Page 90 of The High Island

His eyes lit up as she showed him the evidence bag, explaining that they would need to wear gloves to examine the diary. Looking mightily pleased as he donned his ‘crime scene’ gloves, as he called them, Mackie accepted the battered notebook with a reverent air.

‘How do you want me to do this?’ he said, adjusting his glasses.

‘Take a look at the first page and see if, by scanning the text, it seems legible to you,’ Jo suggested.

She waited while he did as she’d said, watching his expression move from initially keen, then perplexed, to a little hopeful. Finally, with a nod, she heard him mutter, ‘Aye, ah mind this writing fine.’

‘So what does the first entry say?’ she tried.

‘It’s about Stella. See the fancy capital S?’ He pointed to the first word in the tightly written script. ‘He’s remembering when he first saw her:Stella came to the door and spoke to mitherabout milk.I was sent to the byre to fetch her some. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my whole life.’

He repeated this, pointing to each of the words in turn as Jo tried to match what looked like a scribble with Mackie’s interpretation.

And so it began. Mackie examining each entry, interpreting it for Jo, who then wrote it on her tablet.

It became apparent that the entries were dated according to when Ivor remembered them. Although the first entry was about Stella, they didn’t encounter another entry for her until much later in the journal, detailing his jealousy at Stella getting up with brother Billy at a dance in the village hall.

In between were other memories – an entry for the birth of each of Ivor’s sons, later entries for each of his grandchildren. Then a whole section on Betty, his obvious favourite. His thoughts whenshe’d left suddenly and never returned. The words were sparse, but there was no doubt as to the depth of his sorrow.

Noting Mackie’s own reaction to this, Jo halted him there and offered to make the old man a cup of tea.

‘Aye, lass. That would be good. Yvanna left things set out for us in the kitchen.’

Making her way there, Jo experienced again what felt like a time warp. She’d grown used to the sitting room with its peat fire, patterned wallpaper and flagstoned floor. Entering the kitchen, she had the distinct feeling that Mackie, who had never married, had lived in this house since birth and never changed what he’d known as a boy even into old age.

There was a floral tray set out ready for them, two mugs, a big teapot, a sugar bowl and a biscuit tin, with a note about the milk being in the fridge and that Mackie liked his tea strong. Glad to find there was an electric kettle, Jo set about following Yvanna’s instructions to the letter. After which she carried the tray in to set it down on a nearby table.

‘I’m at the bit where he found Kris,’ Mackie looked up from the journal to tell her. ‘Or Kris found him. Ivor got a letter to his home in Hoy from Betty’s boy, he says. He wrote back and Kris called him on the phone and told him Betty had died when he was nine years old. Kris gave him his phone number after which they talked together often, but Ivor didn’t tell Hugh or anyone else about it. Notuntil he went into the care home, where he confided in Cathy and Elspeth about his great-grandson.’

‘Have you spotted anything about Kris’s father?’ Jo said as she poured Mackie a mug of strong tea.

The look Mackie threw her was one of dismay and anger. ‘I have. It’s at the end. On the last page. He says he knows who the bastard is.’

Jo set her mug down, her stomach suddenly churning.

‘Did he say who?’

Mackie handed her the journal, opened at the last page. ‘See for yourself.’

There was only one sentence, and it took a moment for Jo to decipher the letters and put them together.

‘Harald?’ she said tentatively.

‘Aye, Harald.’ Mackie’s disgust was obvious. ‘Ivor believed that his middle son, Harald, was Kris’s father.’

44

Leaving the elderly American, Erling headed downstairs and outside. He was keen to have a word with Eleanor Gilmore, who he knew would be one of the two white suits currently combing the harbour area and the walkway below.

Her first question when she saw him come down the walkway was whether he’d recognized the victim. Her desperate need to know resembled his own. If the girl had been local to Orkney, then the sooner they knew who she was, the better.

‘I don’t recognize her,’ Erling confirmed. ‘Neither did Leo Strachan or either of the paramedics.’

‘She might be from one of the islands,’ Eleanor said. ‘When she doesn’t get the boat back today . . .’ She tailed off with a stricken look.

It was then Erling recalled that Eleanor had a daughter herself, but maybe not yet a teenager?

Spotting his expression, she said, ‘Emma’s about to turn thirteen, but she’s definitely older in her own head.’