The town of Buckie presses itself back against the rocks as it nervously looks out across the mouth of the Moray firth right into the heart of the North Sea, its salt-stained and cracking buildings a stark reminder of the sheer force of nature this close to the edge. It was once a busy fishing port, its safe harbour walls enfolding countless small boats while music overflowed from lively pubs to compete with the laughter of crews returning from the sea. But that time has passed. The life of a fisherman has become harsher, the fish stocks have been diminished, and the town now smells more of rust and diesel…
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Someone decided blame was useful, the way a discovered body suggests a target for a town’s pain. The mayor, some councillors, a man whose son had not woken from a fever, they came with torches of a different sort: camera-phones, CCTV stills, the kind of legal paper that becomes an accusation when enough fingers press ink.
