“Thank you,” replied the black-haired woman. “Judging by that accent you came a long way to see us?”
“West Lafayette,” he replied. Realising they might not know where that was he added, “Indiana. I’m American.”
“We got that by the accent. So you’re on holiday?”
“Yeah. I’m visiting my friend over there,” he replied, pointing to Steve. “He’s lived in Edinburgh for a few years.”
“So you like classical music?” said the flame-haired woman, finally speaking. Her voice was pretty and musical.
“Yeah, love it, not just for the sounds but the colours too.” Inwardly he kicked himself. He’d got so excited to be addressing her directly that he’d forgotten himself. Now she was going to think he was deranged.
“Colours?” she frowned.
“Yeah,” he replied, dragging an awkward hand through his hair. “I have a medical condition. Nothing contagious, don’t worry,” he added with a nervous laugh. “Err, it’s a neurological condition, chromesthesia, a form of synaesthesia where the brain blends senses together, in my case sight and sound. I see sounds as colours.”
“Wow,” said the flame-haired woman. “That’s amazing.”
“It is,” he replied, pleased with her enthusiasm. “Each colour represents a different note. But your colours were brighter than everyone else’s.”
He beamed at her and, to his joy, she beamed back.
“I’ve never heard of that before, have you Sal?” she asked her friend.
“No, can’t say I have. Does it cause you any pain?”
“Nah, nothing like that,” replied Mike. “Although it can be distracting.”
“I’ll bet.”
He looked back to the flame-haired woman. “I…I wondered if…if you’d like to join me for a…drink?” When he ended this sentence on a high, uncertain note he wanted to bash his head against a wall.
“Go on Isla,” Sal told her. “He looks like a great big bear and he said your colours are brighter than anyone else’s. Give the guy a chance.”
Mike wasn’t sure whether he wanted to thank Sal or die with embarrassment. He decided on the former when Isla smiled and said, “Alright then.”
“Great,” he breathed, unable to stop himself from grinning.
He led the way to the bar, throwing Steve a smug smile, who raised his glass in a toast. When he was nervous he felt even more awkward and clumsy, as though his frame didn’t fit anymore and what he hoped was a cool stroll felt more like a zombie death march. It was a relief when he reached the bar and he could lean against it, attempting to look casual.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked her. “Oh,” he added when he saw the nearly full glass of wine in her hand which she’d brought with her from the table.
“Do you want anything or not?” the rather surly barman asked him.
“Yeah, I’ll take a beer please,” he replied.
The barman rolled his eyes. “Lager or bitter?”
“Oh, yeah. Lager please.”
“Bottled or draught?”
“Draught please.”
“Pint or half?”
Mike sighed. It was much easier ordering in his local bar back in Lafayette. All he had to do was ask for a beer and he got one. “Pint.”
“We got there in the end.”
Mike ignored him and looked to Isla. “Would you like anything else?”
“No thanks,” she replied. “I don’t tend to drink more than one glass of wine at a time.”
Hearing sniggering, Mike looked round at Steve, whose shoulders were shaking and he glared at him.
“So,” opened Mike, finally able to return his attention to Isla. “How long have you played with the orchestra?”
“Almost two years,” she replied.
“You enjoy it?”
“I love it. I feel so blessed to do what I’m most passionate about for a living. By the way, what’s your name?”
“My name? I haven’t told you?”
She smiled and shook her head, her nose crinkling adorably.
“Mike. Mike Miller. Pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand out to her and rolled his eyes. “Jeez, I’m making such an ass of myself.”
“No you’re not Mike Miller,” she replied, shaking his still extended hand. “I’m Isla Campbell.”
“Pretty name. Are you from Edinburgh?”
“No, although I do live here. I’m from somewhere called Loch Eck, near Dunoon.”
“Sorry, I don’t know it.”
“I don’t expect you to. It’s a sleepy little place, not many tourists, thankfully.”
“So you play full time for the orchestra?”
“Pretty much, although I do take on other gigs. I get a lot of wedding work. It’s amazing how many people find the sound of a lone violin intensely romantic.”
“I don’t blame them,” he said, gazing down at her. She was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen and there was a sparky mischief about her that he really liked. Now he was up close he could see an adorable trail of freckles running from one cheek across the bridge of her nose and onto the other cheek.
She smiled back shyly. “You know all the lines, don’t you?”
“Christ no,” he said, the corner of his mouth crooking into a smile. “You just inspire me.”
“Hmmm,” she said playfully. “I can’t decide if that’s true or if you’re just a charmer.”
“That’s easy. I wouldn’t tell you a lie.”
They stared at each other, Isla having to crane her neck to look right into his eyes.
“That’s okay then,” she murmured.
They talked until it was time for the bar to close, the surly barman telling them outright that they had to leave. Their friends had long since departed, deciding to leave them to it.
They saw each other every day after that until Mike’s three week visit was up. He decided to extend his stay to six months, the longest he could without a visa. When that was almost up he applied for his visa. He was moving to Scotland to be with this amazing woman.
Present day
Mike idly stroked the strings of the violin, picturing Isla’s dexterous fingers working them. Sometimes her fingers moved so fast they blurred. He was big and clunky, so it was an endless source of fascination for him to watch someone with so much grace. Closing his eyes he could hear her playing but the colours didn’t come because the sounds were in his head. Often he’d opened the door to this room when she was practicing to be assailed by a riot of colours. Always it was more intense and brighter when the music came from her, as though she possessed some special magic all her own. Now there was nothing but deathly silence, everything a dreary grey. She was the one who’d brought colour and animation to his life.
And now she was gone.
He hung his head, a tear sliding down his face, dripping onto the wood of the violin.
Rather than go to bed that night, Mike dressed in his warmest outdoor gear. This time he would be prepared for his vigil. The rain that had threatened all day failed to materialise, the dark clouds passing on and now the night sky was blanketed with stars, the waxing moon casting its light upon the still waters. The police and divers had long since packed up and left after declaring they would be back tomorrow. The discovery of Isla’s hat had convinced them the loch held more secrets. Neil had left too, having other duties to attend to. Phoebe had wanted to stay at the cottage but Mike had politely refused knowing she would try to talk him out of this vigil, insisting he sleep. He’d managed to grab another hour that afternoon, so he felt pretty wide awake.
He set up a deck chair hidden in the copse of trees lying to the right of the house, giving him a perfect view of the jetty. He couldn’t see the front of the house very clearly as he was side-on but it was the only way he could remain out of sight.
Mike wrapped himself up in one of the sleeping bags he’d bought for the camping trip they’d planned and never taken and armed himself with a flask of coffee and his
mobile phone to film any possibly intruders. He was on edge with anticipation, praying he would see that flame of red hair approach the front door.
After pouring himself a cup of strong coffee to keep him alert, he settled down for the wait.
A couple of hours later - despite the strong coffee and cool night air - his eyes began to grow heavy. He didn’t want to stand up and draw attention to himself, so he stretched out his arms and legs in an attempt to get the blood flowing again. To keep himself occupied he gazed up at the clear night sky to study the stars and see what constellations he could spot. The answer was none. He’d attempted to study astronomy so many times, the stars fascinated him and here was the perfect place because there was so little light pollution but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t pick out the shapes of the constellations from the thousands of twinkling lights.
While he was attempting to work out whether a group of stars were the Seven Sisters or not, he was alerted by a female voice calling him from the cottage.
“Isla,” he breathed, leaping to his feet, carrying his phone with him, which was recording everything. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he attempted to free his legs from the sleeping bag. He kicked it off and charged out of the tree line towards the house.
“The front door’s open,” he said to himself, not sure whether he was speaking for his own benefit or the recording.
He burst into the house, skidding to a halt so he wouldn’t trample the fresh boot prints on the hallway floor. This time they were a little further into the house, ending at the foot of the stairs.
“Mike,” yelled a voice, sending scarlet tinged with black spiking across his vision.
“Isla,” he called back, charging upstairs.
He ran into the bedroom they shared together, which was empty, as was the bathroom. The spare bedroom was the only option.
“Isla,” he cried so loudly more colour scratched itself before his eyes.
The room was empty. Wet boot prints made a trail from the door to the window, which stood open.
It was eight o’clock in the morning and Mike was fixing breakfast. After finding those boot prints and seeing the open window, he’d run back outside and searched the rear of the house but had found nothing. He’d called Neil at two o’clock in the morning, cold and tired and ranting wildly about voices and boot prints. Mike had been hugely grateful that he’d come out to him at that time of the morning and after a fruitless search Neil had fallen asleep on the sitting room couch. Mike had managed to get three hours sleep, his nocturnal adventures wearing him out to the extent that exhaustion overtook worry and stress. Now he was in the kitchen making strong coffee for them both.
Neil wandered into the room yawning, his thin blond hair ruffled, sticking up off his head in tufts.
“Did you manage to get some sleep?” Mike asked him, handing him one of the mugs.
“Aye, a bit.” He took a sip of the hot liquid and smiled. “Perfect. You make good coffee.”
Mike was glad he sounded his usual friendly self. Last night he hadn’t seemed too impressed about being dragged out of bed to investigate a phantom. “My family lives off the stuff. We bleed brown.” Anxiety filled his eyes. “So now you’ve slept on it, what do you think I heard last night?”
“Well there’s no denying you heard something, not after your phone picked it up. But what it was…I’m not sure.”
“It was Isla. I’d know her voice anywhere.”
“No offence Mike but that voice could belong to anyone. I’ve known her a long time and I couldn’t identify it as hers.”
“Who else’s would it be?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed.
“She needs my help. These are all messages and I can’t read them.”
Neil’s gaze was sympathetic. “I can only imagine what you’re going through but we don’t know that this is from her. There are some sick people out there who enjoy tormenting people in distress.”
“You’re saying this is some sort of joke?”
“You have to prepare yourself for that possibility. I’ve seen some twisted stuff in my time.”
Mike slammed his mug down on the kitchen worktop, slopping coffee onto it. “If this is someone’s idea of a joke, if they’re getting their fucking rocks off laughing at me going out of my mind…”
He let the sentence trail off and screwed his eyes shut, gripping onto the edge of the counter. That disembodied voice was the only thing preventing him from losing his mind. That voice meant she was still alive.
“DI Stewart called me ten minutes ago, the ratty sod woke me up. He and Wheeler are on their way. They were very interested to hear about what happened last night.”
“What’s the point? They’ll only think I did it myself because Stewart’s already sure I’m responsible for her disappearance. He’s not even considering other possibilities. They’ll never find her because they’re not even looking.”
“That’s not fair Mike, they are looking. I’ve already checked them out, they both have reputations as good police officers.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” he muttered.
“The divers will be here soon.”
“She’s not in the water. She’s out there somewhere and she needs our help.”
“But Mike, why would she be lost? She grew up around here.”
“Someone took her.”
“If someone did take her how has she been able to get back here to leave wet boot prints and call for you?”
“She’s not dead. Do not say she’s dead.”
“I won’t because I don’t know that she is. I think it’s more likely she ran away.”
“Why the hell would she do that?”
“I don’t know but we will find out.” He glanced out of the window when a Vauxhall Insignia rolled down the drive that led from the rough road behind the house and snaked around the side of it to the front. “Stewart and Wheeler are here.”
“Oh joy,” sighed Mike, downing his coffee, wishing it was whisky.
They watched Stewart get out of the driver’s seat, looking down the jetty with his beady rodent eyes. The large transit van that transported the divers and all their equipment rolled to a halt behind it. The back doors of the van opened and the divers hopped out, laughing and joking. When they saw Mike watching from the window they adjusted their expressions to more suitably sombre ones while the two detectives headed to the front door of the cottage.
“I’d better let them in,” said Mike a little reluctantly.
“Good morning Mike,” said Stewart, stepping inside, Wheeler following. “Sergeant Hawkins has brought us up to speed on last night’s nocturnal events.”
“Good. Does that mean I don’t need to go through it all again with you?”
“Sorry,” he replied as they took out the dreaded notebooks. “We need to hear it from you.”
“Fine,” he sighed, ambling into the sitting room and occupying the couch. Once again he offered them no refreshment. He repeated the story and played them the recording of the voice, satisfied by the surprised look on Stewart’s unpleasant face.
“Well,” said the detective when it had finished. “There’s definitely another voice there.”
“Isla’s voice,” said Mike.
“Did you see any colours when you heard that voice?” said Wheeler, ignoring Stewart’s snooty look.
“Scarlet with black,” replied Mike.
“Fascinating,” he said, lapsing into thoughtful silence.
“Still think it’s my imagination?” Mike asked Stewart.
“I never said it was,” he replied.
Mike didn’t reply, although his look was knowing.
“Something strange is definitely going on here,” continued Stewart. “Would you object if myself and Wheeler stayed here tonight, hidden of course? Hopefully we’ll catch who’s doing this.”
“Do you think it could be Isla?” he said excitedly.
“I don’t want to commit one way or
the other. Hopefully by this time tomorrow the mystery will be solved.” Stewart gave him another of his long, searching looks before getting to his feet. “We’ve a lead to check out in Dunoon.”
“What lead?” said Mike, rising with him.
Stewart was put out having to crane his neck to look up into Mike’s face. “We’ve been circulating Isla’s image. Someone said they saw her in a shop there.”
“I’ll come with you,” he replied, already making for the door.
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we can’t let you do that. You need to leave it with us and it’s important you stay here to monitor the phone.”
“I can’t just hang around here, I need to be doing something.”
“You are doing something. In cases like this it’s very important someone’s at home. The majority of missing persons are found.”
“And the majority of missing persons are found in the first twenty four hours, aren’t they?” said Mike, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat.
For the first time Stewart’s hard features softened. “Yes.”
“And those that aren’t? I want the truth.”
“The more time elapses, the harder it gets…”
“And the more unlikely they are to be found?”
Stewart nodded and looked down at his shoes.
All the energy that had churned through Mike since he’d heard that voice the previous night drained out of him and he slumped onto the couch, dragging his hands through his hair.
“It’s not always the case though,” said Wheeler kindly. “Only last year we closed a missing person’s case. The woman had been missing eight years but she was fine. She’d run off with another man, a millionaire too. She was living it up on the Isle of Man…”
“I don’t think Mike needs to hear about that,” interrupted Neil.
“Aye, probably not,” mumbled Wheeler.
Stewart gave his subordinate a hard look. “Let’s go.”
The two detectives left, Wheeler hanging his head in shame.
“Well that made me feel better,” sighed Mike. “I hope they’re better at their jobs than they are at public relations.”
The Loch Page 4