Guarded by the Storm

The letter arrived in a dead man’s waterproof coat. Not in the post, not with a neat stamp and a civilised knock, but folded into the oilskin pocket of a fisherman who had been dragged from the Minch with his hands still clenched as if he had tried to hold the sea shut. Isla Kerr saw the coat before she saw the body, and that was what stayed with her: the yellow sleeve lifting in the wind like a warning flag, the black buttons shining wet, the torn cuff caught on the rusted hook beside the pier office door.