“Our lovely postman, the one I usually refer to as Evil Bastard, woke me. And I needed aspirins. They’re over there if you want some.”
“Just water. And coffee.” Lucy took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with cold water from the tap and drank it straight down. “How come I’m so thirsty when I drank so much last night?”
“Ha, ha.” Bev poured her friend a coffee and then handed the letter to her.
“What’s this?” Lucy’s eyes widened and she let out a shriek that had Bev wincing. “Woo-hoo! You’ve got the job, Bev. You’ve only gone and got the bloody job!”
Bev laughed at her friend’s enthusiasm. “I certainly have.”
“Oh. My. God.” Lucy read the letter again, more carefully this time. “What are you going to do?”
“That’s easy. I’m going to accept it or turn it down. Yeah, one of those.” She laughed at herself. “I honestly don’t know.”
She and Lucy had been debating this issue ever since Bev had been for the interview, but this was different. It was easy to say what she would or wouldn’t do when it was all speculation. Now that they’d actually—unbelievably—offered her the job, she didn’t know what to do.
It was all so fast. She’d expected to wait weeks before she heard anything.
“What a pity this didn’t come yesterday. We’d have had an excuse to get legless.” Lucy smiled ruefully.
“We managed without an excuse.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want breakfast?” Bev asked.
“I probably want a stomach pump.”
Their girls’ nights in were rare these days, but Luke had spent the night with his grandmother, and Lucy’s boyfriend was on a course in Nottingham. The temptation to enjoy a long gossip over DVDs, wine and Chinese takeaway had proved too great. They’d had enormous fun too. It was the morning-after feeling that was the killer.
“So what am I going to do, Luce?”
“I don’t know. It’s a terrific opportunity. I mean—fancy being offered a head’s position. The salary is fantastic.” She pulled a face. “It’ll be a long way to go for our girlie sessions though. And what will Dylan say?”
“What can he say?”
Lucy laughed at that. “A lot!”
She was right, of course. Dylan had already made his views known and he didn’t like the idea of her whisking Luke off to Lancashire.
“He thinks I’m suffering from an early menopause,” she confided with a smile.
Perhaps he was right. All Bev knew was that she wanted change in her life. Work-wise, if she stayed where she was, she was going nowhere. Relationship-wise—well, that was a disaster from start to end.
“I suppose I’ll have to turn it down,” she said.
“You’ll have to do what you think is right. You have to think about Dylan and Luke too.”
“I know.”
Bev recognised the look on Lucy’s face as her friend added, “You and Dylan—you belong together, you know that.”
That’s what everyone said, and she didn’t want to think about Dylan right now. It was more fun to bask in the pleasure of being offered the best job in the world.
“You have a tough decision to make,” Lucy said. “You can’t accept or turn down this job until you’ve decided what you’re going to do about Dylan.”
Bev smiled at that. “You make him sound like vermin. Should I put poison down or use a humane trap?”
“You love the bloke,” Lucy said simply. “I can’t see why it’s so difficult to sort things out.”
“Ha.” Bev refilled her coffee cup. “I keep remembering what he was like when I threw him out. I couldn’t have tolerated another minute in his company. Moody, depressed, finding fault with everything, drinking too much—honest, if I hadn’t got rid, I would have had to kill him.”
Lucy shrugged at that. “Yeah, but he was going through a rough time of it.”
“God, and now you sound like his mum. Everyone forgets that it wasn’t exactly easy for me and Luke either.”
“Ah. So you want sympathy.”
Bev looked at her friend in amazement. “Of course I don’t.”
“Are you sure?” Lucy shrugged. “It seems to me that you want the world to say good old you for going through all that, for having a husband with a promising career that you could be proud of and ending up with a man who, through no fault of his own, lost all that.”
“That’s crap.”
“You could have it all now, Bev. Dylan’s working again—okay, so he’s never going to be a detective sergeant again—but he’s working. He’s got his purpose in life back. And, of course, there’s the small fact that he loves you and Luke to death.” She took a big swallow of coffee. “And given that you love him, it all seems fairly peachy to me.”
“Peachy?” Bev giggled at that, but that was probably due to last night’s wine.
“Yeah, peachy.”
“We slept together, you know.”
Lucy almost choked. “You and Dylan? Slept as in had rampant sex? When?”
“Yes, yes, and the night I got back from Edinburgh. I was drunk. We fell asleep on the sofa, then I woke up and it was uncomfortable. I said we should go to bed and the next minute—well, the next minute we were making love.”
“Wow.”
Bev laughed at the surprise on her friend’s face.
“Was it good?” Lucy asked.
Bev grinned. “It was freaking awesome.”
She could say what she liked, but she knew she couldn’t let Dylan go. She couldn’t bear the thought of him not being in her life. They were going to have to work something out. She’d have to welcome him home and hope he didn’t turn into the morose, moody git she’d thrown out.
“Maybe,” Lucy said, “this new job is exactly what you need. Dylan’s last two jobs—”
“His only two real jobs.”
“And they’ve both been in Lancashire. It proves there’s work there and he seems to be making a bit of a name for himself. Perhaps he’d be happy to live there. The three of you—you could all start again.”
That thought had gone through Bev’s mind. She’d made a right hash of this so-called separation, she knew that, and she also knew that, if she and Dylan got back together, it would have to be permanent. It wouldn’t work if it was one of those “see how it goes” things.
The thought of moving all the way to Lancashire without Dylan—no matter how exciting the new job offer—was terrifying.
“I’ll sleep on it tonight,” she said.
“Does the job really appeal to you?”
“Yes. It’s a dream school, the staff are young, energetic, enthusiastic, the kids all seemed—normal. Yes, it’s really exciting.”
“What would you do if it was in London?”
“My written acceptance would have been in the mail by now.”
“Sounds to me like you have your answer then.”
She didn’t. She had more questions than answers. A lot more.
Chapter Forty
By Tuesday night, Dylan was thoroughly disheartened.
There were worse places to waste time than Orkney, though. Its beauty had surprised him. People smiled, almost smugly, as they enjoyed a slower pace of life than their mainland counterparts. The sea sparkled like a bed of diamonds in the sunlight. History was everywhere. It was a different world.
The long hours of daylight were an added bonus. No doubt the islanders paid the price in winter but, at this time of year, darkness didn’t arrive at all.
It was a special place, but it wasn’t where he needed to be. He’d spent almost a week here and it was time wasted. He had to be on the wrong track.
He was catching the ferry back to the mainland first thing in the morning and then—well, hopefully inspiration would strike and suggest his next course of action. He couldn’t give up. Wouldn’t give up.
After a couple of pints in the hotel’s bar, he wandered down to the harbour where two men were busy painting a small f
ishing boat. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Dylan walked along the path and leaned over the railings to shout to them.
“Hi! I wonder if you can help me.”
They straightened and then climbed off their boat and over the railings.
“I’m looking for a man named Mattie,” Dylan said. “I believe he sometimes visits Orkney. Does the name mean anything to you?”
It obviously didn’t.
“How about these?” He showed them the well-worn photos of Sam and Rob Hunt, and Alan Roderick. “Do you recognise anyone?”
Dylan waited for the usual apologetic shaking of heads.
“I’ve seen him before.” One of the men pointed at the photo of Roderick.
“Oh?” Dylan tried not to get his hopes up. It was possible that news of Roderick’s murder had come this far north.
“Aye.”
Dylan waited to see if the furrowed brow, the finger tapping against the chin would bring forth anything. It seemed doubtful.
Suddenly the brow cleared.
“Got him!” He was clearly pleased with himself. “I saw him in Glasgow with Sullivan.” He turned to his mate. “You know Sullivan? Got the place on Westray. A place on Hoy, too, that he’s going to do up.”
“I know him,’ his companion said with obvious distaste.
“Aye, a miserable sod. English. No offence, mate.”
“None taken,” Dylan said.
“He came up here about five years ago. Don’t know much about him because he keeps himself to himself. A real loner. He tows a horsebox. Once, my daughter asked me to lift her up. Horse mad she is. It was empty and he had a right go at me. Told me to mind my own business. Terrible language he used. In front of a five-year-old too.” He handed the photo of Roderick to Dylan. “That’s where I’ve seen your man. In Glasgow. With Sullivan.”
“Thanks.” The name Sullivan meant nothing to Dylan, but Roderick could easily have been seen in Glasgow. “You say this man Sullivan lives on the island of Westray?”
“Yes, but he’s probably over on Hoy at the moment. I saw him towing his horsebox on to the ferry yesterday. Someone said he’d got an old rundown cottage there that he’s going to do up. Mind, there’s a lot of rumours fly around about incomers.”
“Thanks for your help,” Dylan said. “I appreciate it.”
Some Orcadians, Dylan had discovered, weren’t fans of the English, the incomers as they called them. In a way, Dylan could understand their concerns. They lived a quiet, peaceful life on the islands, had for centuries, and the incomers arrived from England to settle and enjoy that lifestyle. They found the life too quiet though and often tried to change things.
He’d been to Westray and no one he’d spoken to had known a man called Mattie or recognised anyone in his photos. Then, though, he hadn’t had the name Sullivan to offer them.
He’d tried to visit Hoy yesterday, but there had been no room on the ferry and, as the population only numbered about four hundred, he’d decided not to bother.
He walked back to his hotel, his mind racing with possibilities. Perhaps he was on to something after all. He had no idea exactly what he might be on to, but he was in a far more positive mood.
The following morning, still feeling optimistic, Dylan cancelled his booking for the mainland and drove onto the small inter-island ferry bound for Hoy. He stood on the deck for the forty-minute crossing with the brisk wind whipping his face and the sun making him squint.
He’d had the good sense to call at the tourist information office and pick up a map of Hoy as well as a couple of brochures dotted with photos of Pictish ruins and comical puffins.
While he was on the island, he’d make the short journey to Rackwick. If the brochure was to be believed, a three-mile walk would give him the perfect view of the Old Man of Hoy. He’d like to see if it was as challenging a climb as Jim had led him to believe.
For now, though, he had more important matters on his mind.
First, he drove the other way to the small village of Longhope. He went in the shop, bought himself crisps and chocolate, and showed his photographs to the girl at the till.
She studied them closely, then shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve never seen these people.”
“Would you know a man named Sullivan? I believe he owns a property on the island?”
“English, is he?”
“Yes, I believe he is.”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
Dylan wondered if she would have known him if he’d told her he was Orcadian.
“I gather he tows a horsebox,” he said.
“No, it means nothing to me.”
“What about a man called Mattie? Does the name ring a bell?”
“Mattie? No. Sorry.”
He showed his photos to half a dozen more people, drove round looking for horseboxes, then left Longhope and drove to Lyness. Nothing. No one recognised the people in his photos, no one gave so much as a flicker of interest when he mentioned the names Sullivan and Mattie, and he didn’t spot a single horsebox.
He drove on to Rackwick where the scenery grew even more spectacular. The drive took him along fairly good roads with plenty of passing places where sheep crossed with no heed to traffic. Not that there was much traffic. In the last five miles, Dylan had met one lone tractor.
Hills dropped steeply to the sea. About twenty seals basked on rocks. A few crofters’ cottages looked as if they hadn’t been lived in for decades. The island was largely unpopulated, covered in open moorland, and there were few signs of life. As the brochure had told him, Orkney boasted more sheep than people. He didn’t even see a horse, never mind a horsebox.
He parked his car at Rackwick and walked down to a beach that was sided by tall sandstone cliffs. Apart from a lone seal who put its head above the water, and a noisy gathering of oystercatchers, it was deserted.
He set off up the hill, following a well-worn path that should lead him to the best viewpoint for the Old Man of Hoy. Perhaps he should have packed sensible walking boots, but he hadn’t planned on being a tourist.
The peaty earth was spongy underfoot and, after a while, the walk levelled off. Birds, mostly gulls and skuas, circled overhead, perhaps warning him to keep away from their nests. There was nothing manmade in sight. No houses, no fences, and certainly no horseboxes.
Dylan was soon looking down at the water from the edge of almost sheer cliffs and there, rising four hundred and fifty feet out of the water, was the famous rock stack—the Old Man of Hoy. It was as impressive as Jim had said. Dylan wouldn’t have fancied climbing it, mainly because it looked as if it could crumble into the sea at any second.
A couple of small fishing boats bobbed on the water and, on the horizon, some sort of cargo ship went on its way.
There was no one in sight, but it was noisy. Gulls nesting on the cliffs’ crags and crevices made sure of that.
Instead of taking the path back, he wandered on, heading for St. John’s Head, the tallest sheer cliffs in the U.K. Dylan didn’t do heights so he wasn’t going to stray too close to the edge.
An hour later, he was lost. And furious with himself. It should be impossible to get lost on such a small island.
He walked on, heading in what he hoped was the right direction, although the heather and the lack of a clear pathway suggested otherwise.
Off to his right was an old single-storey crofter’s cottage. He made for that, hoping it was still a home to people rather than wandering animals and, more important, that someone could point him back to the path.
Although he hammered on a rickety wooden door, he wasn’t surprised when no one answered. In a couple of years, when the door had given up its job, the cottage would provide shelter for the sheep.
He walked along the side of the cottage and stopped. There, in a dilapidated, doorless wooden structure that would struggle to pass as a garage, was a horsebox.
He peered inside. Apart from some straw, it was empty. The towing ball was clean though, so it had been use
d recently.
It meant nothing. Orkney was a land where fields and hills met the sea. There must be dozens of horseboxes on the islands.
He inspected the horsebox more closely. The tyres were in good condition, as was the box itself. There were no registration plates, but he wouldn’t expect to see any. They would be fixed when the box was attached to the towing vehicle.
He tramped back to the cottage, through long grass and spiky tufts of heather. He banged on the door. Nothing. A grimy window was half-boarded with a wooden sheet. He pulled back a corner of the wood and peered inside. All he saw was an empty room that didn’t look as if it had been used in decades.
He returned to the front door, banged on it and shouted. No one answered.
He was walking along the side of the cottage when he almost tripped on a sturdy clump of spiky heather. Frustration made him kick out at it. Something winked back at him. A tiny gold locket reflected the sun’s rays.
It was warm in his hand. He knew exactly where he’d seen it before. Around Sam Hunt’s neck.
He slipped the locket in his pocket and stood for a moment. He wasn’t thinking what to do, he was trying to figure out how he’d talk his way out of a breaking-and-entering charge.
“Right.”
The half-boarded window was his best bet. He pulled more of the wood away and, not stopping to worry about the consequences, put his elbow through the glass. He closed his eyes as thin splinters flew everywhere.
It was enough. He climbed through, cursing as he caught his leg on a shard of glass.
The room was empty. Wallpaper had given up trying to cling to damp walls. A door stood open. All was silent.
Not knowing what he was looking for, but knowing that Sam Hunt’s locket—or one similar—nestled in his pocket, he walked into the hall where there were three more doors.
One led to a kitchen with a dirty black range, half a dozen cupboards and a small grubby table. The range was warm so someone had been here recently. A mug and spoon waited to be washed in a cracked porcelain sink.
Every muscle in his body was tensed, ready for anything.
Another door led to a bathroom that offered old enamel bath, a toilet with no seat and a grimy wash basin.
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 23