Finally, I give up and make my way back to my office, frustration warring with determination. The locals won't talk. That's obvious from MacKinnon's hostility and the way shopkeepers avoid eye contact when I pass. Fine. I'll build my case without cooperation. Evidence doesn't require friendly witnesses, just thorough investigation and a refusal to give up when things get difficult.
The station is empty when I return, and Rhona is apparently gone to lunch or avoiding me. I drop the ledger on my desk and start photographing pages, documenting everything before the dock master demands its return. The handwriting inconsistencies become more obvious with careful study. Different entries use different ink, different pressure, small variations that suggest alteration after the fact.
Someone is doctoring these records. The question is who's doing it and why.
I pull up shipping databases on my computer and cross-reference vessel names and cargo descriptions with official records. Several entries don't match. The boats listed as departing Stormhaven according to MacKinnon's ledger show different destinations in the official logs. The cargo descriptions vary between documents in ways that suggest deliberate falsification.
Then I notice the details that make my stomach turn.
There's a shipment listed as "minerals—industrial grade" with ventilation holes built into the crates. Minerals don't need air. There's a "livestock" transport with restraint systems but no refrigeration. The manifest notes "living cargo protocols" for what's supposedly raw materials from Cork.
My hands still on the keyboard. Cork. It's Ireland.
I open a new database and cross-reference missing persons reports with the shipping dates. The search takes longer than it should, and my pulse hammers in my ears as results populate the screen.
There are twelve children. They're ages six to fourteen and all disappeared from the Cork area over a six-month span. They're all from poor families where disappearances wouldn't draw heavy investigation.
The manifest entry reads: "Livestock—12 units."
The words blur. I read them again because I'm certain I've misunderstood. But the numbers don't change. There are twelve units being shipped and twelve children missing.
I shove away from the desk, and the chair clatters backward. My hand presses against my mouth as bile rises in my throat. The nausea hits in waves. Those children were treated like livestock. Shipped like cargo to whatever monster or monsters paid for them.
This isn't smuggling. This is human trafficking. Child trafficking.
Every instinct I have says those children are still out there somewhere, sold into whatever hell their buyers had planned.
This is bigger than I thought. Bigger than simple smuggling or even organized crime. This is systematic record manipulation suggesting an operation with resources and connections to alter official documentation. The kind of thing that requires money, expertise, and protection from authorities who should be investigating instead of enabling.
My predecessor is gone. Case files went missing. Everyone treats my presence like an invasion rather than law enforcement doing their job.
Stormhaven has a corruption problem, and it goes deeper than one criminal operating at the docks.
I'm focused on the records and almost miss the sound. A soft scrape comes from the direction of the evidence room, and it's barely audible. I freeze, and my hand automatically goes to the service weapon at my hip.
The station should be empty. Rhona went out, and I'm alone, or I should be, unless someone entered while I was absorbed in documentation.
I move silently toward the back, and years of tactical training make my steps soundless on worn linoleum. The evidence room door stands slightly ajar, and that's not how I left it. Someone is inside and going through materials that should be locked and secured.
I draw my weapon and keep it low and ready as I approach. It's standard procedure for potential threat situations. I announce presence, order compliance, and use force only if necessary.
"Police! Come out with your hands visible!"
The sounds stop immediately. For several heartbeats, nothing happens, and then Rhona emerges from the evidence room with her hands raised but her expression calm.
"Just organizing files," she says, and her voice is level. "Didn't mean to startle you."
I don't lower my weapon and study her face for tells. "The evidence room was locked. How did you get in?"
"I have keys." She nods toward the ring hanging from her belt. "Been working here longer than you've been alive, Chief. I know where everything is."
"And you decided to organize evidence without informing your superior officer?" My tone stays professional, but suspicion coils in my gut. "That's not proper procedure."
"Island police work differently than Glasgow." Rhona's expression doesn't change, but something hardens in her gaze. "We handle things our own way here. Maybe you should learn that before you go pointing guns at people trying to help."
She's not wrong about the weapon being excessive for this situation, but her explanation doesn't sit right. Evidence rooms don't get organized spontaneously. People don't access restricted areas without notification unless they're hiding something. And someone's been covering tracks by removing Murdoch's working files on unusual cargo.
I lower the gun but don't holster it yet. "What files were you organizing, specifically?"
