The Graves of Calgary Bay, page 1
G R Jordan
The Graves of Calgary Bay
A Patrick Smythe Mystery Thriller
First published by Carpetless Publishing 2020
Copyright © 2020 by G R Jordan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
G R Jordan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
G R Jordan has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-912153-74-9
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Contents
Foreword
Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
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About the Author
Also by G R Jordan
Foreword
This story is set across the varying landscapes of Scotland’s west coast. Although set amongst known towns and lochs, note that all persons and specific places are fictional and not to be confused with actual buildings and structures that exist and which have been used as an inspirational canvas on which to tell a completely fictional story.
Acknowledgement
To Susan, Harold, Evelyn, Jean and Rosemary for your work in bringing this novel to completion, your time and effort is deeply appreciated.
“A thing that you see in my pictures is that I was not afraid to fall in love with these people.”
Annie Leibovitz
Chapter One
I’m staring at my feet through the tide, before glancing up to the ferry some distance up Loch Ryan. There’s a family wrapped up in coats along from me, and they seem to be having fun despite the drizzle coming down. One of the kids even has a bucket with him making sandcastles, probably covering them with the shells picked up from other parts of the beach. He’s a chap with a cheeky grin and I watch the father pick him up and spin him around. There are just some days when I think I may be on the wrong path.
But why am I complaining? After all, I have a new business set up in the swish seaside town of Stranraer, a new woman on the scene, and absolutely no cases. This is why I’m sitting on the beach; this is why I’m in such a morbid mood but sometimes I have to remind myself life isn’t all that bad.
My mobile is ringing. Answering the call, I hear the tones of my newest recruit, Susan, and she sounds in such a good mood it makes me wonder what the deal is.
‘Paddy, I have a lady waiting for you in the office, a Mrs Matheson. She’s here to talk to you about her son. Sounds quite serious.’
From the tone of Susan’s voice, I can tell the blood is pumping through her. She’s only ever worked with me and I nearly got her killed so she thinks that everything about private investigations should be exciting. But she’s wrong. Most of the time, I end up hanging around outside houses checking who’s going in who shouldn’t have gone in, and who’s not gone out. Domestic cases can be such a drag.
I tell Susan I’ll be back in the office in five minutes and remind her to make the woman a cup of tea. She has an inquisitive mind but sometimes she forgets the base formalities that help make a business run. My mind winds back to Craigantlet, my boat currently sitting in the harbour. Normally I would be up the west coast finding my way by instinct and not sitting waiting for the phone call. But these are different days, and I’m afraid my sailing is suffering at the hands of Maggie Calderwood. Not that I’m complaining, because these last weeks have been some of the best of the last years.
Maggie is Susan’s mother and after some shenanigans with a bunch of Russian mobsters in Stranraer, I ended up putting her daughter into jeopardy and then rescuing her before starting a relationship with a grateful parent.
As I walk into the office, I can see a well-built woman through the inner glass door, sitting in the chair opposite my desk. She seems agitated and the tea that Susan has made is sitting on my desk untouched. Susan meets me before I go into the rear office, her eyes glazed over with excitement.
‘Patrick, her son is dead. We’re going to have to find her son’s killer.’
‘Easy,’ I say, before Susan gets too carried away. ‘I need to see if we want to take this case. You have no idea what’s happened nor any idea who’s involved; therefore, you have no idea what the risks are. You can’t just go chasing a case—you have to make sure it’s not one that’s going to get you killed.’
I open the door of the rear office and the woman’s head flicks round immediately. She looks at me with discerning eyes and notices that I do not have a left arm. Following me with her eyes until I sit down behind my desk, she seems agitated. Is there a slight shake to her shoulders? I wonder what caused her to come to me. Sometimes people come out of desperation, sometimes I’ve been recommended, and sometimes they’re here under false pretences.
‘Good morning, Madam, my name is Patrick Smythe and I believe you require my services. Simply tell me what has been going on and when you have explained, I’ll see if I can help. I believe your name is Matheson?’
I would place the woman somewhere in her sixties, but it looks like it’s been a rough life. There are plenty of lines across her face despite the obvious time spent this morning applying her makeup. The worry over her son is obvious.
‘I found your advert, Mr Smythe. It said you look into things—things other people are not prepared to. That’s why I’m here. I need you to look into the death of my son, Keir. He died three months ago when he was away working on the island of Mull, doing what he thought would be his dream job. You see, he was very caught up with his photography, very into capturing the beauty in this life. Until they found him, on Gometra.’
‘Gometra,’ I say, my mind racing, thinking about where that is.
‘Ulva, it’s on the south side of Mull. They found him on the little island, but there’s hardly anyone there. The police have looked into the incident and so far, they have nothing. But I need something, something to tell me what happened to him. It’s like he doesn’t matter anymore, as if we just give it a go and when we find nothing—well, who cares? I want you to care; I want you to tell me what happened to my Keir.’
The woman reaches down into her handbag on her lap, removes a white handkerchief, and begins to dab at her eyes. She’s wearing quite a formal suit—a jacket with a blouse and a skirt that reaches to her shins. Her eyes are no longer looking at me; instead, she looks inside her handbag where she slowly draws out a photograph before placing it on my desk.
‘I take it this is your son. Is it a recent photograph or just a particular favourite of yours?’ That may seem a little harsh, but it is quite important to me. If I am to find her son, I need to know who I’m looking for, not who she thought he was.
‘Recent,’ she says. ‘Taken before he set off on this last adventure. Sometimes I wonder if it was my fault as he was quite a quiet boy, used to stay around the house, even with his photography. But I insisted he needed to get some space away from me, needed to find his own life. And then he died. I need you to tell me why.’
‘Okay, Mrs Matheson, why don’t you tell me a little more about what he was doing, who he saw, and what actually happened? That way I can see if I can help you.’
‘He went to stay with a photographer, a proper one, who lived up near Calgary Bay. He had researched the man and I believe he was quite happy with him. The man is called Jack Doolan and he’s reasonably famous for his photography in the area. Keir liked the idea of joining the man, spending some time with him, going here and there over the Island, photographing the birds and whatever else they could find. I know they’d been to Gometra a few times as it was quite remote, but I don’t think it was anywhere specific. They went everywhere on Mull.
‘I know my son had some friends up there, people he had gone out with, but he never mentioned any names. It wasn’t really like him. At home, he was always quiet, always one of those stay-at-home kids. It didn’t help that his father isn’t around anymore, and I think at times he used to get bullied.’
I can tell he is one of those kids looking at the photograph as he has the eyes that don’t quite seek you out, don’t quite go for you. Instead, he’s almost looking away from the camera, afraid someone’s going to find him out.
‘You indicated he was up there for about three months. Did you see him at all during that time?’
‘I only spoke to him on the phone, Mr Smythe, and I received an occasional letter. Keir was always good to his mum, always good at keeping in contact. I don’t know if that was because he understood I had only him or whether he needed it. They say you have an instinct as a mother, but that was something I’ve always struggled with. I didn’t really connect with him, didn’t really understand him. You’ll have to forgive me, Mr Smythe, if I seem a little bit cold at times. My son . . . I’ve been having difficulty coming to terms with it, spending this time raising him, spending this time making him into a man instead of a . . . mother’s boy. And what happens? Somebody just goes and ends it. I need to understand what happened, Mr Smythe. I think you can begin to understand what I’m talking about.’
‘You said the police investigated it. How much did they tell you?’
‘They said they could find no evidence of anything. They searched the site where he was found; they questioned Mr Doolan; they tried to find out about friends he had. But Keir left the house one night and that was it. Nobody knew where or how or what happened to him. He was found by a local farmer. I guess it’s sheep up there. Maybe you don’t go much outside on those islands. When I looked it up on the internet, there seemed to be nothing on Gometra. Nothing. I have no idea what he was doing there. I have nothing, Mr Smythe; do you understand me?’
‘I take it you do have addresses and contacts of where he was. I need you to write those down. I need you to also get me some more photographs of your son and I require to know whom he corresponded with. If you have a laptop or anything of his, I could do with it as well, with your permission to break into it.’
‘He had that all with him, his phone, his tablet; there was none of it at home. The police took it away and I believe they still have it. It might show you photographs because that’s what he used it for. I can give you an account to his online storage or photographs, but I can’t do a lot more. You see, he’s just gone, Mr Smythe . . . like someone just took their finger and thumb and snuffed out the light for no reason. I need to know what happened to him. Do you understand me, Mr Smythe? I have savings. I have the money but tell me what happened to him. Tell me you’ll take this case and find out what happened during the last days of my son’s life.’
It is best at such times to be unemotional, trying to keep a mind that says, What are the merits of the case? Why should I take it? Does she have the fee? Words like these seem to be much more important than any emotional tie. Despite not having a son, I’m finding it difficult to step away. The woman cuts such a sad figure and as I look at her, trying to be neat and tidy in her seat, dressed up as best she can to influence me to take the case, there’s an overwhelming swell of pity within me. It’s surprising me as much as anyone. But I will certainly take a look. Although given the police have had three months on it and they’ve told her next to nothing, I’m not sure what I can dig up.
I stand up, come around the desk, and shake the woman’s hand, telling her that I will look into it for her. I ask if Susan’s given her a copy of my rates and fees, to which she simply nods. I ask her to write down anything else she can think of and email it to me, along with those passwords and codes to get into his online storage. With that, I shake her hand, offering my condolences for her loss and advising her I’ll do my absolute best to find out what happened.
As soon as Mrs Matheson departs, Susan rushes in from the other office.
‘So, are we taking it, Paddy? Are we off to Mull?’
‘You could have a little more decorum around her,’ I say.
‘I didn’t say anything when she was here. I was polite, I made her tea, I didn’t do anything that was out of line.’
She looks offended and I guess I’m just being cruel for hanging back on my answer.
‘Yes, I’m going to take a look at it,’ I tell her, ‘and you can come up with me but don’t get your hopes up. If the police have had these three months, I’m reckoning it’s going to be a closed case . . . we’ll see what comes.’
And with that, I tell her to start arranging some accommodation and go online myself, to remind myself of the area . . . Gometra. As I recall, it’s a very lonely place stuck on the end of a very lonely place—strange place to die. But she never told me how he died, how he was left, where the body was. All I can think of is that it must have been grim because she never even attempted to tell me.
Chapter Two
I have never really taken anyone on a case with me, and Susan is only nineteen, but she is certainly keen. I let her drive the car up to Oban where we take the ferry across to Craignure on what is a rather bleak-looking day. But even given the weather, Mull itself is quite beautiful and I remember doing a little bit of work here before—a bit of work I handed over to the police when things started to get more serious.
But this time as we head up towards Salen on the coast road that lets you look out at the Sound of Mull and the close traffic that passes on the water there, I am getting a sinking feeling that we are not going to be able to find out much. Because our victim was working up near Calgary Bay, Susan managed to book a hotel in Dervaig, but I felt the first thing to do was to go to Gometra. This involves one of the shortest ferry crossings you will ever go on as you head over to the Ulva ferry landing from Oskamull. It is quite strange as you arrive, especially in winter, because there’s very few cars about. And when we go over, without our car, we get some strange looks. It will be about a five-mile walk to Gometra, which is as the crow flies, although we will take the road that goes round.
Keir Matheson was found on an old burial site not that far from the more-inhabited areas of Gometra. And when I say more-inhabited, I mean there is a house, but one thing at a time. As we come to the ferry, Susan has a bright smile on her, despite her jeans now being soaked and the heavy drizzle that assaults us. You can smell the sea—all round this island—and part of it makes me long to get back on Craigantlet, but I try to keep my head in the game where we are.
Susan has her mobile up, photographing the water between Ulva and the Isle of Mull itself. You can go and visit the Ulva church; you can stay at a B&B on the Ulva island but I’d rather we walk, get to our scene, and then walk back. But this does mean it could be late and the ferry might not run, so I brought a tent.
I thought, at first, Susan would be quite annoyed at this because I wasn’t carrying two, but she seems to enjoy the adventure. Although we broke the drive up, I’m still finding it’s the afternoon by the time our ferry has crossed.
We stop at the small shop, buying a few provisions. When I say shop, it is more like the tiniest pub on a shore. I look about the concrete jetty where the ferry comes in and there is a couple of tied-up boats and large pink buoys used to secure them when the tide comes in. The ground is rough, grey rock, but there are a few brick cracks and stone defences that keep the pub safe. The great drizzle has made the outside picnic tables useless and I smile when I see the red telephone box at the end of the pub.
Susan looks at me questioningly and I explain how we used to actually stand inside one of these and make phone calls instead of simply grabbing a mobile. Interestingly enough, there is not much of a mobile signal here.
Given that the light will fade in the not-too-distant future, I insist we start our walk. With a rucksack over my shoulder, we head along the winding roads, finding very few people at all. Halfway along the road, a man stops with a tractor asking us where we are going. I tell him we plan to see Gometra and possibly get back and he says we haven’t got a hope and asks us to jump on board. He is strong, broad, and jovial with it, so I agree, although to be honest, I think he has more of an eye on Susan than he does on myself.
