When he came close to her, he said, ‘Hi.’
She knelt to pick up one of the cockle shells she’d dropped.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going back to the island?’ Still she didn’t look at him.
‘I didn’t think you’d want to know … it’d implicate you.’
‘So you were being considerate?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
Rachel stood and flashed an angry look at him before turning away again.
Cal tried again, ‘I’m sorry if it’s been difficult.’
‘Everything is all over the newspapers, the television news bulletins, everything we’ve filmed.’
There was more she wasn’t saying. Maybe her bosses were kicking up about it. Maybe her job was threatened.
She stared at him, shaking her head as if he just didn’t get it. ‘You never cared about me, you never wanted what I wanted did you?’ Her voice was heavy with disappointment and betrayal.
For a moment Cal considered trying to console her. He’d give her the Mary’s Bean. He’d remind her of the first time they’d been alone on a beach, Skaill Beach, Orkney, where he’d found the bean, how it had been a symbol of his commitment to her, how he’d meant it at the time, but things hadn’t worked out the way he’d expected, how it could stand for something different now, something more durable. He’d rehearsed a little speech in the car, not sure if he should say it, not sure what he should do, knowing that he had to do something, or nothing.
The bean remained in his pocket, his hand clenched around it. Seeing her now, distant and angry, he realised she wouldn’t want it.
He said nothing. (What was there to say if he couldn’t give her the bean?)
‘I can’t do this,’ Rachel said after they’d be standing like that for seconds which were as long as hours. She came close to him, hitting softly at his arm twice with her clenched fist.
All he could think of saying was ‘sorry’ but what was the point? So he didn’t say anything. After a while he turned to look after her and she was already at the car. Then she went behind a grassy dune and was gone.
Cal walked along the tide mark to the rock shaped like a whale’s back. The movement of the sea made him wonder. Should be throw the Mary’s Bean back, let it continue its journey? Instead he pulled at a clump of pink thrift, snapping the flowers until each of his hands was full of them. At the neck of the rock, where it dipped into the sea, he dropped the handfuls one after the other into the water, and watched as the two pink rafts separated and drifted on the tide away from him. He remained there until he couldn’t see them anymore.
His driver had observed it all, leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. He’d kept his curiosity to himself until Altnaharra, half way to Lairg. ‘Pretty girl, she was crying you know.’ Cal hadn’t replied. Then the driver mentioned compensation and Cal had snapped at him. After this exchange, the driver raised the glass partition between them and Cal had called Basanti. He let his phone ring until the answer phone cut in. By the Dornoch Firth he was calling every five minutes. It was daylight. She’d be outside, somewhere: on the roof. Still he rang until he was overcome by the dread that something awful had happened to her. It occurred to him first when he checked his emails. There were dozens of them: from journalists or radio and television producers, wanting him for interviews. The odd one out was a two day old message from DLG. DLG had copied it to everyone in the Omoo group.
‘One of the Omoo guys says he sees that hill and tree every morning from his bedroom window. It’s north-east of Seil Island, on the mainland, a mile or two from a village called Kilninver, south of Oban. There’s a headland with a single track road into it. I’m attaching a photograph. It was taken from his house on the south-east corner of Mull looking across the Firth of Lorn. Sorry about the quality.’
Even with the pixilation, there it was: the hill with the top cut off and ridged sides, looking smaller than in Basanti’s drawing because it was set in a larger landscape. The tree, frozen in the act of toppling, was on its left hand flank, just as she’d drawn it.
As he examined it, his thoughts turned to the currents there. What if Preeti’s body hadn’t floated north with the currents as the police had assumed at the time? What if the opposite had happened? There were strong tidal streams to the north of Corrievrechan, the famous maelstrom between the islands of Jura and Scarba. One of these flowed from the Firth of Lorn, past some small islands called the Garvellachs, towards Scarba. It was here, in an area of sea where a whorl of currents trapped flotsam, that Preeti’s body had been found. What if she had gone into the sea north of Scarba, not many kilometres to the south of it, as the police had thought? The hill with the single tree growing out of its flank was to the north. Cal rang Jamieson’s number but it went straight to answer. He left a message asking her to ring him urgently and forwarded DLG’s email.
When he went back to his inbox, it occurred to him his other emails were in bold black type, but DLG’s was not before he clicked on it. Somebody had already read it. It had to be Basanti. Had she logged on to his email account? Had she followed the instructions he had left her? He rang her again, and again, willing her to answer; talking out loud; accusing himself of letting her down too, Rachel first, now Basanti.
When it was dark he’d be certain, when she came in from the roof. If she didn’t answer then he’d know she’d gone to the headland overlooking the Firth of Lorn to find Preeti’s killers. But he couldn’t wait till dark. She had a two day start on him. Cal tapped on the glass partition. The driver lowered it electronically. ‘Take me to the Argyll coast, south of Oban.’
‘Sir.’ It was still laden with disrespect.
The 06.45 bus from Edinburgh had arrived in Oban on time at 11.20. Basanti inquired about Kilninver and whether any services went there. A man in uniform who was leaning against a parked bus reading the Daily Record’s racing page, answered without looking up. ‘Stance 3 at 1.30pm.’
‘How much?’ Basanti asked.
He replied in the same bored monotone. ‘£2.80 single; £5.60 return.’
Basanti went to the nearby railway station where she bought a cup of tea and a salad sandwich. She walked back along Queen’s Park Place where she found a discreet bench overlooking the sea. She ate her sandwich and watched the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry, painted white and black with a red and black funnel, leaving for the island of Mull.
Her composure pleased her after her close encounter at Cal’s flat. It was how she wanted to be, how she must be, not caring whether the man she’d stabbed lived or died. Nothing mattered now apart from avenging Preeti.
At 1.15pm she walked back to bus stance 3. She paid the driver the single fare and asked him how far it was to Kilninver. ‘About ten miles,’ he replied. She sat at the back on her own. The other passengers, four of them, sat two by two behind the driver. Basanti was first to alight. As she stepped on to the pavement a woman and a child passed by and Basanti showed them her drawing of the hill and the tree. The woman pointed to a rounded hill with a flattish top a kilometre away before examining the drawing again.
‘Right enough,’ she said, looking at the hill a second time. ‘That’s it from the other side.’ Unasked, the woman gave her directions – the best way was ‘down that wee lane’ to the coastal path. ‘The path’s longer than the road but it’s a lovely walk.’
Basanti chose the path.
When she reached the sea, she sat on a rock and watched the waves, wondering how water as blue and as lovely could have killed Preeti, how beauty like this could have destroyed beauty like hers. A shiver passed through her at the sea’s disregard for the life it had taken. She clutched at her pocket, finding reassurance in the hard shape of Cal’s knife.
A few hundred metres further on, the hill began to reveal its familiar side to Basanti. The memory of everything she had suffered rooted her there momentarily. She shuddered, suddenly uncertain about the strength of her will to keep going. She glanced behind her and let
out a muffled cry. A man was following her. He was 400 metres away but she recognised his build and shape.
He knew I was coming.
Suddenly she could smell him again: the bitterness of his sweat, the foulness of his breath. She continued along the path, running fast now, down into a dip until she was concealed from him. She peered through the rim of grass and she saw him again. He had stopped on the top of the rise. He was alert and watching, a predator waiting for prey to break cover. Under cover of a sand bank, Basanti ran towards the beach. Her footfalls jolted her ribs, expelling air from her lungs which made a plaintive moaning sound as it passed through her throat.
How did he know I was coming?
Cal had read DLG’s email.
Cal had betrayed her again.
Cal.
A woman was walking along the shore towards Basanti. She wore denim dungarees and a cap and had a red bucket in her hand. A white and tan dog ambled ahead of her, sniffing at shells and seaweed.
Basanti looked at her and back at where the man had been. If she ran to the woman across the shingle beach the man would see her. If she didn’t, the man would find her when the woman had gone. Hadn’t only men touched her, harmed her or betrayed her since she left India? She ran to the woman.
The dog barked when it saw Basanti, bouncing up and down on its front legs, as if held back by an invisible lead.
‘Please help me,’ she gasped.
The woman ordered her dog to be quiet. A sympathetic smile stretched across the ruddy fleshiness of her face. ‘What’s wrong, pet?’
‘There’s a man.’ Basanti glanced nervously behind her. She could see the sweep of heather and grass back to the base of the hill. But no-one was there.
‘Is he following you?’ the woman said, looking too.
‘Yes. He was there.’ Basanti pointed to the rise where she’d last seen him.
‘Well, why don’t you come with me?’ the woman said. ‘I’m finished here.’ She swung her bucket full of mussels. ‘My caravan’s up that way. The road’s just the other side. You’ll be safe with me.’
Basanti kept on looking behind her as she and the woman walked side by side. The woman told her about her dog, Alfie. He was a terrier, a Jack Russell, four years old, and ‘always hunting, rabbits, mice and rats you name it’. The beach narrowed and a path forked left from it between two sand dunes. The woman, who said her name was Barbara, went first. Basanti followed. They emerged on to a flat, sandy piece of ground overlooking another bay where a small boat was moored at a short wooden pier. The beach round the bay was shingle. There was a cottage close by it and another across a flat of heather, closer to the hill.
Basanti’s heart beat loudly. This had been her prison.
‘The caravan’s along there.’ Barbara nodded towards a single track road which was just coming into view. Basanti yelped in fright. The man was on it, running towards them. Every so often he stopped to search the surrounding terrain. He had binoculars round his neck.
Basanti said, ‘That’s him’. She felt for her knife.
Barbara put a reassuring hand on Basanti’s arm. ‘You’re all right with me, pet.’
The man saw them and ran in their direction. He was big, at least six feet, and broad, the same build as the man who’d carried Basanti when she’d last seen the hill. Barbara felt for Basanti’s wrist and held it tight.
‘It’s ok,’ she said, reassuring her. ‘He’ll be looking for a lost dog or something.’
Basanti tried to shake off Barbara’s grip. But Barbara squeezed tighter, preventing her from putting her hand in her pocket.
The man stopped a few metres in front of them, panting; his face screwed up with the effort of running. Barbara said to him, ‘What are you waiting for? Take the little bitch.’
She yanked her arm and propelled Basanti forward. She sprawled on the ground at the man’s feet. ‘Watch out,’ Barbara said, ‘She’s got a knife.’
It was 8pm before Cal’s driver parked on the verge by the single track road to the headland. From the landward side, the hill was a series of ascending humps and knolls with occasional trees scattered across them. But on its right flank, Cal’s present view of it, there was a single tree, a Scots pine, at a precarious angle of 45 degrees.
‘There’s no need to wait,’ Cal said getting out of the car.
The driver didn’t acknowledge Cal or alter his expression. When Cal slammed the door, the car swung back towards Kilninver and Oban. Would a tip have made their parting any more amicable? Cal started along the single track road to the coast. About half way there, the road passed a disused quarry. In it, were a rusted white Volkswagen and a mobile home supported on foundations of brick. A woman sat on a boulder beside the caravan steps, picking mussels out of a bucket and scraping sea weed and barnacles off them with a pen knife. She wore a man’s blue and brown check shirt, patched denim dungarees and a denim cap. A dog yapped repeatedly from inside the caravan.
‘Anything I can help you with?’ she called out to Cal. She squinted at him in the setting sun, covering her eyes with the hand which held the knife.
He stopped a few paces from her. ‘Lovely evening.’
‘So it is.’ She continued to regard him, her fleshy face inquisitive, waiting for Cal’s answer.
‘I’m looking for a friend,’ Cal ventured. ‘We’d arranged to meet up here. We’re walkers.’
‘Lots of walkers round here,’ she said, picking up another mussel but continuing to stare at him.
‘Any down there?’ Cal gestured towards the sea.
‘There wasn’t half an hour ago, when I was collecting these.’ She sounded Geordie.
‘Well I’ll take a look.’ Cal said, ‘Thanks for your help.’
She watched him for a moment before continuing to scrape mussels.
Inside the caravan, the man took his hand away from Basanti’s throat. She tried to shout, to warn Cal, to beg forgiveness from any god who would listen to her for suspecting him, but the gag filling her mouth choked her. The terrier stopped yapping and went to sniff at her shoes and trousers. The door opened and Barbara said, ‘Make sure the knots are tight. We’ve got work to do.’
The man yanked at Basanti’s wrists, checking the rope, before following the woman out of the door. A padlock snapped shut after it had closed.
His smell remained behind.
If not Cal, then who?
The road stopped at a turning circle some 200 metres from the shore. The hill was now further inland and up the coast from Cal and he struck out across aromatic bog myrtle towards it, following a sheep’s trail up an incline. Over it two cottages came into view. Both were modest, two-roomed ‘but and bens’ with slate roofs. The nearest was down by the sea, beside a shingle beach with a pier and a boat moored at it. The second cottage was further from the bay, closer to the base of the hill. Was this where Preeti and Basanti had been brought ashore and imprisoned?
The first cottage was enclosed by a wire fence and had the appearance of being unoccupied. The gate to the front door was padlocked and the gravel path was overgrown with grass and weeds. Cal climbed the fence and looked in the nearest window. It was a sparsely furnished sitting room with one sofa, an arm chair, a cheap coffee table and a standard lamp with a fabric shade frilled at the bottom. He tried the door before going on to the next cottage which had a similar atmosphere of neglect. From here the hill was almost as Basanti had drawn it. Half of the Scots pine was now visible on its left hand side.
The path stopped at the second cottage but Cal tramped across heather until the angle of the hill was exactly as Basanti had seen it, with the leaning Scots pine fully in view. He found what he was looking for off to his left, after a couple of hundred metres. Here, there was a depression in the ground with a large lichen covered boulder at one side of it. Attached to the boulder was a rusted ring sunk into cement in a crevice of rock. He touched it as if the warmth of his fingers might coax it to impart its story.
This was where Basanti had
been taken that night.
This was where she’d seen the hill.
By now it was dusk and Cal cut across the headland to the sea, stopping only when he reached the little bay by the first cottage. The gravel beach crunched under his feet as it had for the man who carried Basanti ashore. Cal inspected the boat which was wooden, again as Basanti had recalled it. As the sun dipped behind Mull, he sat on the end of the short pier, listening to the lapping of the sea.
He remained there until it was dark and then he tried to ring Basanti. If she was still in Edinburgh, she’d be inside his flat now. He was tapping in the number when he noticed his phone had no signal. He continued to walk around the bay glancing every so often at his mobile: still no signal. He swore and resolved to wait for her there, in case she was on her way. At a part of the bay where the sea had eroded the bank, spilling a chute of sand across the gravel, he sat down. He watched the rise and fall of the waves and the pink sky fading on the horizon, fighting tiredness. Somewhere out there, three years ago, a ship unloaded its cargo of two virgin Bedia girls for something unimaginably awful.
Cal was dreaming. Hands held him by his legs and arms, tying them with rope. A knee pressed into his chest. A cloth was being forced into his mouth and he choked. Now it wasn’t a dream. He was turned on his front, a blindfold tied tight around his eyes. There were two of them holding him, one his legs, one his torso. They carried him across the gravel, their feet crunching into it. He kicked and twisted but they held him. He attempted to scream but only a low, muffled grunt made it past the gag. Then he was in the boat. Another rope was wound round his body and legs and tied under the bench seat, stopping him from moving. He heard them go back across the gravel and he strained at his knots until they cut into him. Then he heard their feet approaching. Something was put on to the seat beside him. He felt the warmth of another body and a tremble of fear through cotton clothes. Basanti. Cal jolted with the shock of her. He fought against his ropes. He tried to shout.
The Sea Detective Page 27