by Lin Anderson
‘Spike left the blackhouse and went down to the water’s edge.
Ahead of him, the wall of rock was a looming shadow over the dark loch. Spike suddenly hated its grey vastness; the black water, the solemn emptiness. He should never have brought Esther here. He should never have entrusted her to this place. He picked up a stone and hurled it at the smooth water, breaking it into a hundred swelling circles, knowing all the time that he was to blame.
If he hadn’t had sex with her, she would still be here. His father was right. Always right.
‘You are an abomination before God!’ he screamed and the mountain returned his call.
ABOMINATION. ABOMINATION.
It was dawn before Spike crawled back indoors and lay on Esther’s bed, looking for her scent in the heather and the blanket. In his grief he didn’t see the note lying near the pillow. He didn’t find it until two hours later, when he opened his eyes to a world without Esther.
Spike almost wept with joy. Esther was alive. Esther had not run away from him. Esther had not drowned herself. Esther was alive. He scanned the note again. They must have taken her when he was at the Post Office. When he came back and she wasn’t there, he’d lost the plot, snatching the baby and taking him to that woman in the car. He hadn’t looked about. He hadn’t seen the note.
And all the time he’d been lying sleeping, they were waiting at the cave with Esther.
Spike grabbed some stuff and threw it in the backpack, then scattered the remains of the fire. As he left the blackhouse, he consoled himself with the thought that at least Duncan was okay with Mrs MacMurdo. All he had to do was give the bastards what they wanted, then they would let Esther go. He would get her the best of help. For that he needed money. And if the gear was that important to them, the bastards would pay.
When he reached the cliff, Spike looked about for any sign that Esther had been there. There was nothing, only a squashed cigarette packet stuck in a clump of heather. Spike shoved it in his pocket, going over the scenario that must have played out here after he’d left.
The track was a mass of churned mud and heather. What had happened to the woman to make her speed off like that?
Spike allowed himself a small hope that Esther had escaped in the car, then dismissed it. Luck had never been on his side. It was unlikely to be different this time.
The cave below smelt of damp tobacco smoke and the remains of a fire. Spike walked round, checking for any remnants of occupation. If he was right, the bastards had brought Esther here to bargain with him and something had sent them up the cliff path. The woman had taken fright and got out fast.
Spike tried not to think about Esther and how she must have felt when he didn’t turn up. He dragged his mind back to how the bastards had got there. There was only one way. By boat. And that meant there was another boat out there. A bigger one. And he would find it.
Spike went looking for his dinghy, relieved to find it still sitting in the shadows. He threw in his backpack and wrapped himself round the bow, using his anger to power the pull. The dinghy jerked free of the shingle and slid forward less than a metre.
He tried again, knowing that if it didn’t move, there was something wrong. The keel slithered another couple of inches then sunk deep into the shingle. Spike grabbed his backpack and flung it to the stern, then felt his way round the wet wood.
The gash was clean and about thirty centimetres long, tucked under the front bench, deep into the keel. Whatever they had used had hacked a long split in the wood, leaving it to swallow stones and sand.
Spike stood up, trying to stay calm, trying to think. The water was flat and grey, the light wind coming from the west. If they were operating from a boat, they would have to anchor somewhere round the island.
He went over the possibilities. Not Churchton Bay, not if they wanted to lie low. Oskaig Point further up the west coast? Spike tested the wind on his face. It was okay just now, but it was definitely on the rise. If it came strong from the north or the west, Oskaig would be the place to go. Either that, or north of the island at Eilean Fladday.
But he didn’t have a fucking boat, he reminded himself, all the time knowing where he could get one.
He had worked so hard to blank out that last night on the island. Blanking it out had saved his sanity. But now its images were sweeping in again like the vicious seventh wave on a shore. Spike let them wash over him and this time he didn’t look at his shaking hands. Whatever had happened that night was in the past, he told himself firmly. He couldn’t change things. There was only one thing that mattered now. Esther.
He walked up and down, trying to make up his mind. Even if he did decide to use his father’s boat, he had to get to it first. He looked up at the cliff and along the shoreline. The beach petered out after a hundred yards, meeting an abrupt headland on either side. There was no way round the coast. If he was going for the boat, he had to go home and through the tunnel. His mind went cold at the thought. When he’d spoken to Mrs MacMurdo the night before, she hadn’t mentioned his father, only said she still had a key to the cottage if he wanted to go there. She must have realised by the look of horror on his face that it was the last place he wanted to go.
Spike started the climb back up the cliff face. The wind was fresh now and hitting him hard. After the heat of anger in the cave, his body temperature was dropping, the parka hardly cutting the force of the wind. When he reached the top, he stopped to get his breath. As he turned to go, he spotted the big yacht. It was down near Rubha na’ Leac, slipping southwest towards the Narrows of Raasay.
Chapter 21
God knows where Mrs MacMurdo had found the highchair. It looked like a museum piece. The baby had obviously been changed and fed. He waved a rattle happily in Rhona’s direction as she opened the kitchen door.
‘You’ll be hungry,’ Mrs MacMurdo said. ‘I’ve cooked some breakfast. Once you’ve eaten we’ll sort out what to do next.’
Sorting out seemed to be something Mrs MacMurdo was good at.
‘This body the police are looking for,’ she continued, sitting down opposite Rhona. ‘Who do you think it belongs to?’
‘I don’t think it belongs to a Polish fisherman.’
Mrs MacMurdo poured the tea. ‘I was worried at first it might be Mr MacLeod, Donald’s father.’
‘Donald’s father?’
‘Until I got the postcard.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
Mrs MacMurdo fetched a card from behind the tea caddy. ‘This came about a week ago, from America.’ She showed Rhona. It was a picture of a Highland gathering, California style, with Highland dancing being done in the shade of a weeping willow under a clear blue sky.
‘Donald’s father was very keen on all things Scottish.’ Mrs MacMurdo sounded faintly embarrassed by this. ‘He always said he wanted to live in the old country, as he put it,’ she paused. ‘When he came to live in the cottage, we didn’t know he was married. Then his wife arrived with the boy, Donald. They kept very much to themselves. Donald was sent to the local primary school, but other children weren’t allowed to visit the house. There was a second baby, Calum, but he died. After that his poor wife lost her wits. They found her body at the foot of the cliffs near Brochel.’
‘What about Spike?’
‘He used to come to the Post Office for things. He never said much, but I liked the boy.’
‘When did he leave the island?’
‘The last time I saw him was when he came to post a letter to America for his father two months ago. I never saw either of them again until Donald appeared at my door.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
Mrs MacMurdo looked disapprovingly at Rhona.
‘Constable Johnstone checked the cottage, but Donald and his father often went away. It wasn’t unusual.’
She handed Rhona the postcard to read. On the back was a brief message about arriving safely and enjoying the Californian sun. There was a phone number and a request for Mrs Mac
Murdo to let him know when Donald came back to the cottage. Donald went to stay with an aunt on the mainland. We had an argument before he left. I want to make sure that he’s okay.
‘Did you phone?’
Mrs MacMurdo nodded. ‘Last night when you were out. A woman answered. She thanked me and said she would pass the message on to Donald’s father.’
‘Do you know if Spike’s father was a member of a group called ReAlba?’
‘ReAlba?’ Mrs MacMurdo looked startled.
‘It’s a racist organisation with Scottish links. Something to do with a clan calling themselves the Men of the West.’
‘Sounds like some American nonsense to me.’ Mrs MacMurdo rose to pull the kettle onto the hot plate. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘There was a tattoo on the foot found in the fishing net, just above the ankle. This is a copy.’
The edges of the printout were damp from the pocket of her coat but the swirling Celtic image was clear enough. Mrs MacMurdo looked at it closely. Rhona had the strong impression she was at war with herself over this one.
‘You’ve seen it before?’
‘No,’ Mrs MacMurdo said firmly. ‘No I haven’t.’ She lifted the baby from the highchair. ‘I’ll have to open the Post Office.’
‘Do you think Spike might have taken Esther to his home?’ The thought had just occurred to Rhona.
Mrs MacMurdo looked concerned. ‘I don’t think so, but it might be worth taking a look.’ She fished in a drawer and handed Rhona a key. ‘It’s a bit out of the way. You can drive as far as Brochel then you have to walk from there.’ She fetched a map. ‘It’s better to go by boat, but if you’ve got a good head for heights, a path goes down the escarpment here.’ She pointed to a spot south of the cleared shielings of Screapadal.
Rhona took the map. I’ll try and phone when I get there.’
Mrs MacMurdo nodded and propped Duncan over her shoulder. ‘I’d rather we didn’t get the police in until we have to,’ she said quietly. ‘Not until I’ve spoken to Donald properly … in case he’s in some sort of trouble.’ She smiled apologetically at Rhona. ‘Constable Johnstone is not a local man, you understand.’
Rhona understood perfectly.
She repacked her small rucksack, trying not to think of steep paths down escarpments. If only she could believe her own lies about not being bothered by heights.
She checked her mobile and found a text message from Lynne Franklin suggesting if she was free she should come stateside for a week and visit ReGene properly. If she liked the company, they could talk business.
And bring the boyfriend. Plenty opportunities in California for a good jazz musician. Lynne.
Rhona sat down on the bed. Did Lynne Franklin know she was currently on leave, and why? If she was in Scotland, and reading the newspapers …
Even contemplating joining ReGene made Rhona guilty enough to phone the lab. But it wasn’t Chrissy who answered. The call went through to the switchboard and she got George instead.
‘George, can you put me through to Chrissy?’ she asked. ‘The direct line doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘I’ll put you straight through to Pathology, Dr MacLeod.’
‘Pathology? Why?’
But George was gone and in his place was the beep of the Pathology phone.
‘Dr MacLeod.’ The normally bland voice was tinged with annoyance. ‘So good of you to get in touch.’
‘What?’ she said, Sissons was making no sense.
‘We have been trying to get hold of you for the last twenty-four hours. You don’t answer your phone or email.’
‘I’m on leave.’
‘Paid leave, Dr MacLeod, which means you continue to make yourself available to the Forensic Services department.’
The guy was an anal-retentive, pathological pathologist.
‘Pardon?’ Dr Sissons said, hearing Rhona’s mutterings.
‘Nothing. What’s all the urgency about?’
Dr Sissons cleared his throat. ‘The police have evidence to suggest that the substances found at the club were brought in by an outside party.’
‘So I’m no longer a threat to the integrity of the department?’
‘If you recall, I never suggested you were.’
That was true.
‘There has been another incident. Another piece of what might be our body has been located …’
‘Where?’ said Rhona, knowing it had only been a matter of time.
‘A small island off Raasay. Eilean Fladday, I think it’s called. Do you know it?’
He had pronounced it wrongly but, ‘Yes,’ Rhona said.
‘The area is under the Northern Constabulary, but they have requested our presence in view of the possibility that it is part of our body.’
So it was our missing body now, when only a couple of days ago she had been told to stay away from anything to do with the case. Rhona wondered if Dr Sissons had cleared this latest development with Phillips, but she decided not to ask.
‘Do you think you could get up there?’ he said as if it was the ends of the earth.
‘How soon?’ Rhona said, knowing she could get within sight of the island in a matter of an hour. Whether the causeway that linked it to Raasay was above water depended on the state of the tides.
‘Apparently they’ve put it in the cold store of the local fish farm so it should be alright until you get to it.’
‘Has a pathologist seen it?’
‘No. The Procurator Fiscal wants it sent here, but I thought it would be better if you saw it in situ.’
‘How did you know where I was?’
‘A calculated guess. After all you are from that area; and no, your assistant did not inform me.’
Rhona hated the selfsatisfaction in his voice. ‘Chrissy didn’t know. And in answer to your question, I can be there in four hours.’
‘That long?’
‘Yes, that long,’ she lied. ‘Who do I speak to when I get there?’
‘A Constable Johnstone, I believe.’
Rhona rang off. There was only one road to the north of the island. She would stop off on her way there and take a look at Spike’s house. Before she left, she checked her email. There were three messages from Chrissy all saying the same thing.
Sissons is going mad looking for you. The foot and hand match. They’ve found something else and they want , YOU to look at it! I haven’t mentioned IT yet. How many years do you get for withholding evidence?
Rhona waved at Mrs MacMurdo as she got in the car. The child was sitting inside the Post Office in an ancient pram. Rhona wondered what story Mrs MacMurdo was telling her regulars about how she had acquired the baby.
Although she already knew she had her forensic bag with her, Rhona checked in the boot of the car before she drove away. And she had called Dr Sissons an anal-retentive?
Dun Caan rose like a truncated Fujiama, the lower slopes hidden in a trail of mist moving in from the east. The road was deserted except for herself and a jeep. At first Rhona thought it must be a local who would want to overtake but when she slowed down, it slowed down too, disappearing behind a curve in the road. She didn’t see it again until she dropped down towards Brochel and caught her first glimpse of the fairytale castle atop the sheer outcrop of rock.
The jeep didn’t follow her down to the shore but instead continued north towards Arnish. Rhona was relieved. She would rather she didn’t have company.
The mist was skirting the shore, a grey-white line dividing land and sea. Rhona put on her walking boots and took her waterproof from the back seat. If the path was too steep or the mist got too bad she would simply turn back for the car, she told herself firmly. But the mist kept to the shoreline. As she left the beach and walked towards the woodland, Rhona began to relax, allowing herself a moment of pleasure over her reinstatement. If the police had decided the drugs were brought into the club from outside, that might mean Sean was in the clear. When she got back to the Post Office, she would call him.
She would return to Glasgow tomorrow and complete her report to include the tattoo.
The only problem left was Spike and Esther.
If she was right and the men who climbed the cliff the night before had something to do with Spike, she didn’t have the heart to tell Mrs MacMurdo. Not yet, anyway. The police might believe that the drugs had been brought into the club from outside but that didn’t mean Spike and Esther had nothing to do with it.
The castle had disappeared behind her and Rhona was now in thick woodland. Once or twice she heard red deer moving through the undergrowth, but caught no sight of the sleek dark bodies that shared the woods with her.
The ruined shielings appeared through the mist on the other side of the trees; broken skeletons of stone, as dismembered as the body she sought to fit together.
Rhona stopped, remembering Andre’s face when he told her of the scattered stones, all that was left of his origins. It would be hard to stand in this place and not feel the pull of the past. This is what organisations like ReAlba played on, these strings of memory and hurt and loss and … maybe even revenge?
Beyond the deserted village, the path grew weak, skirting the long stretch of Druim an Aonaich like a faint snail’s trail across the hillside.
‘There is nothing marked on the map, but there is a path. Keep walking until you see the large stone. You can’t miss it. It is tall, maybe ten feet, but it has a round hole in the centre, eye height. They say if you look through the hole you will see the pirate ship of Iain Garbh sailing back to Brochel Castle with his holds filled with gold,’ Mrs MacMurdo had laughed. ‘Fools’ stories about fools’ gold. Good for the tourists.’
The reddish stone rose above the low mist that began to circle Rhona. She suppressed the impulse to look through the stone’s eye and searched instead for the path that cut down towards the sea.
‘The path makes an abrupt turn, disappearing through some whin. Most people don’t realise it’s there.’
If it hadn’t been for Mrs MacMurdo’s directions, Rhona would have assumed the path had dwindled to its natural end. She pushed back the whin, breathing in the yellow coconut smell. On the other side the path narrowed. The mist here was thin, its creeping presence broken by each outcrop of rock.