by Lynne McEwan
Shona stared at the wreckage of the dinner table. How did that happen? Her husband’s Jekyll and Hyde outbursts were always a sign of stress. She knew money was tight, the B&B business had narrow profit margins, but every time she asked him about it he said it was just the teething trouble of any new business and things were fine. Before Rob’s mother died she’d recall her son as Wee Bobby, the golden child. Never cried, always a joy. But somewhere a switch had been flicked that couldn’t be unflicked. Shona wished she could go back and fix whatever it was that would trigger these self-destructive bursts. Not change him as such, just adjust the levels, like those on his expensive Naim sound system that, until a few months ago, had squatted in the corner of their sitting room. Rob said he’d sold it because he preferred his iPhone since he rarely had a chance to sit down, but perhaps bookings were slipping. There was certainly something he wasn’t telling her.
But mostly the outbursts just left her tired and wrung out. If Rob was right and Becca was being bullied, she wanted to know. She heard the front door again and from the kitchen window she saw her daughter slipping her red waterproof coat round her shoulders and heading down the path after her father. A fairy tale image rose up in her mind, but there were no wolves or woodcutters, no treacherous grandma’s house for Becca to find refuge in. That was why they’d moved here. They wouldn’t let Becca into the Royal Arms, Rob’s most likely destination, so she would probably end up with Tommy at the lifeboat station. Shona would catch up with her there. Once she’d cleared up.
* * *
The lifeboat station was in the main street, converted from a pair of one-and-a-half storey white-washed Victorian fisherman’s cottages. The boat hall took up half the ground floor and stretched all the way up to the rafters. On its high walls engraved boards detailing past rescues were flanked by photographs of the lifeboat and framed black and white cuttings from old newspapers. At the back was the closed-off crew changing space. The boat hall was overlooked on one side by a mezzanine level, its rail hung with airing immersion suits like the skinned pelts of marine creatures. This area, which sat above the ground floor shop and had a dormer window overlooking the firth, functioned as chart and radio room, a training space and as a lounge. With its kettle, fridge and biscuit tin it was a favourite spot for the crew to relax between shouts. This was where Shona found Tommy McCall, taking apart an ancient marine compass, the enamelled face and wooden case spread out on the crew room table. There was no sign of Becca.
‘Any news on the lassie in the water? That Cumbria copper lived up to expectations?’
‘Don’t like the Cumbria police, do you? Anything to do with that ticking-off you got for speeding on the M6 last month? You were lucky not to get fined.’ Shona pulled out a chair and sat down opposite.
‘No, it’s not. I don’t hate the police.’ Tommy indicated the teapot and Shona poured herself a cup, topping up Tommy’s mug in the process. ‘I don’t mind you, do I?’ he continued, ‘though you’re one of the lifeboat family now. Couldnae do without you. Callum’s come on leaps and bounds since you joined us. I heard what you said to him. Doesn’t get any easier, does it?’
Shona saw again the young woman’s mermaid hair and ruined face. She sighed. ‘Where do you think she went into the water? Pathologist reckons three weeks.’
‘Well.’ Tommy got up from the table and, cupping the mug of tea in his hands, crossed to the OS map of the Solway Firth pinned to wall. ‘It’s hard to say. If she was swept up the channel, then maybe as far away as Ireland or the Isle of Man. Remember thon fella reported missing in Douglas last year?’
Shona nodded. An elderly man, dementia, left his house on the Isle of Man to post a letter. His body washed up weeks later in the Solway.
‘She could have fallen from a vessel or the Stranraer ferry,’ said Tommy, his fingers skimming over sea and sands, the faded blue and the thin contour lines, as if divining hidden paths.
‘Doubt it. No mis per report. No one’s looking for her, Tommy.’ Shona came to stand by his shoulder.
‘So, we found her here.’ He tapped the sandbank in the middle of the firth. ‘The spring tides run high over the south side of Midtown Bank. She was in the water for about three weeks?’
Shona nodded.
‘It’s just a guess, mind,’ he warned her. ‘I’d say she went in the water either here, in the Wampool Estuary,’ he pointed to an area of the north Cumbrian coast, ‘or further up the River Esk. Or even the Sark.’ He traced a blue line, fed by smaller rivers, that crossed the Scottish border at Gretna and meandered off into the lowland hills.
Shona sighed. ‘This is not to go any further, Tommy, but it’s looking like an unlawful death. A deposition site would probably need road access. But would a body really travel all the way downriver from Gretna and not be seen?’
‘In three weeks? Aye, it could. The spring tides scour out that river a fair way upstream.’
‘So, she could even have been thrown from a bridge?’ It was Shona’s turn to study the map, placing her finger over the River Usk where it was crossed by the M6 motorway. There were cameras everywhere on that stretch. It was an unlikely choice to dispose of a body, even in the dead of night.
‘The lassie was wrapped up in green netting, wasn’t she? What if she didn’t pick it up in the firth?’ He pointed to a bridge crossing the River Sark in the outskirts of Gretna. ‘This wee industrial park here. It recycles fishing gear. Cockle bags, seine netting and the like. Plenty of kit lying about since the government got so concerned about low catch weights and banned some of the fishing. What if she was already wrapped up in it before she went in the water?’
‘You mean to disguise the body?’
‘Aye. Or to weight it down,’
‘It’s a possibility.’ Shona nodded slowly. ‘Worth checking out. Thanks, Tommy.’
Shona washed up the cups and hung them back on their hooks. ‘Becca been to see you this evening?’ she said as casually as she could, but Tommy looked at her shrewdly.
‘No. Nor your Robert neither.’ He slid the compass rose back into the case and spun the floating needle, checking its accuracy. ‘They haven’t gone far. They’ll find their way back, don’t you worry. You on call for us this weekend?’ Shona nodded. Tommy continued, ‘Go home, it’ll all be fine.’
Shona smiled her goodbye to him.
Outside the lifeboat station the tide was on the turn, creeping in over mud and cockleshell beach, lapping up beside the Wee Pier, a granite runway built in the eighteenth century by the Kirkness fisherfolk. Shona sat down on the ancient stones, her legs dangling over the side, toes reaching down to the newmade waves. Her breath came slower, her shoulders relaxed. Tommy was right. Rob would sort himself out, one way or another, and Becca was a teenager and as changeable as the weather. There were bound to be storms. When she got home Rob and Becca would probably be sitting side by side on the sofa hooting at some awful comedy, everything else forgotten.
Shona pulled out her phone. After hesitating for a moment, she scrolled past Becca and Rob’s numbers and made a call. It went straight to voicemail.
‘Hello, Dan, it’s DI Shona Oliver here. Can you meet me in Gretna first thing Monday morning, eight a.m.? I’ll text you the address. I’ve got a lead you might be interested in.’ She had time before her first meeting. No one at Cornwall Mount need know about her detour.
She dusted off her jeans and took a last look around the bay before heading back along the waterfront. The wind had dropped enough for a cloud of midges to gather round her. She swept her hand back and forward in front of her face.
Fifty metres from the Royal Arms she saw a flash of Becca’s red jacket moving between the tables outside the front of the pub. A car had pulled up, music spilling from its open windows. Becca walked to the driver’s side. A boy in the back leaned forward and handed her something. Shona saw her daughter’s laugh turn to a frown, then she threw the folded paper back. A hand shot out, grabbing her arm.
As Becca struggled
to free herself, Shona let out a shout. She broke into a run. The other rear-seat passenger turned, his mouth forming a perfect circle as he saw Shona sprinting along the seafront. The distance between them was rapidly diminishing – in three seconds she’d have them. Just as the car took off, Becca managed to jerk her arm free.
When Shona reached her daughter, she was rubbing her wrist and glaring after the vehicle already making the turn up the hill and out of the village.
‘Are you all right?’ Shona caught hold of her daughter. Becca was trembling, her long dark hair falling over her eyes, blinking back angry tears. She shook off her mother, walked to her table, picked up a glass of dark liquid and downed it in one.
‘It’s just Coke,’ she said indignantly to a horrified Shona before flopping down on the bench. ‘Want to check the glass?’
Shona took the glass from her outstretched hand. She fought the impulse to lift it to her nose and smell it. The table was littered with empty pint mugs and tumblers. Shona placed the glass amongst them and sat down next to Becca.
‘Some people from school were here,’ Becca said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘Paula, Callum’s girlfriend, lets us buy soft drinks and use the free Wi-Fi.’
‘It’s good you’re making friends,’ Shona said calmly, but her heart was still hammering against her ribs. ‘Who were those lads in the car?’ When Becca didn’t answer she continued, ‘Dad said you we’re being bullied.’
‘Dad’s a drama queen.’
Shona took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. ‘Are they from your school? What did they say to you?’
‘Just some crap joke. They’re losers. It doesn’t matter.’ Becca slumped down in her seat as if pressed by a heavy weight.
‘Becca, I hope you’d tell me if there was a problem.’
‘There’s no problem. It’s just…’ She sighed. ‘It’s hard to fit in sometimes. They’ve all got their friends. Had them since primary school and I’m just… different.’
The pain of being fifteen and not fitting in. Was that all it was? Becca kept up with few of her London friends, but she still wore the clothes she’d bought, second-hand, in Camden Market’s vintage shops and played an eclectic mix of rap, Bowie, Fleetwood Mac and Queen. Her friend Ellie had introduced her to some Glasgow bands, but she still must have seemed like an exotic blow-in to the local kids. They probably mocked her London accent, while secretly coveting her city swagger. Becca was also pretty enough to turn heads and trigger jealous rivalries. But the talent for trouble that had got her expelled in London was rooted deep in her personality and perhaps Becca’s refusal to conform to any set of norms was also causing problems with her new friends. And growing up was tough, no matter where you lived.
Shona tried hard not to let the things she’d seen and experienced as a police officer ebb into her family life, to resist her urgent desire to shield Becca from all that was difficult and frightening. But there had been times when she couldn’t protect herself, so how could she expect to protect her daughter? It was impossible, she knew, but that just made her want it all the more. Shona saw that Becca was watching her, the crease of a frown between her eyebrows. ‘Come on,’ she said, in an effort to disguise her dark thoughts, ‘let’s get you home. I’ve a treat for you.’
‘What?’ said Becca suspiciously.
‘How about some of my special hot chocolate?’
‘Mum, I’m not a kid.’ She fell into step behind her mother. After they’d gone a short distance she caught up, hooking her arm through Shona’s. ‘Okay, but only if there’s mini marshmallows.’
‘Deal,’ said Shona, squeezing her arm and smiling. ‘Sure you’re okay?’
Becca nodded and smiled back. If only all problems, Shona thought, could be solved with a sugary drink.
Rob wasn’t back when they got home. She put a pan of milk on the stove to warm and sent Becca upstairs to change into pyjamas. While she was gone Shona slipped her notebook from her bag and in neat, inked capitals wrote down the make, colour and registration number of the boys’ car. She’d mention them to traffic and if she saw them again in the village, she’d be having a serious word.
Chapter 6
After a quiet weekend with no lifeboat shouts and easy-going B&B guests, Shona pulled the Audi into the layby on the outskirts of Gretna where she’d arranged to meet DC Dan Ridley. Rob had come home Friday night after closing time and, following a fulsome apology, had fallen into a deep sleep and woken to a hangover that had lasted most of the weekend. She hoped he’d suffered sufficiently to mend his ways, but she doubted it.
A burger van was moored on the layby’s scrubby verge. Local workers, in drifts of threes and fours, tucked into their Monday morning breakfast rolls on the line of battered plastic garden furniture cast out in its wake. Dan, incongruous in his suit and tie, his hair gelled and light beard neatly trimmed, was drawing curious glances. He stood apart checking his phone in one hand and nursing a large polystyrene cup of tea in the other. Shona unlocked the nearside door.
‘Hop in!’ she called through the rolled-down window. He stood for a moment, uncertain how to accomplish this, before throwing his half-finished tea in a nearby bin and pocketing his phone. He opened the passenger door to the accompanying whistles and cat calls from the seated workmen telling him it must be his lucky day. Shona couldn’t help smirking at his obvious discomfort.
‘Morning, ma’am,’ he said reaching for his safety belt, the car’s acceleration already pressing him into the seat. They passed a squat sandstone inn advertising Sky Sports and offering Gretna Green wedding packages from £499. On the other side of the road was a small industrial estate, the grey metal blocks set against the silver of the Solway Firth behind them.
Ridley cleared his throat. ‘I hear you came up from London, ma’am?’
Shona indicated and took a right turn into the estate. ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she confirmed. It wasn’t a secret.
‘I’d like to work down there one day. Must be exciting at the Met.’
‘I wasn’t at the Met. I worked with City of London Police.’
‘Isn’t that all financial crime and public order?’
‘You mean serious and organised crime, international money laundering and counter-terrorism?’ Shona pulled up next to a yard, its chain-link fencing running down to the River Sark. Seeing his deflated expression, she smiled. ‘Don’t worry, that’s pretty much word for word what they said when they interviewed me for this job.’
When the DI’s position in Dumfries had come up she was the dark horse candidate. Plenty of internals were queueing for the post. By then, Rob had left the Milton McConnell banking group, Becca was in trouble at school and the need to move was pressing. Shona had pulled out all the stops to get the position. Detective Superintendent Malcolm ‘Mars Bar’ Munroe was kirk elder in the Church of Scotland and a teetotaller not known for his progressive outlook, but he had seen something he liked in Shona and championed her appointment. His curious nickname, she was told, was due to his habit of celebrating a result on a big case by handing out chocolate bars instead of buying a round of drinks for his staff.
Shona motioned Dan to follow her as she got out of the car. ‘Any idea why I’ve brought you here?’ She watched him take in the bridge, the overgrown riverbank, the jumbled piles of fishing gear spilling from the large, white plastic containers in the yard.
‘It’s amazing how many secluded spots there are in a town,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You think this is where she went in the water?’
‘I think it’s worth checking out. The lifeboat helm, whose judgement I trust, reckons a body deposited this far upstream could stay in the Solway Firth for weeks.’ She clicked the electronic lock on her car keys and zipped up her fleece jacket against the breeze.
‘How does it work?’ Dan asked. Shona frowned, not understanding. ‘The lifeboat and the job, being on call?’ he continued.
‘Well, I’m in Cornwall Mount from Monday to Friday daytime. Murdo, Ravi
and Kate are on a rota to cover call-outs on the weekend. Thankfully, we have one of the lowest crime rates in Scotland, so I’m rarely contacted at weekends. One of the few benefits of rank.’ She smiled. ‘When I’m in Kirkness I carry my RNLI pager and respond to shouts. We’re well supported, and a fairly quiet station. It works. Why? Tempted to join? Did Silloth try to sign you up last week?’
‘No chance. I get sea sick standing on a beach.’
‘Well, Admiral Nelson was a famous sufferer and it didn’t stop him. We may get you yet. Come on,’ she indicated the industrial unit, ‘let’s go and see if anyone’s home.’
The paint-peeled gates were propped open. A battered caravan sat in the far corner of the yard. Gulls wheeled above them but there were no other signs of life. Shona led the way between piles of fishing nets, their tumbled blue, green and orange flanks like the discarded skins of giant sea monsters. She thought again of the woman wrapped in their coils. Is this where she’d met her killer? It was certainly possible.
Dan crossed to the caravan, knocking and calling out a hello. A movement caught Shona’s eye and she turned to see a balding, middle-aged man in filthy overalls, the thighs shiny with wiped-off oil, edging up behind Dan from the blind side of the caravan. He was holding an axe handle high in his right hand.
‘Stop! Police! Drop your weapon!’ Shona yelled, her right hand flying to her belt. As a London City officer, she’d regularly carried a firearm and the reflex was still strong. Finding only empty air she grabbed her warrant card and held it towards the man. ‘Police! Drop it!’ Alerted by Shona’s shout, Dan darted back to where she stood and brandished his badge too.