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The Island Murder
The Island Murder
The Island Murder
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The Island Murder

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Craig Campbell is all set for a relaxing weekend break on a Scottish island when he meets a group of motorbike fanatics. They invite him to join them for some drinks in the pub, but the evening is spent with a fractious group of people that contains one very divisive influence.

When one of them is murdered, Craig begins an investigation

LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 19, 2016
ISBN9780957556607
The Island Murder

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    Book preview

    The Island Murder - Sinclair Macleod

    TIM_Ebook_Cover_2016.jpg

    The Island Murder

    A Novella

    Sinclair Macleod

    Published in 2013 by Marplesi

    Copyright © Sinclair Macleod 2013

    ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9931307-5-5

    Ebook: 978-0-9575566-0-7

    Sinclair Macleod has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

    All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

    A catalogue record for this book is available

    from the British Library.

    Dedication

    To Iain and Margaret

    for shared memories of happy days

    As always, in memory of Calum,

    my wonderful son and constant guiding light.

    Acknowledgements

    As always my love and thanks also go to my wife of 25 years, Kim and my incredibly wise and gorgeous daughter, Kirsten. I could not write these books without their continued love, support and inspiration.

    CHAPTER 1

    The small ferry tossed, pitched and tossed again. It caused my stomach to roil, heave and roil in time with the unpredictable motion and I was struggling to keep the contents intact. Thankfully, the journey to the island of Little Cumbrae was only fifteen minutes long and it was with some relief that I boarded my bike, rolled it off the disembarkation ramp and onto the island.

    The excursion had originally been planned as a boys’ weekend for Li and I. Our lives were so hectic we rarely got time to have a beer and talk. Carol was away on a hen weekend with some of her friends and I thought that it would be the perfect time for my mate and I to catch up. Li had suggested we visit Millport as he had heard a lot about it but had never been there and the kid in him loved the idea of getting on a bike to cycle round the island in between nights of drinking, snacking and chatting.

    His business was growing quickly and he had added another high-class barbershop to the original in Garnethill. He hadn’t taken even a weekend break for over eighteen months and was looking forward to our trip but he called late on Friday to say that he had contracted some stomach virus and wouldn’t be able to make it.

    I had called and cancelled his room at the guesthouse but decided that a nostalgic trip back to a place where I had spent many a happy short holiday was just what I needed to give me a boost.

    The island is off the coast of west Ayrshire and is only three miles long and ten miles around. There is one town, Millport, and the total population is around fifteen hundred people. It has its own historic castle - one that played a role in the English Civil War - and the smallest cathedral in the United Kingdom.

    When I was a kid, it was a place to spend a ‘Fair Holiday’ weekend or an Easter Monday. It was a safe haven where you could join the host of other families who went there to enjoy eating ice cream and cycling around its outer road.

    I rolled my own motorised bike onto that very road and began the journey from the ferry point to the town itself. The wind had been picking up all day and the cotton clouds raced across a cerulean sky as if they had somewhere better to be. Seagulls battled against the wind and then changed direction to be swept away in the opposite direction as if that was the way they had always intended to go. There were warnings of an autumnal storm hitting the west coast of Scotland within the next twenty-four hours and I began to wonder if my break was ill-fated.

    The island road was suffering from neglect and in places was pot holed and uneven which made me concentrate for much of the way. On one side the dark blue sea was capped with white breaking waves while on the shore side the bracken and ferns on the hillside had garbed themselves in their winter colours of russet brown and straw yellow. Further up the hill the trees were casting off their leaves as they retreated in the face of the approaching North European winter.

    Despite the buffeting of the wind, I enjoyed slaloming the bike around the curves, remembering fondly mellow summer days with my mother and father by my side as we pedalled to a picnic.

    When I reached the hard right turn that would take me into the haven of Millport Bay, those warm feelings became even stronger. The town hadn’t changed much in the twenty years since I had last visited; the same mixture of sandstone and pastel-painted buildings lined the seafront, protecting the narrow streets behind them and projecting respectable solidity. It gave the impression of a place that has cut itself off from the rest of the world, a bit like Brigadoon without the fog. I rode past the guesthouses, private homes, holiday flats and shops that were a world away from the package hotels, holiday villas and sunshine beaches that were now the regular destination for

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