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were returning home. ‘I’m going ashore for a spell. You and Jumbo toss to settle who minds the shop.’
    He left Pettigrew grumbling, crossed the gangway, and headed towards the village. The main street was smooth tarmac, but the lanes leading off it were either pebbled or surfaced in rough slabs. Most of the houses were small and stone-built, with lace curtains at their narrow windows. Some had fishing nets draped across ropes in their small gardens, a few had hopeful TV aerials lashed to their squat chimneys.
    ‘Stinking snoop!’
    The shout, in a boyish treble, came from a lane. He turned in time to see a fair-haired youngster scurry round a corner and heard a cackle of laughter from a grizzled old fisherman who’d been working on a net.
    Grinning wryly, Carrick walked on. There were few people around and the ones he passed either ignored him or nodded a brief greeting. It amounted to the average fishing village reaction to Fishery Protection uniform.
    He’d started off with no particular intention. But curiosity guided him towards Harbour View Cottages, where John MacBean had lived. When he found them they were just another row of small stone houses. Most of the front-room windows had blinds drawn shut, island tradition when there was a death among neighbours.
    Suddenly, a voice hailed, then Sergeant Fraser came from one of the doorways and crossed towards him.
    ‘Looking for me, Chief Officer?’
    Carrick shook his head. ‘Just walking.’
    ‘Aye.’ Fraser nodded his understanding. ‘John MacBean had the middle one in the row – that one with the green door. I came to have a word with his neighbours.’
    ‘For your report.’
    ‘Reports make the world go round,’ said Fraser dryly. A faint smile creased his heavy face. ‘You know that too, I imagine. Still, I’m finished here. The next thing’s the post-mortem over at Broadford Hospital then the inquiry is pretty well wrapped up as far as I’m concerned.’
    ‘Other people may think differently,’ mused Carrick.
    ‘If you mean we may have trouble tonight …’ The policeman didn’t finish, but nodded. ‘We’ll have a patrol car over again, just in case.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time I got back to Carbost. My car is at the harbour if you’re heading that way again.’
    Carrick nodded and they started back the way he’d come. The dull cloud overhead was thickening, witha hint of rain in the air, and they walked silently for a few moments.
    ‘Sergeant, we’ve our own interest in this,’ he said quietly. ‘What’s the story you’ve heard about this feud with Rother’s people?’
    ‘Feud?’ Fraser slowed and scratched his chin. ‘That’s maybe a strong word, Chief Officer. A few brawls, a middling-sized fire that was probably just an accident …’
    ‘And a patrol car you send over most nights,’ finished Carrick bluntly. ‘There was a girl in it, right?’
    ‘Aye.’ The policeman nodded a greeting to a passing figure. ‘So they say, anyway. Her name was Helen Grant. She … well, she went for a late-night stroll along the pier about three months back. They found her drowned the next morning.’ He shrugged. ‘Accidental death – she couldn’t swim, must have fallen over the edge.’
    They were nearly back at the harbour. Sergeant Fraser stopped beside a small black Ford station wagon and opened the door.
    ‘I heard she was pregnant,’ said Carrick quietly. ‘Who was the man?’
    ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Fraser gruffly. ‘For a start, she wasn’t local – just a student lassie from Glasgow who came visiting to Portcoig a few times. But she had a family back in Glasgow. It was bad enough on them losing a daughter. The way I saw things they’d only have been hurt a lot worse if we’d built it up into a suicide.’ His mouth hardened. ‘Accidental drowning, Chief Officer. The rest of it is between her and her Maker. Agreed?’
    He got into the Ford, slammed the door shut, and started the motor. Then,