by Lin Anderson
The water was calm between Raasay and Apor Crossan, the long split of Loch Torridon in the distance. It was little wonder Spike’s father chose such a place to hide from the world.
She stopped halfway down and peered over the edge, clinging to the rockface on her right. The cliff bulged, hiding whatever was below. Rhona hesitated, nervous that if she went on and the mist thickened, this was her only way back. But she was so close, she couldn’t go back now.
The cottage sat on a narrow stretch of grass. A stream ran past, tumbling down the last ten feet of cliff to plunge into a sea without a shore. Already the gathering mist was enveloping the cottage so that Rhona could not make out its exact length. The front door faced the sea, opening onto a porch. Inside, she could see the usual wellie boots and assorted outdoor gear hanging on a set of pegs.
The emptiness of the house echoed round her as she let herself in and walked through the hall to the kitchen with its black range and tiny window facing the Sound. It made Rhona think of Spike and the lonely edge in his voice as he’d told her how he never wanted to stay in her poncy flat. She remembered how angry she had been when she discovered Sean had taken in Spike and Esther. How she didn’t want them in her home, using her things.
Now she was the intruder in Spike’s home.
She walked from the kitchen into the living room. A pile of peat ash lay in the fireplace. A door in the opposite wall opened into a bedroom which had obviously belonged to a boy. On a shelf above the bed, a row of Star Wars figures stood in combat mode beside some well-thumbed story books. The room was neat and tidy and completely unlived in. Spike had not been here. No one had been in the cottage for a long time.
Back in the sitting room, a narrow staircase beside the fireplace led to another bedroom with a single bed and a child’s cot. From a small dressing table, a dark-haired woman smiled out at her, one arm round a boy of about twelve, the other holding a baby upright on her knee. Rhona glanced round the meagre little room. Wherever Spike’s father slept, she didn’t think it was in here.
An open skylight let in waves of damp air. Rhona climbed onto a chair to shut it, thinking of the rain that was never far away, but the catch was broken and the window only flapped back against the roof.
She stuck her head out to check on the mist, hoping the rising wind meant it had cleared. The sky was thick with rain clouds but the mist had dispersed and she could now see all round the cottage, the rock wall behind, and the sea beyond. It would be a good time to look for the cave that held the boathouse. Everything had to be brought in by boat, Mrs MacMurdo had said. Even the peat for the fire.
Looking back up the steep path, Rhona wasn’t surprised. She made one last attempt at fastening the skylight but the catch was snapped in two. She wondered if there was something she could use to tie the window shut. If the rain came in, it would soak everything in the room.
If the rain came in?
Rhona jumped down and felt around the floor. There had been a downpour the previous night The rug was chilly to the touch but bone dry. That meant the catch had been broken recently. She climbed back up and examined the frame, looking for the telltale signs she should have seen the first time. The left side of the frame had a dent in it the size of a thumb print. Someone had jemmied the window open.
The wind was humming along the roof now, throwing her hair in her face. As Rhona climbed down, the draught played with the bedroom door, slamming it shut. The front door joined in, playing the same tune. Rhona stood tense and still, listening hard. The cottage descended back into silence. She started down the stair. The room below was as empty as before.
If someone had broken the catch to get in, they hadn’t been interested in any of the rooms she’d visited, which only left the boathouse.
‘You can get to the boathouse through a tunnel under the store room. The cottage was built there because of all the caves. There’s supposed to be a subterranean tunnel all the way from the loch to the sea but that’s probably just an old wives’ tale,’ Mrs MacMurdo had told her.
The store room was off the kitchen and Rhona had to duck under a low lintel to avoid banging her head. The room smelled of earth and damp and animals but looked just as empty and undisturbed as all the others. The trapdoor was in the corner. Here the straw was brushed back and the dust held the criss-cross of footprints, new or old, Rhona couldn’t tell. She pulled at the ring and the sound and smell of the sea rushed in as the trapdoor rose.
Rhona peered down. Steps curved away into the darkness. She stumbled against the wall twice, scraping her hand on the rough sandstone. Rhona thought about the torch in the boot of the car and cursed herself for her second stupidity of the day. She should have treated this visit to the cottage like a forensic job and come better prepared. There might be a torch in the kitchen but she didn’t feel like going back now. If the tunnel led to the boathouse and the boathouse had access to the open sea, there had to be daylight at the end of it.
If she had nursed any notion that Spike’s missing father had been Dr Fitzgerald MacAulay, it had evaporated. Mrs MacMurdo had declared she’d never heard of a scientist called Dr Fitzgerald MacAulay and when asked about Spike’s father had informed Rhona that she thought he was a writer. It had sounded like a guess. Well-off people who came to the islands to get away from it all were either there to play at crofting, Mrs MacMurdo said, or else they were writers. Rhona had the strong impression she was not fond of either group.
But if Spike’s father was a writer, he must have taken all evidence of it back with him to America. She hadn’t even found a bedroom that might have been his, let alone a study to work in.
Sudden daylight stunned Rhona’s eyes into temporary blindness. The tunnel had taken a final abrupt turn and deposited her in a cave the size of a small theatre. The walls rose high to an arched roof whose distant details Rhona couldn’t make out. At her feet was a narrow jetty with a couple of metal rings sunk into the stone. The cave could have given shelter to at least two boats, but the water that lapped the jetty’s edge was empty.
Rhona sat down on a ledge, surprised by her own disappointment. She had no idea what she had expected to find. Certainly not this nothingness. She picked up a pebble and threw it aimlessly across the water, anticipating a crack as it hit the opposite wall. Seconds later she heard a dull thud like an echo at the bottom of a well.
She got up and walked along the jetty, her eye following the shadow of the opposite wall. If there was an opening over there, she couldn’t see it. She went back to her original position and felt about for another pebble.
This attempt brought it ricocheting back at her. Another disappeared into the opening, making a dull echoing sound as it hit some far wall.
The place was a mass of caves, that’s what Mrs MacMurdo had said. Big ones, small ones. The hole in the wall was most likely a dead end, Rhona told herself. She was focusing on the opposite side, convincing herself she could see a metal ring much like the ones on the jetty, when she heard the distant sound of an engine.
Chapter 22
The door buzzer sounded as irritated as Chrissy felt. If Sean was there, he wasn’t answering. When a voice shouted at her in the middle of the third long buzz it caught Chrissy by surprise.
‘It’s Chrissy, Mrs Harper, I’m sorry to bother you, I was looking for Sean. Do you know if he’s in?’
‘Oh he’s in alright,’ Mrs Harper wasn’t amused. ‘He’s been playing music since early morning.’
‘Could I come up and knock on the door?’
‘You can come up, but it won’t do any good. He won’t answer.’
By the time she reached the second floor, the offending music was hitting Chrissy loud and strong. Trad Jazz wasn’t easy on the ear at nine o’clock on a Monday morning. Mrs Harper was waiting for Chrissy on the landing with her I told you so face on. Chrissy banged on Rhona’s door.
‘I’ve done that already,’ Mrs Harper told her.
Chrissy flapped the letterbox instead.
; ‘I’ve tried that too.’
Chrissy pushed the letterbox open and tried to peer in.
‘What’s that smell?’ Mrs Harper said, wrinkling her nose in disgust, imagining a kitchen filling up with rotting food and unwashed dishes.
But it wasn’t that kind of smell.
A seed of panic took root in Chrissy’s stomach. She turned to Mrs Harper, trying to keep her voice steady.
‘Have you got a key?’
‘Of course I have, but only to water the plants when they’re both away.’
‘Please get it.’
Mrs Harper looked aghast.
‘We can’t just barge in if Sean’s there.’
‘If Sean’s in there, he’s either gone fucking deaf or something’s rendered him unconscious.’
Mrs Harper flushed and her hand fluttered to her throat.
‘Please could you just go and get the key?’ Chrissy insisted.
Rhona’s hall was empty and cold. The smell was distinctive, sweet and sickly. Chrissy regretted having sworn, but Mrs Harper had already forgiven the outburst and was nodding her encouragement.
Chrissy tried the bedroom first, praying Sean was dead drunk and fast asleep, but the bed was empty, the covers tossed to the floor. The place was a pigsty. Chrissy abandoned the bedroom and opened the living room door. The stink made her gag.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mrs Harper quavered anxiously from down the hall.
Chrissy knew whatever lay dead inside had been that way for a while. She went in and shut the door behind her. The last thing she wanted was Mrs Harper coming in and seeing the source of that smell.
The body was behind the sofa. Sun beating through the glass had accelerated decomposition, separating fur from flesh. The cat’s head had been severed from its body.
Chrissy almost sobbed with relief, hating herself for being pleased. Pleased it was the bloody cat and not Sean. Feeling like shite because it was Rhona’s cat. Her poor defenceless bloody cat.
‘Chrissy!’ Mrs Harper called.
‘It’s alright,’ Chrissy called back. ‘Rhona’s cat’s dead, that’s all.’
That’s all! ‘Could you phone for the police, Mrs Harper? Ask for DI Wilson and tell him there’s been a breakin at Dr MacLeod’s flat.’
Mrs Harper bustled off. Chrissy ranged through the flat, almost sobbing with fury. In the spare bedroom, the fact that the mess was the result of a breakin was more obvious. The contents of drawers had been tipped onto the floor. On one wall, a faint yellow arc. It smelt of piss.
Chrissy sat in the hall and waited for the police car to arrive. She heard its siren moan outside. Too late to do any good. She had made Mrs Harper retreat to her nice civilised flat to have a stiff sherry and worry about what the world was coming to.
‘What the fuck?’ Bill said as he pushed open the front door and the smell hit him.
‘Some bastard’s broke in and killed Rhona’s cat.’
Chrissy bit her bottom lip as Bill went through to the living room. She heard him swear again. This time he could have taught even her a thing or two about cursing.
They had moved to the cafe-bar down the street to get away from the stink. Bill was waiting for his coffee to congeal the way he liked it. Chrissy was already halfway down a glass of something stronger.
‘And what is Rhona doing on Raasay?’
Chrissy hadn’t seen Bill Wilson this mad for a long time.
‘First of all, I didn’t know she had gone there until she spoke to Dr Sissons. And remember, she does come from Skye. Maybe she just went home for a visit.’ Chrissy knew it wouldn’t wash. By the look on Bill’s face, it didn’t.
Chrissy gave in. ‘She went because of the tattoo.’
‘Tattoo?’ Bill looked exasperated.
‘Rhona told you she thought there was a faint mark on the foot, just above the ankle? She took a photograph and gave the image to the computing department. They did their enhancing thing on it and came up with this.’
She handed Bill a copy of the printout.
Bill stared at it. ‘Why wasn’t I told about this before?’
‘If you remember,’ Chrissy said angrily, ‘Rhona was taken off the case. Sissons didn’t want to hear anything she said. The MOD told her to stay clear and then declared the foot belonged to a Polish fisherman, for God’s sake. Even you told Rhona to keep out of it.’
‘Looks like she didn’t take my advice,’ Bill said quietly. ‘And Rhona thinks the tattoo means membership of this group called ReAlba?’
Chrissy nodded. ‘Rhona met them at a highland games in California. She said their literature was racist. They were calling for a genetic war against non-whites,’ she paused. ‘And remember the riots in LA? Rhona thought the protesters were against genetic engineering but later she realised some people were protesting against G-bombs, this century’s equivalent of nuclear weapons.’
Bill looked puzzled so Chrissy explained. ‘You target the people who have genes you don’t like. Black skin, yellow skin. Blue eyes. The virus only kills people with that particular strand in their DNA.’
Chrissy watched as the implications dawned on Bill.
‘But how has that, or the racist crap, got anything to do with body parts being washed up on the west coast of Scotland?’
‘That’s what Rhona wanted to find out,’ Chrissy said.
Bill looked thoughtful. ‘They’re sending an RAF helicopter to pick up the latest body part and bring it south.’
Chrissy raised her eyebrows. ‘Important treatment for a factory-ship worker.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking.’
They both fell silent.
‘You don’t think the breakin is anything to do with this ReAlba lot, do you?’ Chrissy asked.
Bill shook his head. ‘No, I think it’s closer to home than that.’ He paused. ‘Joe Maley’s out.’
The name hung between them like a foul miasma, worse than the dead cat. Joe Maley, Glasgow’s answer to the Godfather, minus the good looks.
‘You warned Rhona?’ Chrissy said, knowing by his face he hadn’t.
‘I was planning to tell her next time I saw her.’
It was difficult to get angrier than she already felt, but Chrissy managed. ‘You know how that bastard hates Rhona.’
Bill didn’t answer. Instead he pulled a photo from his pocket.
‘Recognise her?’
The photo was crap. God knows how many pockets it had lived in. But Chrissy knew the pale face and big eyes even if she couldn’t hear the voice.
‘It’s the singer Sean hired. The one I found ga-ga in the toilets. The one O’Brien packed off to the mental ward.’
‘Maley’s looking for her.’
‘Why?’
‘She was his girlfriend before he was sent down.’
‘So that’s where I saw her before. In the courtroom.’
Chrissy didn’t like the scenario that was forming in her mind. ‘If Maley thought Rhona’s boyfriend was screwing his girl …’
‘Bingo.’
‘Maybe it was Maley that took Esther from the hospital,’ Chrissy suggested.
Bill shook his head. ‘A woman who works at the bus station says she definitely saw this girl get on a coach going north. She was with a youth and a baby.’
‘You think Esther has a baby?’
‘If she has, it’s not Maley’s,’ Bill said. ‘He’s been inside too long.’
‘God, I hope he doesn’t think it’s Sean’s.’
‘Maley doesn’t need an excuse. He’s a psychopath. And if he’s back on speed …’
Bill didn’t have to finish. Chrissy had seen speed freaks close up. She had one in her own family. Her brother Joseph had relied on her for his drink money, then discovered speed made him run faster and longer. She had watched him descend from a wheedling pain in the neck to a jumpy paranoid whose anger exploded at the least provocation. When he disappeared to London, she hadn’t mourned his going.
Maley pumped up on speed would be as
unpredictable and vicious as they come.
‘Where did Esther go?’
“The bus was heading for Skye.’
‘Great,’ said Chrissy.
Chapter 23
Rhona willed the approaching boat to chug straight on past. She had no desire to be found in the cave by anyone who might be using Spike’s father’s mooring and have to think up an explanation as to why she was there.
Unless it was Spike?
The engine noise had reached the entrance. Now it was suddenly all around her, echoing off the cavern walls. The engine spluttered to a halt, leaving only the . sound of water lapping the stone edge at her feet and the distant cries of gulls.
Rhona resisted the temptation to call Spike’s name and waited as the boat swung silently round the corner, blocking the entrance and cutting the light.
It was in far enough now for her to see the shadow of the occupant. Too tall for Spike. The man swore as his head hit a dip in the roof, knocking the boat sideways and sending waves to break over her feet.
Rhona was poised, ready to run back up the tunnel. If she was quick enough, she could bolt the trapdoor before any pursuer reached it.
The man looked up from rubbing his head and caught sight of her. It took her a moment to register who he was, because he was the last person she expected to see. By the surprised expression on his face he felt the same way about her.
‘Rhona. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
Andre Frith was dressed in oilskins. His face, reddened by the force of the wind and weather, no longer wore the charm of Santa Monica. She suspected he was seriously annoyed at her presence but working hard to cover it.
He manoeuvred the boat alongside and threw her a rope. She slipped it through a metal ring and knotted it, then stood back to let him step ashore.