Dark Waters

by G. R. Halliday

  Monica now climbed out of the Volvo and went to wait for Lucy by the nursery wall. She was one of the last mothers to arrive today, but at least she was on time. She watched as her daughter trotted across the playground, today she was almost oblivious to the glances from the other mothers as they took in the tall detective. Their faces betraying the usual mix of reactions, running from intrigued to outright suspicious. Monica felt a familiar pang of guilt. How much better off Lucy would be with a normal mum. One who did ordinary things like volunteer on nursery trips or meet the other mums for coffee, though today she didn’t have time to ponder the idea for long. Instead she focused on reading her daughter’s body language, as she would a potential suspect’s, watching for any hint of strangeness. Because after Lucy’s sleepwalking the night before, Monica couldn’t help wondering. Long-suppressed thoughts about Lucy’s father, described as ‘Unknown’ on her birth certificate, were re-emerging. Things she’d hoped would never be important. Things she wanted to pretend had never happened. Monica sighed. Lucy looked normal, if you could ever say that about anyone. Holding hands with Munyasa, her best friend at the nursery, before hugging him at the gate and skipping over to Monica. She was holding a book, inevitably the one about cats, Monica noticed, as she stooped to hug her.

  ‘Khan called,’ Crawford said as Monica leaned in to strap Lucy into the child seat. ‘She says Theo Gall had lots of connections with local businesses. He’d do a bit of casual work here and there, fall out with people or do something dodgy and have to move on.’

  Monica pushed the back door closed then came round to get into the passenger seat. Crawford tilted his neck to each side then reached his arms behind him to grab the headrest and stretch his back out. The effects of his long night catching up with him. He let out a groan as his back cracked, and Monica watched as his shirt rode up, revealing his stomach muscles, the line of red hair that ran from his navel to his boxer shorts. Her eyes lingered for a second before she caught herself. Jesus, this is Crawford, she scolded herself. He’s half your age and half your height.

  She climbed into the car and pulled her seat belt on. ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘You smell nice, Crawford,’ Lucy chipped in from the back seat.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ He waved in the rear-view mirror, then turned to Monica. ‘Just to start looking for any businesses linked to the Sinclairs. Ones left to Sebastian Sinclair by his father. Is that OK?’

  Monica nodded. Heather Sinclair had agreed to have a list of those businesses sent over. What she had told them about her brother seemed to bring the organised-crime angle firmly back into the picture as a motive for the murders. Sebastian Sinclair, desperate for affirmation. Desperate to be respected like his father. ‘Someone has to know something. What Sinclair and Gall were up to. How they met in the first place. Who they were involved with.’

  ‘Do you have any cats, Crawford?’ Lucy piped up again from the back of the car.

  ‘No, not a cat. I used to have a dog when I was your age,’ he said, glancing in the wing mirror then pulling the car into the road.

  ‘Did it ever run away because it thought you didn’t love it?’ Lucy asked, and Monica wondered what she’d been reading this time.

  Crawford stifled a laugh. ‘No, he never ran away. He slept on my bed. We were best friends. He was an old English sheepdog called Peter. Practically used to squash me he was so big.’

  ‘I’d like to have a cat that would sleep on my bed,’ Lucy said. ‘I’d let him cuddle up under the covers if he wanted to. Granny used to have a cat before Mummy was born, but Grandad said it had to go and live somewhere else because it made a mess.’

  Despite herself Monica couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt when she dropped Crawford off at headquarters. Leaving him to work late with Fisher and Khan while she took Lucy home. She was the boss. She should be in there too, working through those leads with them, until late, late into the night. She should drop Lucy at her mum’s, go back, that was the thing to do. But then she glanced behind her to where Lucy was quietly flicking through her cat book. How could she ever feel guilty about spending time with her daughter?

  ‘What would you like for dinner tonight? Would you like to stop at Pizza Hut? We could go to the cinema again if you want?’

  ‘Can we go to the Co-op restaurant?’ Lucy had an inexplicable fascination with the cafe at the Co-op supermarket on Telford Street.

  After an early dinner (chicken nuggets, chips and beans for Lucy, a cheese sandwich for Monica) they went for a walk to look at the boats in the harbour at Muirton Locks at the head of the Caledonian Canal. Via Loch Ness, Loch Oich and Loch Lochy, the canal connected the east and west coast of the Scottish Highlands.

  ‘Can any grown-up live on a boat if they want to? Or are you only allowed if you’re a sailor?’ Lucy asked as they wandered by the side of the canal. The blustery spring day was easing down into night as far out over the dark mountains in the west the sky burned red like fire.

  Much later, after Monica had put Lucy to bed, she opened up her laptop. There was still no news from Crawford and the rest of the team, and for some reason she felt drawn to Euston Miller’s odd website again. Bizarrely it seemed to have become her go-to after-hours entertainment during this case, as if the investigation wasn’t dark enough on its own.

  She glanced up to check Lucy’s bedroom door was shut tight. Tonight Monica was sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, facing the door in case her daughter sleepwalked again. She closed the story about the crofter and clicked on a picture of a car from the 1970s. In the background there was a stretch of moorland with mountains fading off into the distance.

  The story was headed ‘The Strange Case of Colin Muir’.

  Monica began to read.

  Perhaps the strangest story to come out of these glens is that of local businessman Colin Muir. In the winter of 1979–80 he was reported missing when he failed to arrive at a business meeting in Glasgow. On the weekend following his disappearance forestry workers close to the remote village of Little Arklow discovered an abandoned vehicle in a lay-by. They alerted staff at a local garage which was part of a group owned by local businessman Innes Sinclair.

  Monica’s mouth was hanging open. Innes Sinclair, father of Sebastian and Heather, cropping up in a missing person’s case from the 1970s. Quickly she opened another tab on the screen and typed: ‘Sinclair garage, Little Arklow’. The search returned an image of a battered-looking warehouse with a row of rusting vehicles outside it.

  ‘It’s still there,’ Monica said to herself. For a moment she felt that old impulse to get immediately in her car and have a look there and then. To let the case take over her life and drag her down any possible rabbit hole. The perfect escape from mundane reality and her nightmares. Instead she dug in her pocket for her phone and typed out a text to Fisher: ‘Could you find out if the garage in Little Arklow is still owned by the Sinclairs?’ She hit Send.

  She looked back at the screen.

  Staff at the garage called the police, who identified the vehicle as belonging to Colin Muir. No one could understand why it had turned up in this remote glen, fifty miles off the businessman’s Inverness-to-Glasgow route. Despite the harsh winter conditions a search began immediately. No trace of the missing businessman was found in the weeks that followed. It wasn’t until months later that the partial remains of his body were finally discovered by chance in an area of dense bracken about a mile from where his car was abandoned. It is believed that he perished from the cold after becoming disoriented in a white-out. Although it was never explained why he was in the glen at all. Or why he had strayed so far from his intended route of travel.

  CHAPTER 39

  January 1980

  The windscreen wipers clawed frantically at the snow hitting the window. Colin Muir tilted his wrist to check the time on his watch. Almost 3 p.m. ‘Almost fucking dark,’ Muir muttered under his breath. The road ahead was more white than black, the snow lying thick on the tarmac.
And to think it had been clear in Inverness two hours before when he’d left the office at the bottom of Church Street and headed south. He’d driven as far as Drumnadrochit, a village by the side of Loch Ness on the A82, stopped in at the hotel. Drank a cup of Nescafé and attempted to pay with a fifty-pound note. Complained about having to drive down to Glasgow for an evening appointment with his useless brother-in-law in the middle of winter. The stupid wee waitress would remember him if anyone came asking. Even though she’d barely bothered to take her face out of the magazine on the bar to serve him.

  When he left the hotel, instead of turning south towards Glasgow Muir had directed the Mercedes 450 SL onto the A831, west towards Cannich. Towards Little Arklow.

  Muir tapped out another Embassy Regal from the white packet with the blue stripe down the centre. Without taking his eyes from the road in front he lit it from the car’s lighter. He rarely drove the SL, and the steering felt twitchy on the snow-covered road. It was the missus’ car; he’d only brought it today as a little precaution. People knew him, might recognise his BMW. Reducing the chances of anyone spotting him was sensible. Probably unnecessary though, because once Slate saw the gun he’d understand. He’d know that Colin Muir wasn’t someone you fucked about with. If he told you to leave a property he owned, then you moved out. No ifs or buts about what happened in the past, about who told you what twenty-five fucking years ago.

  He rested his hand on the pocket of his sheepskin jacket. Felt the reassuring weight of his dad’s old Enfield service revolver. Still, a hint of disquiet rose from Muir’s stomach as he remembered the last time he’d met old man Slate at the pub in Little Arklow six months before. The way his eyes seemed slightly unfocused, the rumours that half his head was held together by a tin plate and screws. Hidden under that dirty tweed cap he always wore. The kid who he brought to the meeting with him, the one he claimed was training to be a doctor, blond hair and a stack of books, sat reading in the corner of the pub. Like he was on some school trip. The way Slate had smiled and nodded when Muir had told him he needed to leave his house, that he had to go soon because Muir was selling the dam. Smiled and nodded in agreement, but half a year later he’d shown no sign of abandoning that ugly house he’d built.

  There was something not right with Slate, about the boy he’d brought with him. Something unsettling about the pair. Muir had even got as far as considering trying to pass the problem on to someone else. He’d heard drunken whispers at cocktail parties with the rest of the in-crowd up in the big newbuild houses at Cradlehall Park. Stories about men who would do things for money. Roderick Cameron, who lived somewhere out in the west, him and his boy Don. There were rumours about things they’d done for people over the years. People they’d taken care of.

  Muir took a deep draw of the Regal and peered into the snowstorm. Probably all bullshit. The last thing he needed was to set up some half-baked scheme with a couple of west coast hillbillies. No. It was simpler this way. Over the phone he’d mentioned a sweetener to Slate. Something just between them to help with the expenses of relocating. He’d even hinted at a parcel of land he could offer in return for Slate leaving the dam quietly, without dragging it through the courts. The carrot and the stick. Slate had seemed receptive to the idea. Who wanted to live beside a dam at the bottom of some glen anyway, for Christ’s sake? Slate was probably just holding out to see what he could get. Like all these sponging bastards you heard about now – take, take, take.

  Muir wasn’t weak like them. He wasn’t one who waited for the state to solve his problems. Impulsively his hand went to the pistol again. If he had a problem he dealt with it himself. No chance was Innes Sinclair, the Big Boy, going to buy his dam, on the cheap just because a sponger and his family refused to leave it. When Slate saw the pistol he’d understand, he’d realise who he was dealing with. Moving out of the house would seem like a good deal compared to a bullet in the face.

  Distracted by his thoughts and the dancing snow Muir almost missed the turn-off. He swore as the signpost for Little Arklow appeared in the car’s headlamps, stood on the brakes then reversed until he could pull the car to the right. For a moment he hesitated. The trees on either side of the road seemed particularly sinister and watchful, the dense silver birch stripped of their leaves but coated in white. What if Slate doesn’t agree? What if you have to shoot him?

  Muir tried to push the thought to the back of his mind. There was no chance it would come to that. And if it does? Well, Muir had taken precautions, hadn’t he? No one would even know he was down this glen. And his brother-in-law in Glasgow would back him up, would swear blind they’d been together from 4 p.m., once Muir explained the situation. His brother-in-law was another sponger, though sometimes that could have its uses. Once he knew it was lie or no more handouts, he’d understand.

  Beyond the windscreen it was almost pitch-dark outside now, the thick trees blocking out what little light was still breaking through the dense snow. The road was unmarked by the tracks of any other vehicle. Muir leaned forward, close to the steering wheel. It was difficult to tell where the road ended and the pristine white forest floor began now. He eased his foot off the throttle, eyes scanning the way ahead, looking for the entrance to the lay-by where he’d agreed to meet Slate. To show him the supposed parcel of land. Muir knew he was in the right area, just a couple of miles before Little Arklow. But everything looked different in the winter, under the snow.

  The figure appeared as a shadow at first, stepping from among the trees and into the middle of the road. If Muir hadn’t been driving so slowly he would have had to brake hard to avoid hitting it. He eased off the throttle, let the car slow in the thick snow. He swore and, momentarily forgetting the need for discretion, leaned on the car’s horn. The shadowy figure, now too close to be picked up clearly in the headlamps, showed no sign of moving though.

  ‘Get out the fucking way!’ Muir’s voice echoed back to him in the car’s interior. Dull and impotent. His hand dropped to the revolver again as he stared out the window. For a moment he thought it might actually be Slate, but quickly realised that the person was smaller. ‘Get out the fucking way,’ he repeated, but more quietly this time. Was it Slate’s kid? Out here in the dark?

  Muir wound the window down and felt the ice in the air for the first time. A snowflake landed on his forehead, melted and ran down his face. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. The tail lights cast the tyre tracks in a hellish red, and as he remembered the meeting with Slate at the pub he felt a mad impulse to reverse away from the figure. Instead he reached for the handbrake, pulled the revolver from his coat pocket and climbed out of the car. The snow was ankle-deep, spilling over the top of his shoes.

  ‘Get out—’

  The flicker of movement from the side of the road stopped the words in his throat. He felt the impact on the side of his head before he even had a chance to turn. There was no pain, only blackness.

  And much, much later he heard the words, as if from a nightmare: ‘This is my boy. He’s training to be a doctor. You won’t mind if he practises on you?’

  CHAPTER 40

  The Doctor glanced from Annabelle to Marcus. The bottom of his face was hidden behind the surgical mask; above, the skin of his cheeks was pitted with acne scars, and his eyes had an intent but glazed look. Annabelle felt her eyes and mouth open wide in pure terror because she could read those eyes. They told her that this man lived in his own distinct reality.

  Annabelle forced her lips into a rictus parody of a smile. Desperate to establish some kind of connection. His eyes stayed cold and dead though, face expressionless. He was wiry, somehow like a spider, and exuded a feeling of repressed energy. A cocked gun. The energy of a man who never had to sleep, never had to rest. He seemed to fill the room with his wide stance and his heavy boots. He took a step closer. There was a bag in his hand, which made a clanking sound as he set it down by the bed. Then, almost as an afterthought, he danced back and swung a fist at Marcus. It connected hard above the ear,
the slapping sound of knuckle on skin muffled in the small room.

  Annabelle let out a gasp of shock. Marcus sank to his knees and began to cry quietly. The Doctor stood motionless for long moments, staring at her. Then, without warning, he scurried across the room to her bed. He crouched over her. Close so she could see that his eyes were a dark grey. He smelled of engine oil, and the mustiness of the human animal rose from him. He took a small notebook and pen torch from his pocket then leaned in to look at her broken leg. He ran a cold finger down her shin bone, pushing on the skin in several places as Annabelle cringed in terror. Finally he stood up to his full height and scrawled something in the notebook.

  ‘Please.’ Annabelle finally found her voice. ‘Please. I can get you money? My dad will pay. Just let me call him, if I call him today it’ll be done by tonight.’

  But her frantic pleas didn’t seem to register. He slipped the notebook back into his breast pocket and produced a marker pen instead. She felt its cold point on her skin. He was drawing something on her leg. Panicking, she sat up, but he reached for her neck and pinned her back onto the bed, forcing the breath out of her lungs.

  She wanted to scream. To kick and shout and bite, but she lay still. The Doctor put the pen back in his breast pocket before crouching purposefully down to the bag. When he stood again he moved fast – like a snake. One hand whipped out to clamp onto her forehead as his other hand covered her mouth. She breathed in the chemical stink and everything began to slide away. The Doctor’s dead expression. Marcus’s whimpers. The whole world tilted and spiralled down onto a different plane of existence. The Doctor, Marcus, her mum and dad and all those waxwork statues from her dream, standing around her. All staring at her with cold dead eyes.