Copyright © 2019 by Douglas Skelton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
First North American Edition 2020
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Skelton, Douglas, author.
Title: Thunder Bay : a thriller / Douglas Skelton.
Description: First North American edition. | New York : Arcade CrimeWise, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019043279 | ISBN 9781950691340 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781950691357 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6119.K45 T48 2020 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019043279
Cover design by Chris Hannah, www.chrishannah.co.uk, courtesy of Polygon/Birlinn Ltd.
Printed in the United States of America
‘We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea . . . we are going back from whence we came.’
—John F. Kennedy
CONTENTS
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
She felt sand beneath her feet and a warm breeze on her face, yet around her she could hear the shriek of a much fiercer wind.
She opened her eyes and saw the water, so blue, calmer than she had ever seen it before. Where it met the rocks, it was more a kiss than a slap. Even the seabirds seemed less predatory. They did not dive for prey but hung against the clear sky like a child’s mobile, as if to pierce the smooth surface of the water would be nothing short of a sin.
She closed her eyes again, breathed in the air. It was sweet with no salty snap, no sense of the damp stench of rotting seaweed that could be all-pervading.
She was happy here. She was always happy here. They used to come to the bay when they were children, the five of them, leaving their homes early in the morning to walk across the island. The journey took them hours but they always made it. And no matter how tired they were they raced down the trail from the clifftop, eager to be the first to hit the soft sand, the wind catching their hair and carrying their laughter to join the echo from the rockface. More often than not she won the race because she was always the fastest runner, the boys too busy trying to best each other to notice she was way ahead of them.
Then they would wolf down the lunches their parents had packed, or in Henry’s case some housekeeper or other, and they would splash at the water’s edge and play on the rocks that fringed the bay, seeking out sea creatures and discarded shells, daring each other to see how close they could swim to the caves, but no one actually attempting it. They were young but they knew it was too dangerous, even for immortals like them.
But they weren’t immortal. She knew that now. They all knew that now.
Voices.
She heard voices.
Distant. Incoherent. Swirling around her within the fierce wind she couldn’t feel.
They said there were beings that lived in the winds, elemental creatures that breathed and sighed around the land and the beaches and the bays. But she didn’t believe that. It was a tale of the old island, along with the witches on the mountain and the creatures in the water and petrified sisters standing watch on the shore.
And yet . . .
Voices on the wind, surrounding her, calling to her.
Mhairi
Her name. She heard her name, muffled and remote but she heard it. She looked around the bay, but she was alone, only her footprints in the sand. She didn’t remember walking down the track. She didn’t remember driving here. She didn’t remember . . .
Mhairi
Louder now, more distinct. A woman’s voice. She scanned the clifftop but saw no figure etched against the sky, so blue, so very blue and peaceful. She looked out to sea—perhaps a boat?—but nothing bobbed on the silky surface.
It looked so inviting, the water, and she felt that, for the first time, she would be able to swim out past the jagged rocks, out to sea, far out to sea, where all was calm and she was free of pain. And there was pain, she noticed it now, dull certainly, but it was there. She hadn’t been aware of it until she heard the voice, but there it was. An ache that spread from her head to her face and throughout her body. And something else now, something warm seeping from her hair and trailing down her forehead. She put her hand up, wiped it away, saw the red on her fingers. She was bleeding. She’d hurt her head and she was bleeding. How did that happen?
She tried to ignore the voice and knelt to scoop up a handful of water from where it lapped against the land. It felt so cool, so comforting. She dabbed her face with it, washed the blood from her fingers. The waves crept around her but she didn’t mind. They took some of the ache away and she felt at peace here.
But the voice kept calling to her. Stronger now.
And there were other voices, men talking but not to her. Only the woman spoke to her. Saying her name, over and over and over and over . . .
Mhairi
Mhairi
Mhairi, can you hear me?
The waves built around her, the level rising quickly, but she wasn’t alarmed. The water was her friend, it soothed her, she would become one with it and it would take away all the pain. It would heal her. She let its coolness take her under, but it was deeper than she thought, for soon it enveloped her and she floated there in the welcoming gloom, looking up at the sunlight playing on the surface before it fractured and stabbed down towards her. She didn’t want it to touch her—she was happy here, she was safe, she was free—but she could still hear the voice beckoning to her and she knew if just one of those beams of bright light touched her it would drag her back. She wanted to push away through the rippling water but she couldn’t move. All she could do was dangle, yet her body did not feel loose. One arm was bent away from her, it didn’t look right; the other was draped across
her stomach. She saw her fingers trembling, still covered in blood—hadn’t she washed that off?—while one leg was trapped beneath her body. She could feel it wedged there. She was underwater, she liked it here, so why didn’t she drift? Why couldn’t she move?
The light reached down for her and touched her like hands. Not rough, not like before, but gentle. Caring. Comforting.
And she heard the voice saying her name again as her twisted body was drawn slowly back to the surface, back to the light, harsher now, not sunlight, not warm and pleasing and filled with the laughter of summer. She wanted to stay, she wanted peace, but she couldn’t fight it. She had to go back, she knew she had to go back, if only for a short time.
The wind shrieked and howled as she broke through the surface, but where she lay wasn’t warm and comforting and soft, it was hard and unyielding. Her vision swam. She didn’t know where she was at first, but she knew she wasn’t in the sea. Everything was blurred, the light so bright it hurt her eyes and she couldn’t see anything clearly. And there was pain, real pain, agonising pain, coursing through every part of her. She wanted to scream, to eject the hurt with sound, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even move.
Stay with us, Mhairi.
The woman, still distant but she heard her clear enough, reaching out to her through the blinding whiteness. But then her voice muffled again, merged with the others, only certain words rising to the surface, words she didn’t understand.
Open-vault fracture
Zygomatic
Frontal sinus
She tried to speak, but no words came. She knew they were talking about her. She knew she was in trouble and she longed to be back in the bay where she was safe, where the pain could be washed away. But she couldn’t go, not yet. One thing came into her head, a name, and she had to know. She forced herself to focus on that name, to say that name. It was a fresh sting, sharp and fleeting, that helped her.
‘Sonya.’
A face emerged from the light. It was a kind face. A caring face.
‘She’s fine,’ said the face. ‘Your baby is fine.’
Relief then, and it seemed to wash away some of the agony.
‘I’ve given you something to ease the pain,’ said the voice. ‘You need to stay with me, Mhairi.’
‘Ask her who did this.’ Another voice. A man. Gruff. She knew the voice but couldn’t place it. Couldn’t see him. Just a shape behind the woman who was helping her, blurred, indistinct despite the unforgiving glare from the overhead light. Too stark. Too severe. She saw irritation flash across the woman’s face.
‘Not my concern right now, Jim.’
‘It’s important.’
The woman turned her head. Mhairi saw her brown hair was cropped tight. ‘Jim, not my concern right now.’
Mhairi saw now, not clearly, but she recognised his heavy dark uniform. Sergeant Rankin. Everyone on the island knew him. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew it would be flushed and the whisky on his breath would nestle beneath a coat of mouthwash. He smoked too much and he drank too much, that’s what her mum said. He’d never see sixty, she said.
Neither would Mhairi. She knew that now.
Whatever she had been given was bringing her further into this world. The wind she heard at the bay but could not feel was throwing itself against the cottage. She could see a blue light strobing against the windows, could hear the logs hissing and crackling in the grate, although she could not feel its warmth. The thought made something within her wince. The logs . . .
She remembered.
The policeman was bending over her now. ‘Tell me who did this, lass. Who did this to you?’
She tried to turn her head but the pain screamed at her. Even moving her eyes was agonising. Whatever she had been given wasn’t enough. But she had to see if he was there, she had to let them know.
And then she saw Roddie.
He was standing just behind Sergeant Rankin, another policeman at his side. She had seen Roddie like that once before, wedged between two officers, when he’d been arrested for shoplifting back when they were children. He hadn’t done it, of course; it had been Henry. It was always Henry, getting them into scrapes and getting away with it.
No, she was wrong. He hadn’t been quite like this back then. There hadn’t been blood back then, covering his clothes, his hands. Her blood, she knew that. Her blood.
She looked straight at him, saw the fear in his eyes as she tried to speak, as she tried to tell them, but the effort was too great. She felt herself slipping away, could hear the splash of the waves and the cry of the seabirds, urging her to return. And she longed to return. There was too much pain in this world, too much heartache, too much disappointment. She wanted the water to lap at her body again, wanted it to caress her and wash everything away. She could tell them later, tell them later . . . Now she needed to simply bask in the sunlight, away from the groaning wind and the numbing pain and the paralysing terror.
But still she heard the policeman’s voice, asking her again who did it, and the woman telling him to back off. Mhairi knew that she had to give him something about that night—he had a right to know, it was important that he knew—but she was so comfortable back in the bay. That was where she belonged, where the breeze carried the promise of contentment. Where memories lived and laughed like old friends.
She managed two words before she once again felt the sand between her toes and was welcomed by the water as it washed softly back and forward against the land.
Back and forward
Back and forward
Back . . .
. . . forward.
1
The present day
The woman’s face rippled as she battled her emotions. Her chin twitched. Her cheeks developed a tic. Her eyes became reservoirs. But she maintained the ritual of pouring tea. The well-used strainer was carefully placed on the rim of the china cup bearing a blue floral pattern. The matching tea pot was hidden under a knitted cosy with only its curved handle and spout showing. The tea, perfectly tanned, fell steadily into the cup, even though the electric impulses that thrummed around the woman’s facial muscles conducted along her arm and made the pot tremble.
To Rebecca Connolly, more used to a teabag thrown into a tannin-stained mug, the process was old-fashioned, almost quaint, but she understood why it all seemed so important to Maeve Gallagher.
‘Sugar?’ The question was asked without any eye contact. Maeve’s focus remained on the tray in front of her, as if the paraphernalia was something that needed to be closely watched at all times.
‘No, thanks,’ said Rebecca, her voice soft.
‘Milk?’
‘A dash.’
The forced banality of the conversation, like the heightened emphasis on the process, was necessary. The woman needed time. She had to fix on the little things, the everyday matter of simply making and pouring a cup of tea, because it held her steady and kept the grief at bay.
The sing-song of children’s laughter floated in from the street outside. It was a warm autumn day and they were enjoying it. Rebecca saw Maeve glance through the window of her neat, over-furnished front room to watch the group of teenagers walk by directly outside. There was no garden to act as a barrier, just the window facing directly onto the street and, beyond it, the river. There was no irritation in the woman’s slight movement but rather something wistful, as if that laughter was not the laughter she wanted to hear.
‘Tell me about Edie,’ said Rebecca. Her voice was still gentle but she had to get Maeve to talk. That was why she was here.
Maeve said nothing as she handed over the delicate cup and saucer. She remained silent as she offered the tea plate piled with chocolate biscuits, which Rebecca refused with a shake of the head. Maeve carefully laid the plate back down on the tray perched on the wide footstool. Too carefully, as if she was delaying the inevitable. Rebecca gave her time, sipped the tea, waited. After all, Maeve had agreed to speak to her. She had something to say, and now that she
had given her a gentle prod Rebecca knew she had to be allowed the time to say it.
Rebecca gave the room a brief scan. There were four large armchairs and a long couch arranged around a rectangular coffee table with a shelf underneath bearing a variety of magazines and a couple of jigsaws. In the corner beside the wide windows a large flat-screen TV sat on a black unit and through its smoked-glass doors she could see a satellite box and a DVD player with a few DVD cases sitting upright beside it. The gas fire in the tiled fireplace was dark, but the room was warm, thanks to the radiator under the window. The gas fire was no doubt only used in winter, which can be harsh in Inverness. On the mantle sat a reproduction carriage clock but its hands were still, as if time had ended at twelve minutes past three. This was not a room that had a lived-in feel, but then no one actually lived in this room, they just sat here on occasion, either on their way to or just back from elsewhere.
Eventually, inevitably, Rebecca’s eyes fell on the heavy sideboard taking up much of the wall beside the door. The piece of furniture looked old, second-hand. It was polished, but she could see scratches and gouges in the dark wood of the doors, perhaps made over the years by carelessly handled luggage. The sideboard itself was not what drew Rebecca’s attention; it was the photograph sitting on it. Encased in a silver frame, a shot of a teenage girl with long dark hair falling in waves to her shoulders. A pretty girl holding a black and white kitten. She was smiling. Her eyes danced with delight. Edie Gallagher.
Rebecca wondered where the kitten was now. It would be older, but not much. Rebecca guessed the snap was a year old. The cat would be in the rear of the house probably, where the family lived. Not allowed here, in the business part of the building, even though the Belle View Guest House hadn’t had a guest for many months.
Rebecca returned her attention to Maeve. She sat erect in the armchair, her cup and saucer clasped in both hands on her lap, her eyes fixed on the window, her head slightly cocked as if listening to the fading voices and laughter of the young people, her eyes still misty as she longed to hear that one laugh she would never hear again. On the other side of the street Rebecca could see the River Ness reflecting the blue sky. Across the water church spires punctuated the heavens, but Rebecca knew Maeve wasn’t seeing them. A small sigh, a tiny shiver, and then—finally—a solitary tear erupted.
Thunder Bay Page 1