The Loch

by Heather Atkinson

  “Mike,” she said, making no effort to get up, greeting him like a queen would a courtier. “How wonderful to see you. How are you?”

  “Not good,” he mumbled.

  “Understandable.”

  Her sharp blue eyes alighted on his left big toe, which had popped out of the hole in his sock and she frowned disapprovingly. Mike made no effort to cover it back up.

  “Any news on Isla?” she said before plucking a plump chocolate from the box with blood red fingernails and popping it into her mouth.

  “No, not yet,” he replied.

  “It’s just so awful. I’ve known her since I was a little girl. She’s such a gentle soul.” She spoke as though she had a mouthful of plums in an attempt to sound regal.

  “It’s why I’m here actually,” he began, trying not to get annoyed. “I want to talk to you both about Isla.”

  “Of course.” She gestured to the second massive pink couch. “Please sit.”

  “Thanks,” he said, taking a seat.

  Phillipa looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to compliment her on the comfort and quality of her couch but he didn’t even notice, he was too busy figuring out what he was going to say.

  “Get our guest a drink Alex,” she said stonily, addressing her husband as though he were a servant.

  “Of course dear. What would you like Mike? Whisky?”

  “No thanks, I’m driving.”

  “A coffee then?”

  “Our coffee is the most expensive you can get,” announced Phillipa. “As well as the rarest. I know how much you love your coffee.”

  Mike thought it would be interesting to see how that compared to the stuff he drank. “Alright then, thanks.”

  “Coming right up,” said Alex before leaving the room.

  “So Mike,” said Phillipa, turning her attention back to him. “What would you like to ask me?”

  “When was the last time you saw Isla?”

  “Hmmm,” she began, as though she’d never considered the question before. “It must have been seven or eight days before she disappeared. Sorry for being a bit vague but our social schedule is so hectic, it never ends. Life is just an endless whirl of glamorous parties and expensive dinners.”

  “Yeah, great,” he said flatly. It was people like this that reminded him why he liked living in an isolated cottage. “Where did you see her?”

  “I was driving my Porsche to the garage at Dunoon, it was making a strange knocking sound and I do so love my little Porsche. I have the Mercedes as back-up so I wasn’t unduly worried but there’s something special about a Porsche, isn’t there?”

  Mike swallowed down his impatience. “Where did you see her?”

  “Oh yes. Well, she was in her funny little car. She’d just turned off that rough track leading to your quaint little cottage. I assumed she was heading into Strachur as that was the direction she was going in.”

  Mike nodded. Isla had gone that day to Joyce’s shop to post a birthday present to her brother.

  “Have the police made any progress in the investigation?” she asked, plucking another unfortunate chocolate from the box.

  Mike could imagine the chocolates screaming as they were drawn inexorably towards that gaping, wide-toothed mouth. Jesus, he really needed more sleep. “No,” he replied. “They’re useless.”

  “So you’ve started your own investigation, is that what’s going on here?”

  “Yes,” he replied, annoyed that he’d been found out so easily by this repellent woman.

  “How intriguing. Are Alex and I suspects?”

  “No, course not. I’m just trying to build a picture of her last few days.”

  “Surely you already know? You live with her.”

  “I’m trying to see her through other people’s eyes and someone might have noticed something that they might not consider important but could be crucial.”

  “Such as?”

  He shrugged. “No idea but it can’t hurt to try.”

  “You’re quite right, it can’t. I wish I could help but I haven’t seen Isla much lately, my hectic social life you understand. We’re constantly entertaining people connected to Alex’s work. Why only last week we had a lord round for dinner, he’s a shareholder in the bank. He adored my crab cakes.”

  She sat there waiting for him to make impressed murmurings, which he refused to do. He thought what a sad creature she was, desperately needing approval from others because she was incapable of approving of herself.

  “Do you know when Alex last saw her?” he said, getting increasingly uncomfortable.

  “I don’t think he’s seen her at all recently, he spends so much of his time in the city, working.”

  Mike bet he did. If he was Alex he’d spend as much time as possible away from this hideous house. One thing he loved about the cottage was that it felt like a home, warm, welcoming. This was more like a mausoleum to bad taste.

  “Ah, here he is,” said Phillipa when Alex walked into the room carrying a tray holding a large silver pot and three cups, the aroma of coffee following him like a cloud. “Once you’ve tasted this coffee you won’t want to go back to your own brand,” she told Mike as Alex poured. “It really is the best.”

  “It smells great,” said Mike, feeling he must make some sort of effort.

  This pleased her and she nodded graciously.

  Alex passed around the cups, making sure to hand Phillipa’s to her first. Mike was appalled to see he was serving the coffee in small china teacups complete with saucers. He stared at the object he was given, which looked lost in his huge hands. The cups were etched with pink flowers. As an American and a coffee lover, he was insulted.

  “Drink up,” said Phillipa, gingerly sipping hers. “Once you taste heaven you’ll never go back.”

  Mike took a sip, which half-emptied the cup. It was nice but nothing special. He preferred his own brand.

  “Yeah, it’s good,” he said when he realised they were both looking at him expectantly. Another sip and the cup was emptied. He dumped the ridiculous object and its accompanying saucer on the small table beside him, making them both rattle. Phillipa sucked in air sharply, appalled at her china being treated so basely.

  “Alex,” said Mike. “I wanted to ask when you last saw Isla.”

  “When I last saw her?” he replied.

  Mike frowned when his cheeks reddened.

  “It was…it was, err…a week before she…you know.”

  “Disappeared?” said Mike.

  “Aye, that. She was walking through the village.”

  Mike nodded. No doubt he’d seen her going to Hannah’s to return the book.

  “That can’t be right dear,” said Phillipa with an amused smile. “You were in the city that day, remember? You called me to say you were staying over at your penthouse as you had an early morning meeting and it wasn’t worth driving home.”

  “Oh, right, did I?” he said, blushing even more. “It must have been the day before then.”

  “It wasn’t,” replied Mike. “Me and Isla got the ferry across to Gourock that day and drove on to Glasgow, we spent the whole day there. We came straight home and she didn’t leave the cottage until the next morning.”

  “Oh, I must be mistaken. Perhaps it was earlier than that? Sorry, I have such a poor memory for dates.”

  “It’s true, he does,” replied Phillipa. “He needs me to remind him constantly about appointments.”

  Mike could imagine how that would get annoying but Alex was definitely hiding something. His instinct was to leap up and shake him until he confessed but it could be something unrelated to Isla. However, finally he had his own line of inquiry to follow.

  After a few more questions that got him nowhere, Mike said thanks and took his leave.

  “Before you go,” said Phillipa. “You must see our new wine cellar.”

  “I’m sure Mike’s not in the mood for that,” said Alex.

  “Of course he is. We have some beautiful whiskies do
wn there Mike, you must take one, our gift to you. We know how much you enjoy our native single malts.”

  “That’s very generous, thank you,” said Mike, attempting to hide his eagerness. A cellar would be a good place to stash a kidnap victim.

  “You’re very welcome. It’s really Alex’s bachelor space, he spends so much time down there cataloguing his wines and spirits, all expensive and collectible.”

  This just got better and better. Alex could have Isla down there and Phillipa wouldn’t know a thing about it.

  Mike’s heart thudded as he followed Alex out of the room and down the hall. Alex opened a door to reveal a steep set of steps. He switched on the light and they descended. At the bottom of the stairs Alex flipped another switch and harsh fluorescent lights blinked into life to reveal a vast L-shaped room. The floor was a beautiful polished wood and the walls had been painted a warm cream and lined with tall wooden shelves, each one of which groaned beneath the weight of wine bottles and spirits.

  “Wow, this is some space,” said Mike, stepping deeper into the room, eyes frantically flicking left and right for any sign of Isla.

  “Yes, it’s very nice,” replied Alex. “I find it a calming place to retreat to away from the pressures of work.”

  Although he didn’t say it, Mike could see he that he wanted to add, and Phillipa onto that statement.

  “So you spend a lot of time down here?”

  He nodded. “It’s my haven.”

  “Work must be high pressured?” said Mike, attempting to distract him with small talk so he could search the room.

  “It is,” he sighed.

  Mike did a double-take. Alex Shaw seemed to be a very unhappy man.

  “So does this room run the length of the house?” said Mike, stepping deeper into it.

  “Yeah. For years it was full of junk, most of it left by the previous owners. It drove Phillipa mad knowing there was such a mess down here. She said I could do what I liked with it just as long as I got rid of all the mess. It’s nice to have a little space of my own, no frilly curtains or ugly vases. Don’t tell Phillipa I said that,” he hastily added.

  Mike walked the length of the room, disappointed by the fact that this didn’t seem to disturb Alex in the slightest. Unless there was a secret hatch somewhere behind one of the many wine racks.

  “It’s got its own door,” said Mike, coming to a halt at the back of the room.

  “Yes, for deliveries. It’s much easier than having to carry the bottles down those steep stairs.”

  “Makes sense,” said Mike, thinking how it would be easy for Alex to bundle someone in through here and Phillipa wouldn’t be any the wiser.

  “So, you want a bottle of whisky then?”

  “Yes please,” said Mike, mind only half on the conversation. Dammit, he could see nothing indicating a secret prison built into the room. The only way he could be sure would be to drag all those wine racks away from the walls, smashing dozens of very expensive bottles, which would be sure to land him in a prison cell unable to help Isla. No, he needed to be smarter than that.

  He selected a bottle of eighteen year old Dalmore, the bottle emblazoned with a silver stag’s head and Alex escorted him back upstairs. After bidding goodbye to the queen of Sheba still reclining on her throne stuffing her face, he was permitted to put his boots back on and leave.

  As he walked down the drive he kept looking back over his shoulder at the house.

  “If you’re in there honey,” he murmured to himself. “I will get you out.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Although Mike was exhausted by the time he returned to the cottage he was tense with apprehension. Had the mystery intruder left another unpleasant surprise for him?

  He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed to find that they hadn’t. He searched the house from top to bottom, checking every cupboard, drawer and wardrobe but nothing had been left. He even searched the garden, which wasn’t easy in the dark but nothing popped up in the watery glow of his torch and the intruder had always been careful to leave Isla’s clothes where they would be found.

  He returned to the cottage, dejected. What if nothing else was left? Did that mean she was dead? At least there were no reporters at the top of the drive. It seemed they’d got bored now there was no police activity going on at the cottage, or maybe word had spread about his shotgun and they’d decided it would be wise to leave him alone?

  After pouring himself a generous helping of whisky from the bottle Alex had given him he slunk upstairs to bed, tiredness overwhelming him and he sank into a deep sleep.

  When he opened his eyes Isla was lying beside him, red hair splayed out on the pillow. She was tucked under the duvet but he could see she was wearing her cream pyjamas with the large multi-coloured hummingbird on the front. She loved hummingbirds. They were small and delicate, like her. Her green eyes were bright but sad.

  Mike knew it was a dream, even though he was asleep. This conscious awareness felt odd but he determined to make the most of it.

  He cradled her left cheek with his palm, her skin icy to the touch.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice carrying a strange echo. “It’s dark, cold. It’s difficult to breathe.”

  “Hold on honey. I’m going to find you.”

  She rested her cool hand on top of his. “I’m trying but it’s hard.”

  “You are so strong, you can do it.”

  “I’m close Mike. They didn’t take me far.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Don’t know.”

  She began to fade before his eyes, he could see the print on the duvet through her, the pressure of her hand on his getting lighter.

  “Hurry Mike. It’s getting harder to breathe,” she said, eyes widening slightly, the fall of her chest rapid and shallow.

  “I will find you sweetheart. I will not let you down.”

  “I know,” she murmured before vanishing entirely.

  A loud bang made him sit bolt upright in bed, his face wet with tears. He was cold, having kicked the duvet off himself in his sleep again and he wondered if that explained the cold feeling in his dream. The other side of the bed was empty, no sign of anyone having slept there and pain welled in his chest so potent he was tempted to ignore the banging coming from the front door. He knew it couldn’t be the intruder, they’d never announced their presence before. No doubt it was Neil come to check on him or some nosy bastard reporter.

  “Mike,” yelled Stewart’s voice.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes against the black dots that bounced across his vision.

  “We know you’re in there,” continued Stewart. “Open up before we kick the bloody door in.”

  He glanced at the clock on the bedside cabinet. It was five minutes to seven. What was that idiot doing here so early?

  Grumbling to himself, he got out of bed, pulled on a jumper and jeans, stuffed his feet into his slippers and headed downstairs yawning, arms wrapped around himself, attempting to shake off the chill of the dream.

  He pulled open the front door and Wheeler fell inside, landing on his hands and knees.

  “What are you doing?” said Mike, looking down at him impassively.

  “I told him to kick the door in,” retorted an angry Stewart.

  “Good luck with that, it’s solid oak. You’re lucky I opened the door when I did or he’d have a broken leg now.”

  “Never mind all that. Wheeler, for God’s sake get up off the floor.”

  “I hurt my knee.”

  “Stop being a baby.” He looked back at Mike. “Another woman vanished last night.”

  Mike’s jaw fell open. “Who?”

  “Hannah McNair.”

  “What?” he breathed, stunned. “But how? When?”

  “We were wondering if you could tell us?”

  “Why do you think I’d know?” He shook his head. “Oh I see. I’m still your prime su
spect, aren’t I?”

  “Yes you are. Get your shoes and coat, you’re coming to the station.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? We want to give you a present.”

  “Really?” said Mike, being wilfully ignorant.

  “No, not really. We need to interview you.”

  “You can do that here.”

  “Nope. This has to be a formal interview.”

  “Fine. Can I have breakfast first?”

  “No you can’t. Coat. Now.”

  Mike huffed, pulled on his coat and boots and followed the two police officers to the Insignia. He was directed to sit in the back and Wheeler got in beside him while Stewart drove.

  “When did Hannah disappear?” said Mike.

  “We’ll discuss all that at the station,” was Stewart’s curt reply.

  Realising talking was futile, Mike turned his attention to the window, mulling over his dream. His heart wanted to break as he recalled Isla’s words. Where had that come from? Had they somehow managed to make a connection, despite being physically separated? Or had it been a product of his tired, scared mind? Occasionally he felt like he was starting to go mad with the fear and pressure. What if that dream had been the start of the slippery slope?

  One thought was even more terrifying than the prospect of going insane. What if she’d been so cold because she was dead?

  Mike was ushered into an interview room at the police station at Dunoon where the Cowal police were based. It was a long, grey, two-storey building surrounded by houses.

  The room was warm and he was offered coffee, which he was grateful for as he’d missed his traditional morning cup and he couldn’t function without it, although it was poor in comparison to his own brand. However it was on a par with Phillipa’s coffee. The orange plastic chair he occupied was too small for his frame and creaked in despair every time he moved. He’d been dumped in here by Wheeler, who had fetched him his coffee then disappeared. That had been twenty minutes ago, which he knew because of the clock on the wall, its ticking getting on his nerves.

  To occupy his time and try not to think about the fact that he was the prime suspect in the disappearance of two women, he read the posters on the walls - warnings about locking your front door when you went out, car theft and other petty stuff.