ‘Can we have their names, please?’

  ‘Jack and Henry Boyd.’

  ‘Brothers?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Moffat.’

  ‘We need an address,’ said West, ‘and a telephone number, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  McClusky glanced sheepishly at West, pulled his phone from his pocket, and scribbled a number on a paper napkin.

  ‘No bother,’ he said, as he slid it across the table. ‘That’s Jack, he’s the fella I deal with.’

  ‘Nice one,’ said West. ‘So, tell me, when exactly are you expecting them back?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ said McClusky, sniffing as he ran a finger over his pock-marked nose. ‘That’s why I’m sat here instead of putting a line on at the bookies.’

  ‘So, they’re bit late, then?’

  ‘It happens. Especially if the weather turns, but right now I’m thinking maybe they’ve been delayed because somebody’s commandeered my boat.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Duncan, ‘but unlikely. It was beached a few miles south of Girvan. I’m afraid you’ll not be seeing it for the foreseeable.’

  ‘How so?’ said McClusky. ‘I’ve got bookings.’

  ‘All I can say,’ said West, ‘is that there’s been an incident. Until we make some headway in the investigation, we can’t tell you any more than that.’

  ‘What you mean is, there’s been an accident.’

  ‘An incident.’

  ‘Has the boat been damaged?’

  ‘Like I said. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but if I were you I’d get on the blower and cancel those bookings.’

  ‘I’d best call the insurance people, too.’

  ‘The Marine Accident Investigation Branch will let you know what happened.’

  ‘Well,’ said McClusky as he hauled himself to his feet. ‘There’s no point in me hanging around here, then. I’d best see what’s running in the three-thirty, then give the boy the bad news.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My son. He’s not been well. We’d planned a wee trip across to Port William but no boat, no trip.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said West. ‘Before you go, I need your phone number and an address, just in case we need to get in touch.’

  McClusky opened his wallet and tossed a business card onto the table.

  ‘Call me anytime,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your lunch.’

  * * *

  Deeming a burger unfit for human consumption if accompanied by anything green, West, gagging at the sight of a limp lettuce leaf lurking beneath the bun, tossed it to one side and replaced it with a generous dollop of red sauce and a spoonful of mustard.

  ‘So,’ she said as she took a bite, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘McClusky. Animal, mineral, or vegetable?’

  ‘Vegetable,’ said Duncan. ‘Did you not clock his ears? He’s half man, half cauliflower.’

  ‘Hardly surprising. A bloke his size with that attitude, I bet he’s had a few punch-ups in his time.’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ said Duncan. ‘I wonder what he did for a living.’

  ‘Professional meathead by the looks of it.’

  ‘Well, he’s past it now. He must be sixty-odd at least. Still, at least he was pleasant enough.’

  ‘It’s a front,’ said West.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I can tell. He’s got a thing about the police.’

  ‘Everyone in Scotland has a thing about the police. No, no, I shall have to disagree with you there, miss. If anything, he’s got a thing about women.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Old school,’ said Duncan. ‘He feels threatened if they’re not in the kitchen obeying orders.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘Fudge brownie,’ said West. ‘Then we’ll give this Boyd geezer a bell, and if he doesn’t answer, we’ll shoot up to Moffat.’

  ‘Did you not want to check on the chief while we’re here?’

  West pondered for a moment and shook her head.

  ‘Nah, I’ve had second thoughts,’ she said. ‘Best leave Jimbo in peace for now, at least until we’ve got this sorted.’

  Chapter 5

  As a typical Taurean who approached her investigations with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop, West, being as stubborn as a mule, did not hold with the belief that there was a right way and a wrong way of tackling any particular task. It was just her way, or none at all.

  Seething at still having to occupy the passenger seat when she knew in her heart of hearts that she could handle any vehicle better than a tactical pursuit driver, she finally succumbed to the pleasure of having a chauffeur and began to enjoy the opportunity it afforded her to absorb the sights and sounds of a part of the country she’d not seen before.

  As a year-round destination for hardened hill walkers eager to explore the Sir Walter Scott Way, ogle at the Grey Mare’s Tail, scale Gallow Hill, or scoot down the Devil’s Beef Tub – a hollow in the landscape once used as a hiding place for cattle pillaged from English farms by the lowland reivers – the old spa town of Moffat, formerly a thriving centre for the woollen industry, boasted several hotels, numerous cafés, and a plethora of quaint shops which served as the perfect backdrop for the hordes of camera-wielding visitors to the area.

  Duncan, eyes peeled for a parking space, crawled along the high street, stopped opposite the Annandale Arms, and watched as West, rather than follow his lead, headed towards the tearoom, the toffee shop, and the ice cream parlour.

  ‘Wrong way, miss!’ he said, as he chased after her. ‘Star Street! It’s just there!’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said West. ‘Do you fancy a raspberry ripple?’

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’

  ‘We’ll get one on the way back, let’s go before it starts pelting down.’

  * * *

  The house, located in the upper reaches of a narrow, winding lane, was a converted stable block with living accommodation on the upper level whilst the lower, with a timber barn door opening directly onto the street, served as a garage and a workshop where the Boyds were busy hosing the dirt from a mud-encrusted 4x4.

  Tickled by the sight of the flame-haired siblings wearing matching anoraks and thick-framed spectacles, West slackened her pace, smiled at Duncan, and
elbowed him in the ribs.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she said, grinning. ‘It’s the bleeding Proclaimers! And I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk–’

  ‘That’s plenty!’ said Duncan. ‘No offence, miss, but you’ve not got the accent. Or the voice. Alright lads? Which one’s Jack, and which one’s Henry?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘DS Reid. And this is DI West.’

  The elder of the two turned off the hose and glanced furtively at his brother.

  ‘I’m Jack,’ he said. ‘Is there something you’re wanting?’

  ‘Just a wee word, if it’s not too much trouble. It’s about your fishing trip.’

  ‘Oh, aye? What about it?’

  ‘Tam McClusky. He says you’re quite the regular with him.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How often do you charter his boat?’

  ‘Now and then.’

  ‘You need to be more precise than that,’ said West. ‘How often?’

  ‘Once a month,’ said Jack. ‘Five or six weeks, maybe.’

  ‘That’s a lot of time off. Doesn’t your boss mind?’

  ‘We’ve not got a boss, we work for ourselves.’

  ‘Budding entrepreneurs, eh? So, what do you do, exactly?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘I said exactly.’

  ‘Labouring,’ said Jack. ‘Building work, repairs, fixing stuff.’

  ‘I assume you keep your books in order, then?’

  ‘Aye. I do it myself. We’ve no need for an accountant.’

  ‘Good for you. Let’s hope for your sake you won’t be needing a lawyer either.’

  ‘This trip of yours,’ said Duncan, ‘when did you leave?’

  ‘The fourteenth.’

  ‘So, ten days ago. And what time did you set off?’

  ‘Around three.’

  ‘That’s a bit late, isn’t it?’ said West. ‘Not much daylight left.’

  ‘Three am,’ said Jack. ‘We went with the tide.’

  Duncan, head bowed, walked slowly to the front of the 4x4, sucked his teeth at the sight of the dented bumper, and wandered back again.

  ‘You’re not saying much, Henry. What is it? Laryngitis?’

  ‘I know my rights,’ said Henry. ‘I’m not obliged to say anything, not unless you arrest me, and even then, only if I want to. And only in the presence of a solicitor.’