“Why? What’s going on Sir?”
“Just bloody do it.”
Wheeler nodded and hurried to obey.
“What’s going on?” said Mike, climbing out of the cellar.
“That scarf is still soaking wet, meaning it was planted very recently, within the last half hour at the most. We know no one else has been in here, so it was someone who is here, right now.” He looked around and frowned. “Where’s the scene examiner who was checking the tiles in here?”
“Tiles?” said another examiner.
“Get the crime scene manager.”
The woman disappeared and returned with the confused man in tow.
“Where’s the scene examiner who was checking the tiles in here?” Stewart demanded of him.
“Checking the tiles? That was the first thing we did, so everyone could move freely through the house. We moved on from the floor two hours ago.”
“How many of your staff did you bring?”
“Four, including myself.”
“Get them all together right now.”
Two minutes later all four crime scene examiners were assembled in the kitchen.
“Were any of you checking the kitchen floor tiles ten minutes ago?” said Stewart.
They all shook their heads.
“It was him,” he breathed.
“You mean the person who has Isla?” said Mike.
“Either that or someone working on their behalf. They planted that scarf while we were all in here, a house full of police and forensic staff.”
“And you didn’t know?” bellowed Mike, shaking his head when his vision was obscured by angry scarlet lines.
“They looked like any other tech. I only saw a pair of eyes.”
“So you don’t know what they looked like?”
Stewart thought furiously. “Their eyes were blue.” He only admitted to himself that he couldn’t be one hundred percent certain about that.
“Were they male or female? Tall or short? Thin or fat?”
“I don’t know, they were crouched on the floor beside the hatch to the cellar,” he sighed.
“Because they weren’t looking at the tiles, they’d just come out of the cellar and closed the door. Jesus Christ Stewart.”
“I’m sorry but people are anonymous when they wear those paper suits.”
“Which is why they wore one. They couldn’t get into the cellar from the outside because it’s underground. The only way in is through the hatch. They’re showing me how easy it is for them to get in here, even when it’s swarming with police officers.”
“But why?” said Brown. “What are they getting out of it?”
“They’re a sick fucking bastard and they’re enjoying tormenting me,” retorted Mike. “That’s what they’re getting out of it.”
“Get outside after them,” Stewart told Brown and a uniformed officer. “See if you can find any trace of them.”
“Will do,” he said, yanking at the back door. Recalling it was locked he turned the key and dashed outside.
“Wheeler, go with them.”
“Sir,” he said before exiting too.
“The rest of you,” he added, glowering at the scene examiners. “Get down in that cellar and sweep the place. They’ve not left anything behind yet but our luck’s got to change.”
“What the fuck is this?” Mike asked Stewart helplessly. “What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew,” he replied, for the first time feeling lost on a case.
CHAPTER 6
Dark clouds had moved in, smothering the bright autumnal sun. A strong breeze picked up, howling across the water, making the little white boat at the end of the jetty bob about. The divers were packing up in order to avoid the storm that appeared to be brewing. Mike thought the scenery looked broodingly majestic, it was just as beautiful here when the weather was bad as it was when the sun was bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky but Stewart looked around with foreboding in his eyes, pulling his coat tighter around himself as protection not from the weather but from the icy fingers of any spectres.
“I’ve got to head back to the station,” he told Mike, relieved he wasn’t the one who had to spend the night here surrounded by intruders and vengeful ghosts. “But I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Will you please accept my offer of protection? We’ve no idea who this intruder is or what they want.”
“They’ve not hurt me yet.”
“It doesn’t mean they won’t. I can organise a group of officers to wait in the woods. We can catch them before they even reach the house.”
“This intruder managed to evade all your officers today in broad daylight. What chance do you think they’ll have in the woods at night?”
“This person can lead us to Isla.”
“And if your lot blunder in they might not come back and we’ll lose her. Please Stewart,” he pressed. “This might be our only chance.”
Stewart considered his options. Today had been a huge embarrassment for him and he couldn’t risk another fuck up. His men didn’t know these woods, they wouldn’t stand a chance staggering about in the dark and up here with no street lights it got pitch black. The perpetrator clearly knew the area so well he could walk through it without a light, allowing them to easily evade capture. However Mike and Hawkins did know the land around the cottage. “Alright but I insist Sergeant Hawkins stays with you. We have to have someone official here.”
“That’s fine. I’ll keep all the doors locked and your people have nailed the window in the spare room shut.”
“Sergeant Hawkins seems a capable officer, to a certain extent, but you’re so isolated here. Are you sure about this?”
“I’ll be fine. You’d better get going before the rain starts.”
Together the two men headed back inside the cottage just as the first fat cold drops of rain started to fall. By the time the police officers and scene examiners had left it was pouring down.
“Just so you know,” Stewart told Wheeler as he drove, glancing in the rear-view mirror to see Mike watching them leave from the front door. “We’re coming back tonight.”
“But you said Mike doesn’t want us back.”
“I don’t give a shite what he wants. A woman has gone missing and whoever’s leaving her clothes is most likely the one holding her. Me, you and four more officers will come back in a couple of hours and wait in the woods around the cottage. Mike won’t even know we’re there.”
“You still think he could be responsible for this?”
“Obviously he’s not planted some of the clothes himself as we were with him, although he could have easily put the mitten in the cupboard but someone might be leaving the clothes for him. All this could just be a very clever way of throwing suspicion off himself, which means he has an accomplice.”
“Do you think Isla’s dead Sir?”
“I hope not but going off my experience in missing persons cases, yes. She’s dead.”
“Dammit,” murmured Wheeler.
Neil arrived at the cottage with his hair plastered to his head with rain, an overnight bag in one hand.
“Come on in,” Mike told him.
“Thanks,” he said, stepping inside, leaving wet boot prints on the hallway floor.
Mike stared down at them sadly as he thought of the mysterious prints that had so recently appeared. “Coffee?” he said, snapping himself out of it. “Or something stronger?”
“Something stronger. We’ve earned it.”
Neil stripped off his coat and boots and left them to dry in the hallway before following Mike into the sitting room.
“Thanks,” said Neil, taking the glass of whisky Mike offered him and seating himself in one of the armchairs. The fire was roaring, the cottage cosy and warm. The atmosphere was so convivial it would have been easy to forget why he was there.
“I hope Helen didn’t give you too much grief about staying over?” said Mike. Helen Hawkins’s temper was legendary
“No, she understands. Fort
unately.”
“Good.”
Neil studied his friend as he downed his whisky. His expert eye picked up the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension in his huge hand gripping the glass, the rigidity in his jaw. “How are you holding up, honestly?”
“Honestly?” sighed Mike, getting to his feet to refill his glass. “I can’t stop thinking about where Isla is every single second. Sometimes I get so scared I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep, I can barely eat and I’m drinking too much whisky,” he replied, knocking back another shot before refilling his glass.
“Apart from that?”
“Just peachy,” he said with a sad smile, topping up Neil’s glass and retaking his seat.
“You don’t want to get drunk, not when someone keeps invading your home.”
“I keep trying to get drunk but it doesn’t seem to work anymore.”
“It means you’re getting used to the alcohol, so you should stop drinking it.”
“Right now it’s my one pleasure in life,” he replied, draining his glass.
“Don’t,” Neil told him when he moved to get up for a refill. “I need you clear-headed. You’ll be no use if something does happen and you’re pissed.”
“Alright, fine. How about some coffee instead?”
“Sounds good,” replied Neil, draining his own whisky glass. “And don’t go slipping anything into it.”
“Damn, you read my mind,” said Mike with a tired smile.
Neil watched him amble into the kitchen. This entire situation was beating his friend down. His shoulders were stooped and he dragged his feet, as though lacking energy, his purposeful stride gone. He hoped to God this situation came to a close soon one way or another before it destroyed Mike. Neil had known Isla since he was a young boy, they’d grown up in the same village and gone to school together, so naturally he prayed she’d be found alive. However the professional in him told him with each passing second the chance of that happening diminished.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee cheered him slightly. It would have been easy to fall into the warmth of the fire and the comfortable armchair but this wasn’t a social call, it was work and he had to concentrate. He’d already disgraced himself by leaving the house to search the woods, as well as being caught in bright orange boxer shorts and he was determined to redeem himself.
Mike returned with two mugs of coffee and handed one to Neil, who took a sip and forced himself to sit up straighter.
“Do you think whoever’s doing this was really in here earlier when the police were here?” said Mike. “Or is Stewart losing his mind?”
“You heard the crime scene manager,” replied Neil. “He only brought four people and they were all accounted for.”
“Mistakes happen.”
“True.”
“It just doesn’t make sense why someone guilty of kidnapping would hang about a house full of police officers.”
“Makes no sense to me either. To be honest, I think they were probably some innocent scene examiner who realised they weren’t needed and left without the others realising they were there. It’s more likely than some psycho sneaking in to plant that scarf.”
“Yeah, you’re right. But then again, someone put that scarf there and it wasn’t me. It could only have been put there recently because it was still wet.”
“Or the cold down there prevented it from drying out.”
“Shouldn’t that have frozen it?”
“It’s not cold enough for that, maybe. Oh I don’t know. To be honest Mike, I’ve no idea what’s going on and as a police officer that admission pains me.” He placed his mug on the coffee table. “I’ll check all the doors and windows are locked.”
“I’ve already done it.”
“Stewart told me to check personally. It’s to cover you,” he added when Mike frowned. “So no one can accuse you of anything.”
“Suppose,” he mumbled.
After checking the windows in the sitting room, Neil disappeared into the kitchen to check there. When he’d gone Mike took the opportunity to sneak some whisky into his coffee. He didn’t care what Neil said, it was the only thing getting him through this nightmare.
Outside the wind started to howl, battering the steadfast walls of the cottage that had stood up to it for almost two hundred years. It roared down the chimney, making the fire dance in the grate. As Mike stared into the flames he saw strange images birthed in the orange fire - dragons, phoenixes, even faces, brief visions that twisted into something else, constantly morphing, never standing still. The effect became so hypnotic his eyelids began to grow heavy, head lowering until his chin rested on his chest.
“Mike,” screamed a voice.
His head snapped up and he found Neil staring at him.
“Did you hear that?” said Mike.
“Hear what?”
“Isla, she called my name.”
“You fell asleep mate,” he gently replied. “It was your imagination.”
Mike considered how he hadn’t seen any colours and nodded.
“Everything’s locked and secure,” said Neil, retaking his seat. “Now we just need to wait and see what happens.”
The storm outside worsened as the night went on but the old stone of the cottage looked it straight in the eye and stood up to it without flinching, the one vulnerability being the chimney.
“By Christ they knew how to make houses back in the day,” commented Neil. “Most of these ugly new builds would have blown down by now.” He took a sip of his fourth coffee, which he’d been drinking to stay alert and his left knee jiggled up and down.
Mike was on his fourth too but as he was much more used to it he wasn’t feeling the same effects. “It’s a great cottage. It suits me and Isla perfectly.”
“How do you get on with the isolation?”
“We both love it, Isla so she can play her violin without worrying about disturbing anyone and me for the peace and quiet.”
“Because of the chromesthesia?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s never creeped you out then, being so far from other people?”
“Nah. I was brought up going camping and hunting. My dad and uncle used to be real outdoorsmen. Isla likes camping but she put the kybosh on hunting, she hates it.”
“And you were happy to give it up?”
Mike nodded. “I’d do anything for her,” he replied, his deep voice soft and faraway.
“Do you still have your shotgun?”
“Yeah, for security, that’s all. Isla said she’d throw me out on my ass if I ever used it to kill another living creature.”
The storm reached a crescendo, positively screaming around them. Neil pulled the throw from the back of the armchair and wrapped it around himself on the pretext of being chilly when in fact the fire heated the small room perfectly well. He just felt he needed an extra barrier against the storm that seemed to have taken on the personality of an angry god. Mike however appeared unaffected by it, gazing into the fire, seemingly lost to the world around him. Perhaps the fact that he was an outdoorsman meant he was less affected? Neil was firmly a homebody whose idea of roughing it was a three star hotel. A couple of times he thought he caught the sound of a woman’s cry on the wind but when Mike didn’t react he figured he’d imagined it.
Neil greeted the abatement of the storm with a sigh of relief. There was still a strong breeze but it was nothing like the banshee wail it had been. He glanced at his watch. It was midnight. The storm had raged for a good five hours.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” he told Mike.
“You never know, it might come back,” was his disheartening reply.
“God I hope not.”
“Bad weather makes you nervous?”
“In an isolated cottage, yes.”
Usually Mike would have cracked a joke at a comment like that. It made Neil sad that he didn’t.
“I hope the boat didn’t get damaged,” Mike said instead. “Although the loch is land-locked the
water can still get rough.”
“It can wait till the morning to check. You need to stay inside.”
“I wasn’t intending to check now. Besides, it’s too dark to see anything.” Mike yawned and dragged a hand down his face. “Another coffee?”
“I’d better switch to tea.”
“Tea it is,” said Mike, getting to his feet and picking up his mug.
Both men froze when there was a cry from outside, a female cry, undeniable and unmistakeable. This time it couldn’t be blamed on the wind.
“It’s her,” said Mike, letting the mugs crash to the floor. “It’s Isla.”
“Wait,” said Neil when he went tearing towards the front door.
Mike took the key out of his pocket, jammed it into the lock, flung open the door and ran outside minus his coat and in his slippers. As Neil was in his stockinged feet he was delayed by shoving his feet into his boots. He ran outside after Mike while pulling on his jacket. He could see Mike up ahead, racing down the jetty towards the boat.
“Mike, wait,” he called.
Neil’s blood ran cold when he heard that female voice calling again, louder, closer, although it would be impossible to say exactly what direction it was coming from or even if it was Isla but there was certainly a desperation to it. He tugged his torch out of his pocket and cast the light around but saw no one.
“Oh great,” he muttered when fat drops of rain started to fall. The branches of the surrounding trees began to frantically wave back and forth, only their bare skeletal frames visible against the dark sky. Mike had been right. The storm was coming back.
“Mike, be careful,” yelled Neil, his heart in his mouth as he watched him leap from the jetty onto the undulating boat. If he fell into the water now he wouldn’t stand a chance. Fortunately he made the leap safely, thanks to his very long legs. After spinning around in a wild circle calling Isla’s name he disappeared down into the cabin.
Neil didn’t dare jump onto the boat, he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it. Instead he waited for Mike to come back up on deck as the rain steadily grew heavier.
“Can you see anything?” he called down but there was no response.
“Help,” called a voice.
The Loch Page 8