by Lin Anderson
He’s going to slit her throat.
The realization of this propelled him forward. Ahead of him, Tor lost his footing and Derek saw him disappear beneath the waves. They were beyond the sand now, in the place of the rocks. There was no guaranteeing a foothold.
Derek threw himself forward. The others were strung out, their progress dependent on where they’d entered the water, and where the current, stronger now, had pulled them.
I’m the closest. If I don’t reach her in time no one will.
His fury and the undertow of an outgoing wave dragged him there.
Coming on Millar suddenly from behind, he hit his broad back with a thud.
Millar plunged Claire’s head back under the water and turned to see what had met him, but Derek had sunk beneath the surface.
Claire’s hair waved like tangle in his face and mouth.
As the next swell hit, Derek grabbed Millar’s ankles and swept his feet from under him.
Unbalanced, he crashed forward into the waves, arms flailing. The knife dropped from his hand. Derek didn’t let go of the upturned feet until he was encircled by the threshing arms and legs of the others.
What happened next, he would never be sure of.
What he did remember was pulling Claire’s limp body away. Lifting her head above the water, murmuring words of encouragement and pulling her towards the shore.
The body was travelling further out and east with every wave. It would soon pass the northern tip of Start Island. It would come to land somewhere, eventually. Maybe months or even years from now. After feeding a myriad of fish, what remained might appear on another shore.
But not here. Not on Sanday.
As a Ranger, Derek Muir knew that those swept away by the sea around Sanday were rarely returned there.
The others melted away, leaving him with Claire. Nothing was said. Nothing would ever be said. He helped Claire into the bathroom and heard her turn on the shower. He boiled a kettle and made a pot of tea. He stoked up the fire. He took the incoming call on the landline and heard Inga’s excited voice. He carried the handset through to the bedroom and knocked on the door.
When Claire opened it, he handed her the phone without saying why.
Then he watched her face light up. Saw the joy in her eyes. As he turned away she took his arm, her hand shaking, and said a silent thank you.
The letter lay on the kitchen table. The letter Millar had made her write before dragging her down to the beach.
I cannot live without my daughter.
It was to be Claire’s suicide note. The reason why she had given herself to the sea.
Derek screwed the note up and threw it on the fire. The dry paper blazed up briefly, then died.
McNab was the one to lead Inga inside, her hand in his. He noted Claire’s bruised face, the cut at the corner of her mouth. Inga loosened her grip on him and ran to her mother, to be swept into her arms.
There were images that glued themselves to your brain. Images of death, but sometimes images such as the one before him now. McNab registered it, searing it into his memory, so that he might recall it in place of all the others.
‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant McNab,’ Claire said. ‘Thank you.’
57
It was the silence that woke her. Rhona realized that on Sanday the absence of wind was as unique and compelling as the wind itself.
From the window, the beach, white and empty, was bordered by a sea that bore no resemblance to the frothing grey waters of the previous night. The sky arched above it, the palest of blues, a dawn tinge kissing the horizon.
The cottage slumbered on, as did McNab.
He lay crushed on the sofa, under the duvet he’d taken from Chrissy’s room. Why he hadn’t chosen the bed, she had no idea. Except perhaps that he hadn’t expected to sleep. Not after the previous night’s proceedings. When the adrenaline ran high, it was difficult to come down from it.
Despite his awkward pose, he looked peaceful. She studied the face that had gone through a gamut of emotions as they’d searched for the girl, from hope, through horror, to relief and joy.
He never gives up.
Rhona left him sleeping there, an idea having formed during her view of the sea from the bedroom window. Her wetsuit, packed and unused, she brought out now, donning it quickly in case she should change her mind.
Barefoot, she crossed the low grassy dunes that lay between the cottage and the beach.
Jumping down, she negotiated the dried seaweed that crunched beneath her soles before stepping into the softness of sand.
On Skye the water deepened swiftly, making submersion quicker. Here the approach took longer, the water creeping up your legs and thighs at a slower pace.
She’d reached the line of rocks that came together from east and west to form their own little bay. Stumbling a little as her feet met rock, Rhona dived below the surface and struck out.
The cold water that crept inside the wetsuit was gradually warmed by the heat of her body. She swam purposefully, until she felt the current begin to drag her eastwards towards the lighthouse. At that point she turned and, heading back into the shelter of the bay, bobbed in the flat calm and looked to shore.
From this location in the clear morning air, she could make out the grey stones of each of the dwellings in this northernmost part of the island.
Inga’s house, Sam Flett’s, Derek Muir’s, the cottage and the schoolhouse. The wider circle took in Inga’s little group of school friends. On land, this view hadn’t been possible, but here, it was clear that, though not a village, what she looked on was a distinct community.
Feeling the cold start to penetrate, she struck out for shore. When she reached the shallow water, Rhona stood up and began to wade back.
Had it not been for the sun, she would have missed the knife. Glinting off the open blade, it acted like a mirror, the sparkle drawing her into the shallows to investigate.
As she reached for it, she instinctively stopped herself and, drawing back, looked around for something she might use to grasp it, other than her bare fingers.
A fern of green seaweed provided the answer.
Rhona extracted the bone-handled knife and headed back with her find.
McNab was making coffee when she appeared at the door. Rhona ordered him to bring an evidence bag.
‘What the fuck?’ The stupid look he gave her suggested he was still half asleep.
‘Go on,’ she urged him as she dripped in the porch.
He registered her request and went to fulfil it.
The knife secured now inside the bag, she demanded a towel. A cheeky grin on his face, McNab fetched one as bid. Rhona shut the door and began to strip off the wetsuit.
‘It’s not as though I haven’t seen you naked,’ he reminded her, through the intervening door.
Rhona ignored the jibe and, wrapped in the towel, headed for the shower.
McNab, his interest now focussed on the exhibit she’d brought back, called through. ‘Where the hell did you find this?’
‘In the water, just off the beach,’ Rhona answered.
When she returned, she found McNab busily taking photographs of the bone-handled knife.
‘I’ll send these to Hege. See if she can identify the knife as the one Millar was carrying.’
Last night, it hadn’t seemed appropriate for McNab to interrogate Claire about a visit from her former partner, when she’d just been reunited with her daughter. At a nod from Erling, they’d bowed out, shortly after establishing that ‘Daddy’ had been there, but ‘Mummy hadn’t wanted to go to the boat because the weather was too bad’.
McNab had openly played along with the charade, despite Claire’s cut lip and frightened eyes, realizing, as they all did, that she was shielding her daughter from the reality of what had happened there.
‘Assuming the knife is his, how did it end up in the water?’ McNab said as he refilled his coffee mug. ‘And where’s Millar now?’
This was th
e first time she’d visited the Ranger’s home. Viewed from a distance, it looked very like the cottage. One-storey high, thick grey walls, flagstone roof, a small walled garden tucked in behind, with various outbuildings on the seaward side. In this case, the outbuildings were all in good repair, although at least one of them was obviously being used as a home for stray cats, which caused McNab to give it a wide berth.
The boat they’d used to cross to Start Island wasn’t in evidence, and Rhona wondered initially whether the Ranger had gone out in it. But as she and McNab approached, the door was opened and Derek Muir stepped outside to greet them.
He looked much better than the man who’d addressed the assembled company at the strategy meeting, and he now seemed able to meet her gaze. He welcomed them inside, where a fire blazed in the hearth.
‘Can I offer you tea or coffee, Dr MacLeod? Detective Sergeant?’
She thanked Muir, but declined the offer, as did McNab.
‘I see your boat’s gone?’ McNab said.
The Ranger nodded. ‘I didn’t get a chance to secure it before the storm hit.’
‘How are Claire and Inga this morning?’ Rhona asked.
‘I thought it better to give them some time alone together, so I haven’t gone over yet.’
Eventually, McNab posed his question. ‘Did you see Joe Millar last night?’
The Ranger met McNab’s eye without hesitation. ‘No, he’d left by the time I arrived.’
‘And how was Claire?’ Rhona said.
‘Distressed.’
‘He’d hit her?’ McNab came in.
‘You saw her face.’
‘Did she say why he left in the middle of a storm?’
‘He heard my pickup, and thought it was the police.’
It was a plausible enough explanation.
‘Is there any chance he could have taken your boat?’
Rhona watched the Ranger’s face as McNab posed the question. She thought he was surprised by it, then, as though it had caused a little spark of intuition, he gave a half-smile.
‘I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, I suppose it’s a possibility.’
‘Did Claire mention a knife?’
The Ranger’s expression grew grave. ‘No, why?’
‘No reason,’ McNab lied.
They spoke then of his transfer to Kirkwall.
‘DI Flett gave me permission to attend the bonfire tonight. I’ll be taken to Kirkwall tomorrow.’ He appeared resigned to his fate, probably made more bearable by Inga’s safe return.
McNab indicated they were about to leave. The Ranger rose to see them out, but McNab said it wasn’t necessary.
At the door Rhona turned to find Derek Muir staring out of the window at the calm waters of the bay.
‘What d’you think?’ she asked as they made their way towards the Sinclair place.
‘It’s a minute’s walk. Why did he drive there in the pickup?’
‘It was blowing a gale, remember?’
‘Something’s not right,’ McNab pronounced.
‘You feel it in your waters, as Chrissy would say?’
He grinned at her then, his face lighting up. ‘Christ, I miss Chrissy.’
Rhona agreed wholeheartedly.
The door of the Sinclair house stood open. Outside was a collection of vehicles, and from within came excited chatter and children’s voices. It seemed all the neighbours had come to register their delight that Inga was back safe and well.
‘It’s too busy in there. You can’t question Claire just now,’ Rhona said. ‘I don’t think she’ll talk about it anyway. She’s got Inga back. That’s all she cares about.’
‘Let’s go find something to eat,’ he said. ‘You can contact Chrissy from the hotel.’
The drive south bore no resemblance to the one that had brought them north the previous evening. High visibility and a clear sky gave spectacular views across the flat landscape to the calm sea beyond. It was difficult to believe, with no evidence of debris, that such a storm had ever happened. Had such a wind hit Glasgow, Rhona doubted whether it would have left the city unmarked.
As they approached Cata Sand, they saw a couple of pickups, and some men replenishing the bonfire.
‘They don’t give up, do they?’ McNab said.
‘You’ll go tonight?’
He glanced round at her. ‘You’re fucking joking?’
‘I’ll be there,’ Rhona declared.
‘Why?’
‘Because Inga will be, and everyone else who searched for her.’
‘You’re going soft,’ McNab said in disbelief.
Rhona laughed. ‘Unlike you, you mean?’
Tor was in the kitchen when they entered. He looked a little surprised by their sudden appearance, but immediately offered to cook them breakfast, which McNab accepted.
Rhona took herself into the bar and downloaded three messages from Chrissy, who’d also attempted to phone her three times.
Glancing at the contents of the texts, Rhona immediately called Chrissy back.
‘He didn’t die of a broken neck,’ Chrissy said when she answered.
‘I saw that. What killed him?’
‘The pathologist found evidence of a wound to the brain, inflicted he believed by a long thin blade, via the right ear.’
Rhona quickly brought Chrissy up to date on Inga’s safe return.
Her pleasure at the news was evidenced by the whooping sound at the other end of the line.
‘Have you found the bastard?’
‘No, but I have found what I believe is his knife,’ Rhona said. ‘A fisherman’s blade with a spike attachment.’
She rang off as Tor appeared with two stacked plates and a pot of coffee, which when tasted, proved to be extra strong. McNab obviously had him well trained.
Depositing the food, Tor scurried off, surprising Rhona, who thought he might have hung around to try and find out more about the previous night’s proceedings.
She told McNab the latest news as he tucked into his breakfast.
‘So we might have Millar on a murder charge?’
‘If the spike on the knife’s a match to the wound. And other forensic evidence from the schoolhouse places Millar there.’ She paused. ‘He might have been at the cottage.’ She explained about the smell of diesel.
McNab looked thoughtful. ‘I had the feeling someone had been in my room at the hotel.’
They finished up and headed for the community centre to meet Erling. McNab’s mood was upbeat, a smile playing the corner of his mouth, and he was humming a tune that sounded like the theme of Star Wars. Rhona wasn’t sure whether he was picturing himself as Darth Vader or Luke Skywalker.
‘Why so happy?’ she said.
‘I’m heading home tomorrow. As are you. First flight out of here.’
‘And the hunt for Millar?’
‘That’s DI Flett’s job now.’
The community centre car park was busy. It seemed those who weren’t visiting Claire at home had come here to get the news.
Hege was at the coffee machine and McNab headed straight for her, keen to establish whether she could identify Millar’s knife from the photographs he’d sent.
Rhona made her way into the meeting room, where Erling, Magnus and the remainder of the team were gathered.
The atmosphere was one of elation. For the officers gathered here, this would have been their first and hopefully their last search for a missing child.
PC Tulloch gave her a big grin.
‘Dr MacLeod. You okay?’
‘Thanks to you, yes.’
Erling, composed as always, called them to order, just as McNab appeared.
The knife was produced and McNab indicated that it had been identified by Hege Aater as the one shown to her by Joe Millar.
Rhona explained where she’d found it, and added the news regarding the results of the postmortem on Mike Jones.
‘So Millar is in the frame for his death and this knife could prove to be the
murder weapon?’ Erling said.
‘Yes.’
Rhona recognized the assembled company’s relief at the news. Jones had been badly dealt with by the local community, but the possibility that someone from Sanday had been involved in his death had obviously caused concern.
Erling then revealed that Derek Muir’s boat had been discovered by the coastguard on the rocks north of Start Point.
‘The boat was spotted by Rognvald Skea last night. He thought there was a man on board.’
McNab interrupted him ‘You’re suggesting that man may have been Joe Millar?’
‘In view of the fact that Dr MacLeod found Millar’s knife in the water, that must be viewed as a possibility.’
McNab looked bemused. ‘Why would Millar take to the water in a storm?’
‘Claire Sinclair confirmed this morning that Millar had been at her house, but had left when he heard Derek Muir arrive, assuming it was the police.’
McNab pondered this.
‘Okay, I buy the fact he would have left if he thought we were arriving. I just don’t buy why he’d take to the water, especially in high seas.’
Rhona saw McNab’s point. Millar was an experienced fisherman and no doubt used to bad weather, but to launch a small boat in the seas they’d witnessed last night seemed unlikely.
‘Maybe because it’s the last place he thought we would look?’ she tried.
McNab wasn’t convinced. ‘The guy evaded us for days and kept the girl hidden. Why would he do something so stupid?’ He paused, a light in his eye. ‘Unless?’
‘Unless what, Sergeant?’ Erling said.
‘Unless someone was actually chasing him.’
58
One thing for certain, after today, he wouldn’t be travelling this fucking road again. Ever.
Seeing an approaching car, McNab made no attempt to draw into the nearby passing place. The black pickup didn’t look as though it planned to stop either, the result being that they just scraped past each other, thanks to the sandy verges.
The other driver, who stared straight ahead, was revealed to be Rognvald Skea, grandson of old Mrs Skea, who McNab had attempted to interview without success because of her strong Sanday accent. Rognvald Skea was also, he remembered, wee timid Nele Skea’s dad.