The Sound of Whales by Kerr Thomson Page A

home.’
    The girl gave a snort. Home was Texas and Texas was a long way away. ‘Fine. What are you planning to do?’
    â€˜I’m staying here until Ben returns.’
    â€˜Fine. That’s fine. If he murders you, I’ll let someone know.’
    â€˜Good. Mr Wallace will do.’
    Hayley stood there and Fraser sat on the sand, neither looking at the other, the only sound the breaking surf and distant gulls. She wanted to leave but something held her back, a reluctance to abandon the boy to knife-wielding biologists.
    â€˜He seemed nice,’ she said again.
    â€˜The harbour master?’
    â€˜No. Jonah.’
    Fraser sighed. ‘Aye.’ He picked up a few more pebbles and carried on throwing them at the wooden post. ‘Tonight’s the ceilidh,’ he said.
    â€˜The what?’
    â€˜The ceilidh, kay-ley , rhymes with Hayley. Hayley at the ceilidh.’
    He gave a weak smile but Hayley offered nothing in return.
    â€˜My mom mentioned it. Some kind of dancing.’
    â€˜That’s right. Scottish dancing, the Gay Gordons and the like.’
    â€˜Who is Gay Gordon?’
    â€˜There is no Gordon. And no one is gay. It’s the Gay Gordons.’
    â€˜Gordon’s not gay?’
    â€˜It’s a dance.’
    She was confused and not in the slightest bit interested. There would be no dancing from her on the island of Nin.
    â€˜I’ll see you,’ Fraser said.
    It was her cue to leave and she was glad; it removed any responsibility towards dead Africans and sad Scottish boys. ‘Yeah. See you.’ She picked up a stone and threw it at the post, hit it first time with a whack.

CHAPTER 11
    O n a crisp September afternoon in 1942 a German U-boat surfaced off the coast of Skulavaig, a fire in its torpedo bay spreading to all parts of the boat. The crew swam or rowed ashore, waved a few pistols at the gathered islanders, then scattered. Within a week they had all been captured.
    On a dark February morning during the fierce winter of 1963, two small fishing boats from Skulavaig harbour sailed out into a choppy sea and were never seen again. Seven crewmen lost, two of them brothers.
    During the scorching August of 1988 a film crew from Hollywood shot parts of a movie in Skulavaig and several tinsel-town celebrities took rooms at the Harbour Hotel. A few locals got work as extras and even though most of the scenes ended up on the cutting-room floor, for a brief moment Skulavaig had glamour.
    Dramatic events were few and far between on Nin, but the talk this day was of a dead man washed ashore. Fraser walked along the narrow road from the harbour, finally released from his grounding, officially at least. The early evening air was still warm and he listened to the conversations of the townsfolk, swapping news of murder and mystery. Fraser was going against the flow, everyone else heading towards the Fisherman’s Mission and the ceilidh that took place once a month. He wanted to put some distance between him and the harbour, in no mood for the accordion and fiddle he could hear warming up with a lively tune.
    A police car passed him, the blue light flashing. Skulavaig had no police station, the nearest was on Skye and that was mainly country coppers. A dead body washed ashore called for a squad from Inverness, especially when the corpse appeared to have a knife wound in the gut. Earlier in the day a couple of uniformed officers had disembarked from a police boat and then the ferry had brought police cars and detectives in suits and forensic officers in white overalls who had trudged along the beach with various pieces of equipment. Only in the last half-hour had the body been finally removed. From the road above the beach Fraser had watched a heavy black body bag being carried away and loaded on to the police boat. He had silently wished Jonah farewell, surprised to feel his eyes fill with tears. Who had murdered the shipwrecked African? And why? He could have