“It’s not her,” said Mike. The words came out in a garbled gasp as relief overwhelmed him, his knees buckling slightly. “It’s not Isla.”
“Is that correct Phoebe?”
She nodded, clinging onto Mike’s arm, Stewart wasn’t sure whether for comfort or to stop herself from toppling over. “It looks a bit like her but it’s not her, definitely not.”
Stewart nodded at the attendant, who covered the body back up with the sheet. “Alright, let’s get you home.”
Phoebe practically ran out of the room, yanked open the door and threw herself into Jake’s arms. “It’s not her,” she sobbed into his shoulder.
“Thank God,” he breathed, holding her close and kissing her hair.
Mike ambled out last looking lost, his skin grey.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” said Stewart as he led them through the subterranean maze back to the exit. “It was necessary you understand.”
“That poor woman,” said Phoebe sadly. “I can’t stop thinking about her family. Have you any idea who did it?”
“Not my investigation I’m afraid.” He was rather relieved about that one because from what he’d heard there wasn’t a lot to go on.
CHAPTER 8
No one spoke in the car on the way back to the cottage, Phoebe crying herself into silence in Jake’s arms, to everyone’s relief. The vultures were still gathered at the top of the drive. This time the police officers were ready and they pushed them back before they could surround the car, the reporters shouting out the same dumb questions. Mike hardly noticed them. He’d had an epiphany on the way home that made him feel ashamed. He’d only just realised that he’d half-hoped that body had been Isla because at least then he’d know what had happened to her and that her suffering would be over. The not knowing was the worst part, the continuous torture of wondering where she was, who had her, if she was suffering or dead. There was no end in sight.
He was gripped by another hideous notion - what if he never found out? Some people simply dropped off the face of the earth, never to be seen again, leaving their family behind in torment with that endless wondering. He wasn’t sure he could bear that. One thing was certain though - he would never stop looking for her. If she wasn’t found and the police scaled back their investigation before marking it a cold case, turning their attention to cases they could actually solve, he would keep the hunt going.
He would never give up on her.
Mike needed fresh air to blast the stench of the mortuary out of his nostrils, so he decided to wander down the jetty to see how the divers were getting on. To his surprise they were packing up, getting ready to depart.
“Going so soon?” he asked one of them.
“Aye pal,” replied one of them. “We’ve called an end to the search. She’s no’ down there.”
“But you can’t give up,” he replied. “The loch is so deep.”
“The loch isn’t tidal, so if she fell off the boat she’d still be in the vicinity of the boat. We’ve triple checked and she’s no’ there.” He patted Mike on the shoulder when he hung his head, hands twitching with agitation. “Hey, it’s good news. It means she’s out there somewhere. I hope she comes home soon.”
Mike spun on his heel and stormed back towards the cottage, leaving the diver to shrug and continue packing away the equipment.
He burst through the front door and strode into the kitchen to find Stewart talking with Wheeler. Neil had already left. “Did you know the divers are leaving?”
“DS Wheeler’s just informed me,” replied Stewart.
“You have to tell them to stay, she could still be down there.”
“I can’t tell them to do anything, they’re their own unit and their commanding officer has told them to stop the search. If she was in the water they would have found her by now, trust me. They are very good at what they do.”
“Bullshit. They’re giving up because they think she’s a lost cause.”
“That’s not true Mike. We’re certain she isn’t in the water, so we need to divert our attention elsewhere.”
“You mean to other cases? You’re forgetting about her, aren’t you?”
“Not at all but now we can fully concentrate on the land search. We aren’t giving up on her, I promise.”
The rage that had once seemed so alien to him but that was now becoming a part of him raised its head once more, stirred up by the fear, worry and the trauma of the trip to the mortuary.
“What use are you anyway with all your resources?” he exploded. “You’ve achieved nothing. I found all her pieces of clothing, not you.” Fury coursed through Mike when suspicion flashed through Stewart’s eyes again. “You know what? You lot can piss off too.”
“Look, I know you’re upset…”
“Upset? Upset doesn’t even begin to cut it and so far you’ve been as much use as a fart in the wind. Well I’m going to find her, so you can all get out.”
“Mike, you can’t kick us out,” said Stewart. “This area is a crime scene.”
“She was taken from the jetty, not the house,” he retorted. “You want to stay you hang about there. You’ve done fuck all to find her, you let the intruder get away last night and you’ve just subjected me to the body of a murder victim. So piss off. You’re not welcome here any longer.”
Mike’s blood shot eyes were wild and although he was keeping his voice low and soft as always, he was using his intimidating physical presence to manoeuvre Stewart and Wheeler towards the back door.
“You need us here,” pressed Stewart, standing firm on the threshold, refusing to go any further. “You’re a possible target.”
“You’re only using that as an excuse to keep an eye on me because you think I did something to her. Well genius, if it was me where did I stash her? How am I getting her clothes? I’m constantly surrounded by you lot. If it was me I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“We don’t think that Mike.”
“Liar,” he snarled, shoving him in the chest, sending him staggering outside, joining Wheeler, who had got out first, not wanting to be thrown out by the giant.
“If you send us away we’ll have to take the officers at the top of the drive with us who are stopping the press from making your life a misery,” said Stewart in a last ditch effort to get through to him.
“They come anywhere near and I’ll deal with them too,” he retorted.
The two detectives looked at each other when the door was slammed shut in their faces, the sound of the lock being turned following.
Mike wandered into the sitting room, inwardly sighing when he saw Jake and Phoebe standing there wide-eyed, clearly having overheard everything. He’d forgotten all about them.
“Was that wise?” said Jake.
“What have they achieved?” replied Mike. “Nothing. I’m going to find Isla on my own.”
“But how?” said Phoebe.
“I’ll find a way.”
“You can’t stop them looking for her.”
“I’m not stopping them. I just don’t want them anywhere near me or this cottage.”
“You’re upset after seeing that poor woman in the mortuary. Once you’ve calmed down you’ll see you need the police.”
“I’m sorry Phoebe,” he said, voice coming out tight as he tried not to get angry with her. “But I don’t want them here and that’s an end to it. Now, I’m very tired, so if you could leave…”
“You shouldn’t be on your own.”
“That’s exactly what I need. I can’t think straight when I’m constantly surrounded by people.”
“But…”
“Phoebe, we’re friends,” he growled. “And I’m grateful for everything you’ve done but this isn’t a request.”
“We should go home,” said Jake, steering his wife to the door. “Spend some time with the kids.”
“Yes, you’re right.” She looked to Mike. “Call us if you need us. I’ll let you know if any information pops up on the social
media page about Isla.”
He just nodded, willing them to get the fuck out.
Finally they left and he poured himself a whisky and sank onto the couch, enjoying the peace and quiet. Some of the tension left his body and finally his thoughts began to flow again. However these weren’t the desperate, tortured thoughts that usually taunted him. They were logical, attempting to puzzle out just what the hell was going on.
Noises came from the back of the house. The corner of his mouth twitched into a humourless grin. Those bastard reporters were attempting to sneak up to the cottage.
Putting down his glass he jogged upstairs, headed into the spare bedroom and delved into the wardrobe to reveal a long locked box hidden beneath Isla’s violin. He opened it and took out the shotgun. After loading it and stuffing some spare cartridges into his pockets, he jogged back downstairs and flung open the front door.
Half a dozen reporters had snuck down the drive, despite being told this was private property and they were trespassing. They were so excited to see him emerge that it took them a few seconds to realise he was brandishing a shotgun. Their mouths, which they’d open to ask the same inane questions, promptly closed.
Mike raised the gun to his shoulder and levelled it at them. “Get the fuck off my property.”
“But it’s not your property, is it Mike?” said Sloss, the only one willing to step forward. “It belongs to Isla. Is that why she’s gone, so you can get your hands on it? Has she left a will leaving everything to you?”
The other reporters’ eyes gleamed with interest, the scent of a good story overriding their fear.
Mike squeezed the trigger, the ground before Sloss erupting in a fountain of dirt as the shot slammed into it, wiping away his smug smile.
The reporters began backing away as Mike broke the shotgun and reloaded, snapping the barrel back into place and taking aim at them again. “Do you know the effect a shotgun has on the human body?” he told them, keeping pace as they continued to back up the drive, the gun never wavering despite its length and weight. “It doesn’t make a neat little hole like a pistol or rifle. No. This is packed full of hungry shot which riddles you with holes. It could even take a limb clean off. I saw it happen back in Lafayette during a convenience store robbery. The robber was nothing more than a teenager really, scared, panicking. He carried a sawn-off. When a member of staff tried to stop him he fired. The man’s leg dropped to the floor, severed at the knee. I still remember the slopping sound the limb made as it twitched on the ground. Want me to give you a live demo right now?”
The ferocity in Mike’s eyes and the savagery in his tone convinced them he was a man teetering on the edge and not bluffing. Turning, they all sprinted up the drive back to the main road, Sloss overtaking them all in his panic.
“And tell your scumbag friends what will happen if they set foot on my property,” he hollered after them.
He broke the shotgun and returned to the house, the weapon slung over his arm, barrel pointing at the ground. “Well that was fun.”
Mike made himself a cup of strong coffee and returned to the sitting room, placing the gun on the couch beside him should he need it. He picked up the photo of himself and Isla together that sat on top of the fireplace and cradled it to him.
“Where are you?” he breathed. He closed his eyes as tears rolled down his face. “Where are you sweetheart?”
He remained this way for another two hours as outside it grew colder, the weather becoming wilder, the gathering clouds conspiring to blot out the light. He could have stayed that way for a lot longer had the chill in the air not driven him to light the fire and switch on the lamp. Despite his big words earlier he had no idea what he was going to do. The only thing he could think of was to go around the locals and question them himself. This wasn’t a big area for tourists and the cottage was certainly off the beaten track. Whoever took Isla knew only the two of them lived here, that they were isolated. They must have been watching and chose their moment well when he’d returned to the house, leaving her alone and vulnerable. But would a kidnapper have the opportunity to drag her all the way along the jetty then up the driveway right past the cottage to the main road? Or perhaps they’d taken her through the forest? Isla might be small but she was fit and feisty. She would have fought and screamed the whole way. Unless she’d been knocked out somehow. She was light, it would have been easy for a strong healthy man to carry her. He had to trust the divers were right and that she wasn’t in the water.
But there was a third way she could have been taken - by boat. Someone could have hidden at the curve in the loch, waiting for him to leave her on her own. In the failing light he wouldn’t have spotted a small boat moored further down the loch. It would have taken an intruder less than a minute to reach the jetty. If it was someone Isla knew she would have greeted them with a friendly hello, she would have even let them board the boat and they could have knocked her out before she even knew what was happening. No, that couldn’t be right. She’d screamed, called out for him to help her and he hadn’t because he’d been messing about with a stupid bottle of champagne. He should have insisted she come back to the house with him and they could have curled up together before the fire to drink the champagne but he hadn’t and he would regret that for the rest of his life.
So if the kidnapper came by boat, perhaps they took her away by boat too? It might explain why her hat had been found in the water.
After downing his coffee he pulled on his coat, gloves and boots and with the shotgun slung over one arm he locked up the cottage and strode down the jetty. He climbed onto the boat, carefully laying the shotgun on the deck between his feet and started the engine.
He guided the boat north, heading towards the curve in the loch. The engine was quiet. When he’d been in the house, especially in the cellar, he would have been unable to hear another boat.
Glancing at the timer on his phone, he saw it had taken him fifty eight seconds to reach the curve in the loch. Immediately he turned the boat around and came back the other way. Less then two minutes travelling time. Another minute or two to snatch Isla. The whole thing could have been done in under five minutes. Enough time. He thought back to that night, attempting to recall whether he’d heard a boat or seen one leaving the area but he couldn’t remember, the memory overridden by panic. He remembered looking up and down the loch but it had only been cursory because he’d been looking for Isla, not a boat.
The police had never mentioned her being abducted onto a boat. They’d been concentrating on searching on land or at the bottom of the loch. But then again, they’d kept a lot of things to their chests, like him being the prime suspect, which was the main reason why they wanted to keep intruding into his home.
More clouds had flocked together, conspiring to cast the loch into shadow, as though they were deliberately attempting to frustrate his search. The wind was working itself up into a frenzy again. Attempting to search the woodland would be futile in such conditions as well as dangerous, especially as he’d neglected to bring a torch. Instead he decided to return home and come back to this curve in the loch at first light tomorrow morning to see what he could find.
Mike was woken the next morning by the alarm on his phone going off. He’d purposefully set it for eight am. To his surprise he’d managed to get a full six hours sleep. He figured the exhaustion of the past few days had just got too much and his body had shut down to rest. He’d half-expected Neil to turn up but he hadn’t, or if he had he’d been too out of it to hear him. The police had left their cameras in situ and if they’d returned last night to resume their vigil they hadn’t disturbed him. He rather hoped they had come back without his knowledge, he enjoyed the thought of them stuck outside in a storm two nights in a row. His head didn’t feel as fuzzy either as he’d only had one glass of whisky last night, wanting to stay clear-headed for his search. He felt much better for it too, leaping out of bed with more energy than he’d had in the past few days.
His first act
was to race downstairs and check the house for anything that had been left of Isla’s. There was nothing inside, so he checked outside next. Still nothing. Anger filled him. The police had scared off the intruder and he wasn’t coming back.
He trudged back upstairs with a heavy heart, Isla feeling even further away from him.
The determination to find her himself returned after taking a hot shower and he dressed and headed downstairs for breakfast, full of purpose.
As he packed a rucksack with food, water, a torch, compass, knife and other various items he thought he might need he sipped hot coffee. A bowl of warm porridge gave him all the energy he needed and he left the cottage, ensuring every window was closed and every door locked. He headed to the boat carrying the shotgun and climbed aboard. The air was so cold his breath streamed out before him. Early morning mist hung low over the water and rose up from the pine trees encircling the loch. No one else was out on the water this early.
He gazed across the water to the smattering of houses on the opposite side of the loch. When he’d first moved here he hadn’t been prepared for just how isolated the cottage felt, especially at night. Those few lights visible shining from those half dozen houses in the dark had been a comfort. Idly he wondered if whoever took Isla could have anything to do with those houses but he reasoned it was just too far across the loch.
He turned the boat away from the jetty and set off for the curve in the loch, ensuring he didn’t stray far from the shore so he wouldn’t get lost in the mist.
It was fortunate he was only going slow as the small public pontoon that came out from the curve suddenly emerged before him, forcing him to slam the boat into reverse, sending the shotgun skidding across the deck.
After steering the boat safely to the pontoon and ensuring it was firmly tied he jumped down, leaving the gun inside the cabin. This area of the loch was popular with fishermen, hence the presence of the pontoon. It was a relief no one else was here, the last thing he wanted to do was interact with other people.
The Loch Page 11