The Sound of Whales by Kerr Thomson

whale.’ Hayley took a breath. ‘The body of a person. On the beach.’
    His eyebrows dropped in disbelief. ‘Are you sure, lass?’
    â€˜Yes, I’m sure. There’s a man lying dead on the beach.’
    â€˜You’re certain it’s a man?’
    â€˜Yes!’ Hayley said, exasperated.
    â€˜And you’re certain he’s dead?’
    â€˜Of course I’m certain. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t certain. The man is lying face down, half-buried, not moving, with a large hole in his stomach. I’m certain he is dead.’
    Mr Wallace’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened as if he feared the dead body was a close relative. He removed his binoculars and moved to his desk, flattening the crease on a large book that was already open.
    â€˜Where is this body?’
    â€˜Five minutes walk beyond the harbour wall, heading towards the cliffs.’
    Mr Wallace made notes in the book. ‘Can you describe the man?’
    â€˜There’s not much to tell. He’s black, he’s not wearing any clothes, only underwear. That’s about it.’
    â€˜A black man.’ Mr Wallace nodded in interest, then shook his head as if troubled. He scribbled some more in his book. ‘And has anyone else seen this body?’
    â€˜No,’ she said, a little too forcibly. ‘No, only me.’ She didn’t want to be connected with Fraser Dunbar. The dead body was Fraser’s friend, the hidden knife was Fraser’s doing. She wanted no part of any of it.
    Mr Wallace wrote a few lines more and then rose slowly from behind his desk.
    â€˜You know, it’s not uncommon. We get bodies washed ashore; I’ve seen a few in my time. Inexperienced crewmen from tankers, fishing boats lost when a storm hits unexpectedly, Sunday sailors getting into difficulties in the currents of the Minch. Aye, it happens. If this is a black man, as you say, then it’s probably a poor lad from a tanker who was lost overboard during that big storm.’ Mr Wallace stood silent for a moment, as if honouring the dead. ‘Nothing was reported, though.’
    â€˜What now?’ Hayley asked, anxious to be gone before the harbour master probed further or shared more stories of the drowned.
    â€˜I’ll inform the appropriate authorities. Someone should be here shortly to take a look. They will send a police boat from Portree.’
    â€˜Aren’t you going?’
    â€˜I cannae leave my window, lass. It’s the living that concern me.’
    Hayley looked through the window at the empty harbour and the equally empty stretch of water beyond. There didn’t seem much importance to Mr Wallace’s watching.
    â€˜Well, I thought you should know. I have to go now.’
    â€˜You should probably come back later, guide whoever comes to examine the poor soul.’
    â€˜I don’t think so. The body is hard to miss. And I’ve seen enough.’
    If Mr Wallace was about to argue the point, he thought better of it. ‘Aye, fair enough. You did the right thing coming to me.’
    Hayley turned to go. ‘He seemed a nice man,’ she said.
    â€˜How could you know that?’
    She inwardly slapped herself across the back of the head. An almost fatal error. She was a better liar than this. ‘I mean he was probably a nice man. I hope he was a nice man.’
    The harbour master gave Hayley a sad smile. ‘Aye, well, the ocean claims the nice and the nasty. You take care, lass. Remember you’re on an island. Never take your eyes off the sea or the sky.’
    Hayley nodded and retreated from the room, wondered if she had been given a warning or the weather forecast. She returned to the jetty and found Fraser sitting on the beach on the far side of the wall. He was throwing pebbles at an old rotting post that protruded from the sand and missing every time.
    â€˜It’s done. What now?’
    Fraser shrugged. ‘You best get