CATRIONA
The evidence spread across my desk tells a story that doesn't make sense.
I've been at this since before the confrontation with Kian earlier today. I review the photos I took, and compare them to the shipping manifests and surveillance logs I've been able to compile and put together since I arrived in Stormhaven.
The images show Kian at the dive site, but nothing concrete enough for charges. He was evasive when I confronted him about the protected wreck and dismissive when I pressed for details. I know he's involved in illegal operations, but suspicion isn't evidence.
Everything points to his guilt. The timeline I've constructed matches the pattern of suspicious activity. But I have no witness statements, not with the way locals close ranks against mainland authority. Still, the circumstantial evidence is building.
But something's off.
The inconsistencies nag at me like a persistent itch between my shoulder blades. I pull up the surveillance footage again, watching Kian's movements frame by frame. His boat leaves the harbor at odd hours and returns. He meets with known criminal associates in shadowed corners of the docks. The patternscreams smuggling, but I need evidence that will hold up in court.
On paper, it's textbook smuggling. In practice, the details don't align the way they should.
The cargo manifests show irregularities, yes, but they're almost deliberately sloppy, as if someone wanted them to be noticed. The criminal associates I've started identifying through surveillance photos are proving difficult to trace. I've run their images through national and international databases, but the records that come back feel wrong, incomplete. Fake names, possibly. Shell companies that dissolve into bureaucratic dead ends when I try to trace them back to their sources.
My eyes burn from lack of sleep. Since finding my cottage searched, rest has been impossible. When I do drift off, I dream of impossibly fast movement and eyes tracking me through shadows.
None of this fits the usual pattern.
I pull up the case files I've been building, sorting them by type of merchandise. The smuggling operation moving through Stormhaven involves high-value goods: luxury items, historical artifacts, artwork stolen from private collections. The items are expensive, yes, and some are most likely illegal. But the usual red flags of organized crime are absent. There are no drugs, no weapons, no human trafficking, nothing that would suggest the kind of violence typically associated with criminal syndicates operating at this level.
I've been cross-referencing the national database of reported thefts across Scotland with known wreck sites around Skara. The pattern is interesting: salvaged items matching descriptions of pieces stolen from estates and museums over the past year, recovered from locations consistent with Kian's dive sites.
But here's what doesn't make sense: at least a dozen of those pieces were anonymously returned to their rightfulowners within weeks of being reported stolen, according to the insurance documentation. I can't prove Kian's involvement in the recoveries, but the geographic correlation is too strong to ignore.
Why would a smuggler steal high-value artifacts only to return them? The financial incentive evaporates. The risk remains constant. None of it tracks with standard criminal behavior.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing tension from my neck. The financial records I managed to access through back channels in Glasgow tell another strange story. Kian's salvage business operates in the grey market, yes, but the money trail shows something unexpected: regular payments to an account registered to a historical preservation fund, donations to maritime archaeology programs, funding for coastal conservation projects.
Is he a criminal with a conscience? Or is this something I don't yet understand?
The afternoon wears on. My eyes burn from staring at screens and documents, but I keep pushing. Somewhere in these files is the answer, the pattern that will make everything click into place.
The station door opens, the sudden sound making me reach instinctively for my service weapon. Deputy Fraser enters, her expression neutral but her eyes sharp as they take in the scattered files covering my workspace.
"Still at it, Chief." The words aren't a question, just an observation laden with unspoken judgment.
"Following leads." I don't elaborate. The less Rhona knows about my investigation, the better. Her loyalties clearly lie with the island, not with me.
"You might want to think about heading home soon." She moves to her desk, gathering her things with deliberateslowness. "Dark comes early this time of year. Island roads aren't safe for those who don't know them well."
Another warning. How many does that make since I arrived? I've lost count of the thinly veiled threats disguised as concerned advice from locals who want me gone.
"I'll manage." I return my attention to the files, dismissing her.
She lingers in the doorway, something unreadable flickering across her features. "Not everything is what it seems, especially here. Might be worth remembering that before you push too hard into matters that don't concern you."
The door closes behind her before I can respond. I sit in the silence she leaves behind, her words echoing with the same cryptic quality as every other warning I've received since I set foot on this island. This is another warning to add to the count. How many does that make since I arrived? I've lost count of the thinly veiled threats disguised as concerned advice from locals who want me gone.
I gather the evidence, securing it in the locked drawer of my desk. Whatever's happening in Stormhaven goes deeper than simple smuggling. The question is whether I'm investigating criminals or uncovering something the locals are determined to protect regardless of the law.
The afternoon has bled into evening, the grey sky visible through my window turning darker. I should go home, review my notes in the quiet of my cottage. Instead, I pull on my jacket and reach for my duty belt. The streets need patrolling, and sitting still has never been my strength, not when every instinct screams that time is running out.
The evening air hits cold when I step outside, carrying the salt tang of the sea and something else I can't quite identify. The village feels different after dark. The streets become quieter, yes,but also watchful. Windows glow with warm light, but the streets themselves seem to hold their breath, waiting.
I've felt watched since arriving on Skara. The sensation has grown stronger each day, graduating from mild paranoia to concrete certainty. Someone is tracking my movements. The question is whether they're criminals monitoring a threat or something else.
