The Wolf Tree

Chapter 1

People think that death by drowning would be peaceful. But if there is any truth to that, it's a peace that comes after the worst thirty seconds of your life. And it's a fate that, until today, George Lennox had never considered might befall her.

With her jaw clenched against both the biting cold and sudden dips, George stands on the heaving deck of the police launch; constricted by the bulk of an orange life vest, a duffel bag over her shoulder. She clutches a leather briefcase in one hand, the slick railing with the other. The weather has changed dramatically in the last few hours. The soft white clouds that farewelled her on Skye have turned black and heavy, and the waves that claw at her feet are splintered iron, threatening to drag her down all twelve thousand feet to the sunless floor of the North Atlantic Ocean.

"It really had to be today?" A burly marine police officer shuffles up behind her. "We couldn't wait for the fucking wind to die down?" He pauses and eyes her chest speculatively. "You know how to use those?"

She follows his gaze, then looks up coolly. "Life vests?"

He blinks, hearing his words over again. "I just meant there's a whistle under that flap, and a wee light over there . . ."

"I'm sure I'll figure it out should the need arise, Constable."

Though he must be at least ten years her senior, the officer ducks his head.

"Righto, Inspector," he mutters before moving away.

George just grits her teeth, sucking in a quick breath as the boat angles sharply downward. The condescension is something she's used to, even when they learn her rank. These waves, however . . . She swallows hard, temporarily grateful for the wind that dries her perspiration as soon as it forms on her forehead.

"You might want to step inside, Inspector," a voice calls over the thrum of the engine. Despite his narrow frame, the captain barely sways as he leans out of the cabin behind her. "It's only going to get rough from here." The soft, rolling lilt of his Western Isles intonation is a pleasant contrast to the harsher Glaswegian accent she's become used to.

"This isn't rough?" George asks, incredulity creeping into her voice.

His bushy eyebrows pull together. "The Atlantic gives you hell on a good day," he rumbles, with knowledge born of a long career spent rescuing drunken tourists from dangerous cliffsides or fishing people from the sea-alive or dead. "We're certainly going to test her patience by trying to dock."

George narrows her eyes as a light rain starts to fall. "How far are we pushing our luck?"

He shrugs. "The harbor is to the northeast of Eilean Eadar, and we're coming in on a strong westerly. In this swell it's sheltered once you're in, but it's a fine narrow entrance over the bar." At her nonplussed expression, he adds, "We'll be taking our time coming in, that's for sure."

He takes a moment to shout instructions back into the cabin and receives a muffled response. George clutches her briefcase tighter as a wave crests the edge of the boat and her boots, sending a new chill through her socks and soaking the hem of her trousers.

"Who out here can receive a distress signal?" she asks. "The coastguard should be within range." She peers through the thickening rain at a distant coastline. "Or one of the little islands . . . that's Hirta, isn't it?"

"You'll not find much help there. They're isolated enough as it is. Where you're going . . ." He blows out a long breath. "Even I've only set foot on Eadar once, dropping off some lads when one of their trawlers lost a rudder. That was near twelve years ago. I don't think any police have been there since."

"So if we need a quick exit . . . ?"

He barks a laugh. "I hope you can speak dolphin." But his laughter dies as he squints into the distance, as if his seasoned eyes can see further across the water than hers. "If you're in a pinch, your best chance would be Stornoway; there's the airport there, and the Search and Rescue helicopter team, too. And a good hospital," he adds, as an afterthought.

She rubs a spot behind her ear, the only outward indication of her inner disquiet.

The captain eyes her contemplatively. "The locals don't like strangers coming in unannounced, but you say they're expecting you?"

"They should be."

"Then you'll be fine." Her relief is short-lived, though, as the captain adds, "I just hope someone sees us coming. Docking in this weather without help . . . I don't fancy the prospect."

A shout from the cabin draws the captain away. "Like I said, Inspector, you'd be best off coming in. The radar says we're about to get a soaking."

She nods once, sharply enough that he takes the hint and leaves her alone. Her eyes seek out the horizon, the line becoming increasingly blurred by rain and the pitch of the boat. She readjusts her grip on the railing, looking for somewhere more secure to wedge herself until they reach the island, as a deep voice booms out behind her, "How are your sea legs, Lennox?"

The boat tilts forward suddenly, stealing George's retort as she focuses on keeping her feet. She turns in time to see the upheaval not only wipes the smile off Richard Stewart's lightly lined face but also takes his legs out from under him.

She makes her way down the deck and hauls him to his feet, not hiding the effort it takes to bring his stocky body vertical. "You were saying?"

He swipes rain droplets out of his silvering hair, scowling. "Don't test me-not when my socks are wet."

George looks out at the ocean churning around them. "This trip was never going to be cheerful, Richie," she says tersely. She fishes her phone out from an interior pocket of her coat and tries to shield the screen from the rain and spray. "Have you got any bars?"

Richie doesn't even bother checking. "I think we said good-bye to service as soon as we left Skye."

A low growl rolls across the sky like a boulder.

"Do you think the islanders are going to talk to us?"

He shrugs. "They're used to not having service. Silence might come more naturally to them."


By the time the lonely island of Eilean Eadar comes into view just before midday, the rain has become so heavy that George has acquiesced to stand just inside the cabin door, her hood pulled tight around her eyes. Strands of dark hair whip in the wind, stinging her forehead and cheeks. The sun is shuttered behind the murderous clouds, so George’s first impression of the tiny island thrown far off the west coast of Scotland is a sheer, dark cliff. Huge waves smash against the craggy rock face, yet Eadar stands resolute against their rage.

As they skirt around the southeast side of the cliff, George catches sight of a lighthouse silhouetted against the dark sky. She nudges Richie, who has squeezed himself into the doorway beside her. "Look," she says into his ear, pointing.

His pale blue eyes emerge from under a knitted beanie to peer up at the cliff, face scrunched against the pelting rain. His lips thin when he spots the lighthouse.

It looms larger as their passage takes them closer to the cliffs, and George feels a sudden swirl of dizziness unrelated to the rocking boat. She drops her gaze to the deck and steadies her breathing, sensing Richie's eyes on her. Slipping her phone from her pocket again, she squints at the screen intently until he looks away.

As the captain warned, it's no simple task to dock in Eadar's small harbor. The relentless swell was pushing them uncomfortably close to the cliff, so he took the boat out in a wide arc with the bow pointed at the island. Soon the narrow opening into the harbor appears, a gap between the encircling arms of dark rock. From the silence in the cabin, George can tell the captain and the two officers are concentrating hard, their years on the sea evident in the way they focus on the water rather than the instrument panel. She feels a flicker of regret at her insistence they travel today, but quells it quickly. A tragic death requires investigation. A grieving mother deserves closure.

They make their approach slowly, the engine reduced to a hum beneath their feet, letting the swell push them closer to the harbor entrance. She doesn't realize she is holding her breath until the captain, timing his run perfectly down the front of a large wave, throws the motor to full power and they shoot through the jutting rocks that border the entrance. She exhales slowly; Richie's shoulders relax.

The water is calmer in the harbor, but as the captain predicted, there's no one on watch. He flicks the lights on, the red and blue flashes barely penetrating the sheeting rain. The officers are engaged in a low but urgent conversation about if and how they can safely approach the stone quay without assistance when movement in the gloom ahead catches George's eye. Soon she can make out six figures screwing up their faces against the rain to wave them into a gap between two weather-beaten trawlers, and less than ten minutes later George and Richie alight onto the quay with all the dignity of two wet socks.

"You should thank God that you weren't blown in on a nor'-easter," a squat woman roars at the captain as she loops a rope over her shoulder. "You would have been smashed to bits!"

Another man calls to the woman, and though George can barely hear him over the rain, she recognizes the lyrical patterns of Gaelic.

As the captain is drawn into the bellowed conversation, George and Richie are ushered up a set of uneven stone stairs cut into the seawall. The combination of the rain and cloud coverage means George's first look at the main street of Eadar is of a narrow road that currently resembles a river, and unremarkable buildings. They're urged into a narrow two-story house with warm light glowing in the windows, which is how George ends up stripped to her skin in the small but cozy home of Cecily Campbell with nothing but a scratchy blanket between her and the eyes of Cecily's three curious children.

"Away, away," Cecily chides them as she enters the bedroom that is clearly her own, carrying a steaming pot. The kids scatter into the hallway as she closes the door with her hip. George hears a giggle slip under the door.

"Don't mind them," Cecily says, raising her voice above the sound of the rain lashing the roof. "We get so few visitors out here, especially coming out of a squall the way you did. I've put your partner in the boys' room next door, so they'll be bothering him next." Cecily places the pot on the floor and pushes a chair closer to the low stone fireplace. "Pop your feet in here."

George hides a wince as her frozen toes touch the hot water, but soon the heat is working into her bones and up her body. Despite the welcome relief she sits stiffly in the chair, eyes flicking around the room as Cecily towels away the puddles from George's entrance.

The Campbell home has a surprising warmth despite its rough stone exterior. There's hand-painted wallpaper that is faded in places, a handsome wardrobe with a large scratch running down one door, crocheted throws, and a woven rug beneath her feet. A wide bed dominates the room, the squashy mattress sinking in the middle. George only caught a glimpse of the lower level as she was pushed through the door and up the stairs, but there was a similarly cozy living area and a kitchen beyond.

"You'll be defrosted in no time," Cecily says. "I've spent years thawing out Donald-my husband-when he comes home off a day of fishing. He's still got all ten toes. Only nine and a half fingers, but beer and a very sharp knife are to blame there."

"Was he in a fight?"

Cecily's dark eyes go wide before she laughs again. "Oh, no. He's just all thumbs on land. Get him out on the boat, though, and it's like Swan Lake." She crosses to the plump double bed and smooths a crease from the creamy coverlet, then stoops to gather George's wet clothes.

George starts to rise. "Please, let me . . ."

"Don't be silly. Just warm yourself up. Give a chill the chance to set in and you'll be shivering for weeks."

Relenting, George unwraps the towel from around her head, combing her fingers through the tangled curls that fall around her shoulders while Cecily lays out her clothes on the floor in front of the fire. High cheekbones dominate her face; the firelight makes her expression shift between soft and severe with every flicker. Studying her like this makes George realize that the woman can't be much older than herself.

"How long have you been married?"

"Nine years," Cecily says briskly, "though some days it feels like fifty."

"You must have married young."

"And had our first less than a year later." She nods toward a small framed picture of the Virgin Mary taking pride of place among a collection of photos and stacked books on one of the squat bedside tables. "We were quite eager to make things official."

"I see. Did you grow up here?"

"No, actually. I'm a mainlander like you." She moves to the bed and sinks down comically deep into the mattress. "Donald seduced me and lured me across the sea. Been on Eadar ever since, bar the annual trip with the kids to see my parents." The Gaelic word rolls effortlessly off Cecily's tongue-Eht-ter. "He and a few of the lads took their boat out this morning. Idiots. If they haven't been capsized, the storm will have scattered the haddock. The other crews saw the forecast and didn't even bother setting out, but Donald . . ." She sighs. "He does what he likes."

Now that she's not facing an immediate risk of drowning, George's bones are becoming heavy, and the crackle of the fire is making her thoughts soft and fuzzy. She tightens her stomach muscles and hauls herself straight again. "Fish are the island's main export, is that right?"

Cecily nods glumly. "If there was a demand for rotting seaweed or mud, we'd be minted. The boys are out there in their wee boats dropping nets against commercial trawlers that can pull up twenty times what we do in a day. It's not easy. Some weeks we're barely keeping the wolf from the door." She lapses into a contemplative silence, picking at a loose thread on a pillow.