She kissed me. ‘Are you watching again?’
‘Of course.’
She laughed at that. ‘You’ve seen more opera in one weekend than in the last ten years.’
‘Don’t worry, the culture’ll soon wear off, once I’m on my tall ship.’ I gave the rest of them a sketchy wave. ‘Have a good one, all of you.’
‘Are you going forward to watch?’ Per asked. ‘I’ll come with you.’
We came out into a dazzle of sunlight, slanting between the houses opposite and through the glass wall of the front of the building, low enough to dodge under the stair leading up and come straight to the heavy door to the backstage area. It caught me right in the eyes. I stopped dead, turning my head away from it, and as I flinched and moved, my shadow slid away from Per, and the light struck him full in the face. He winced, and flinched away, as I had done, raising one hand against it.
Suddenly I knew what Kamilla had seen.
Chapter Twenty-three
I wasn’t quick enough. Per saw the understanding in my face, and before I’d had time to step through the door to safety, he’d caught my wrist in a vicious grip and forced it up behind my back. ‘Struggle or speak and I’ll break your arm,’ he said, in a conversational tone that frightened me more than menace would have done. I stayed still. ‘Take a step backwards. Let the door close.’
I obeyed.
‘Turn around.’ Now I was facing down the long corridor. I scanned it quickly, wondering where he was taking me. ‘Walk forwards.’ His grip tightened, sending a spasm of pain up to my shoulder. ‘Don’t try anything.’
I walked, trying to calculate my options. There was no point in him simply putting me out of the way until the boat had left: the police would just radio the captain, and he’d be arrested the moment she docked in Aberdeen. He needed to do something more final than that. He wouldn’t have a gun, why should he? He was a musical director, an early music enthusiast, not a thug. A knife seemed equally unlikely. We passed the first dressing room, the second, and stopped at the heavy corridor fire door.
‘Open it. Walk through.’
I obeyed, and kept thinking. No gun, no knife, but a need to finish me off. If he had any cyanide left, he could try to make me drink it. He could find something to hit me with. One of those square stage weights would sort me out no bother. To hit me, though, to poison me, at some point he’d have to let go of my arm. I hoped he wouldn’t decide to disable me at that point by breaking it anyway. I’d need two arms aboard Sørlandet. If he did, though, I wouldn’t be able to keep quiet. I’d be bound to scream. He needed to dispose of me quietly.
We’d almost reached the door into the auditorium. I could shout for help here, but I couldn’t bet on it coming quickly enough.
‘Stop.’
I stopped, five metres short of the door. He was waiting for something, his breathing coming short and fast. I eyed up the door, wondering how well it was soundproofed. If I shouted and wasn’t heard, I’d make matters worse. My heart was pumping uncomfortably, and his fingers gripped like a vice around my wrist. My shoulder and upper arm were racked by pins and needles.
Then my question about the soundproofing was answered, as we heard what he’d been waiting for: the applause as the singers came out onto the stage, loud as rain on a glass roof. They wouldn’t hear me if I yelled.
His hand shoved me forwards. ‘Walk.’
We were almost at the corner now. He turned me away from the auditorium towards the wide roll-over door that I presumed was for letting in stage scenery, or giant speakers, or an entire orchestra with their instruments. We’d come out beside Mareel, on the continuation of the road to the car park. I hoped Gavin was wondering right now why I’d not joined him. I hoped he’d come and look.
‘Open the door and walk out.’
I opened the fire door just enough for me to squeeze through, and got a yank on my arm that brought tears to my eyes. He hauled the door wide with his other hand and shoved me forwards through it. The cold wind hit my face, tugged my hair, went straight through my jumper. I stumbled on the pavement, but the pressure on my arm forced me to right myself.
The street was deserted. We were around the corner from the front of the building, facing the deserted council offices and parking space, with Mareel itself between us and the people visiting the cinema and museum. Per came in close behind me and put his other hand on my shoulder, as if we were lovers going for a stroll. In front of us, as we turned, was the harbour wall, with a little gap in it where steps ran down to the waterfront walk, a three-metre wide footpath going along the water side behind Mareel to join the museum slipway and the near side of Hay’s Dock. There would be people there.
‘Down the steps.’
I knew then what he planned to do with me. There was no railing between us and the cold, tumbling waves. We were in Shetland, in March, and the water temperature was around six degrees. If I wasn’t pounded against the dock by the waves, the cold would kill me in less than three minutes. I looked around, assessing my chances. The pressure on my arm told me how quickly he could damage it if I tried something and got it wrong.
Six steps. Five. If there had been somebody on the far side of Hay’s Dock, they’d have seen us, but the tourists were on the landward side, at the museum, and the wall behind us was slanted just enough to hide us from their view. Four. Three. I’d have to risk screaming.
He was an opera director. He knew all about breathing. I was just opening my mouth to fill my lungs when he shoved me down the last step and rushed me forwards, in spite of my thrust-back feet resisting him all the way, in spite of my yell for help, my attempt to hit him with my free hand, in spite of the pain. He pushed me over the edge. I was falling, falling, turning in the air. Then I hit the water, back flat, and the waves grabbed me, sucking me away from safety, and at the same time the cold hit me. For a moment my heart stopped beating. I gasped for air and got a mouthful of greasy salt water, and the cold, the cold – if I didn’t get ashore soon it would kill me before I could drown. My chest felt like there was an iron band around it, and the waves were pounding against the dock and falling back on me, each one pushing me further from the sea-wall. And all the time Per just stood there and watched me.
The surge of rage that went through me was like a shot of adrenalin. I was going to get out of here and see him locked up where he’d never hear early music again, where – my chilled mind thought savagely – they’d make him listen to non-stop Radio 2. I was going to survive this. I let my arms spread, my legs dangle, and waited to get to the top of the buffeting wave, so that I could see where I’d be taken, once I was free of this wall backlash. The wind had been driving northwards through the sound, and the sheltering outer arm of Hay’s Dock was further out than the waterfront walk where Per had thrown me in. If the sea shoved me northwards I might reach it. I couldn’t even try to swim in this, but my sea, my love, this ferocious monster that was tossing me like a heap of limp rags, chilling my bones, might put me to safety.
The cold was seeping through me. Had to think while I still could. If the waves swept me out, there was a red can and a green cone, just off the point of North Ness, and the south cardinal mark of Loofa Baa. I could cling to one of these and hope to be seen. Better, much better, if I could get to shore. First of the flooding tide came northwards. My friend. It would sweep around the curve of the land and push me straight into the dock, where the waves were rolling up the slip, glad not to be bumping against a straight wall that doubled them back on themselves. My wet jumper was heavy, so heavy, or my arms were growing heavy, and Per was still watching. I’d already been swept far enough along that I was visible now from the paving in front of the museum. Another breath. Per wanted to be sure I was dead, but there were people in front of the museum who might see me now if I shouted or waved, and they’d get to me before he did.
I took a deep breath and prayed, then let my legs drop again, and lifted my head and one arm out of the water. ‘Help, help!’
&
nbsp; Lifting my arm put me under. The second shock of cold was no better than the first. But I thought, as I went under, that one of the heads had turned, in the gravel space where the funnel-speakers burbled. I used my legs to bob up to the shifting, oily surface, and yelled again.
I’d been seen. Someone gave an answering shout, and pointed. Per was already walking swiftly towards them. He must have moved the minute he saw me surface. Now he broke into a run, heading straight for the outer dock. Once he’d passed them all, he turned back to yell and gesticulate.
He was going to reach me before they did.
He was twenty metres before them. He grabbed the orange and white buoy from its hold, paused to aim and threw it, quoit fashion, his face dark with concentration. It landed five metres ahead of me, where the waves would carry it further away. Now they couldn’t use it to rescue me.
The end of the stone wall of the outer dock was ten metres ahead, coming towards me fast enough to hurt, if the waves hurled me against it. It stood some three metres out of the water, a smooth curve of stone blocks, slippery green with algae, nothing that I could grip, unless I was lucky enough to snatch a trailing rope.
Tyres. The outer wall was hung with tyres.
Five metres. The next wave would bring me to it. I put my hands out, ready to catch at it and found myself being swept past, hands grabbing furiously at the slimy stone, then the next wave swung me inwards and my hands scrabbled at the tyres, and wouldn’t hold. I shoved my arm down behind one of the chains that held them in place and felt the snatching waves roll by me, buffeting me, but not taking me.
Above me, Per knelt down. He leaned over, arms extended, as if he was helping me, but I knew that I had to wait here, in spite of the cold that was draining the strength from me, wait where he couldn’t quite reach me, until help came. He saw that I wasn’t moving, and turned, then took a step down onto the first tyre. I remembered that he’d known the name Van de Stadt. Norwegians were used to scrambling around piers.
One shove, and I’d be back in the water. My hands were no good. I forced my left leg up until I felt my foot find a tyre, at knee height, and stood on it, left arm clamped round the chain, right forearm wedged inside a tyre at shoulder height, to steady myself. They weren’t car tyres, but great tractor tyres, almost half my height, and hung in neat rows. No good for someone trying to climb out. Inconsiderate. I heaved myself on my arms, shoved up with my foot, and brought the other one to join it. Now I was secure. I just had to hold on. If I was shouting for help, it would be harder for Per to pretend he was trying to rescue me. I took a lungful of damp salty air and yelled: ‘Help, help!’
Per came down one tyre more, and aimed a kick at the side of my head. It missed, but he tried again, and the second one landed. I was too cold for it to hurt much, but I saw stars for a moment. I yelled again. Then he stamped on the arm I’d hooked over the upper chain. I felt a searing pain in my elbow, but I was too tightly tangled to let go. He bent down and began hauling my arm up, and dammit, I was going to be pushed off, I was too cold to fight properly ... then there were running feet, and a shout in German, blessedly close.
The hand that was unhooking my arm let go. Per turned, and called, ‘She fell in. I can’t get her up, she’s too heavy.’
A pair of legs swung over the wall, climbing confidently down the tyres. A scarlet sailor’s jacket. A dark head turned towards me. ‘Hang on. I will come down to you.’
Above me, a head appeared over the top of the dock wall, another, and friendly hands stretched down to me, to Per, pulling him back up, encouraging me upwards. I was going to make it. I wedged my foot in the next row of chains and thrust upwards. The dark-headed German reached down towards me, but my hand couldn’t grasp his. He took a firm hold of my wrist and put his arm around my waist, stopping me from falling backwards. I was safe now. Water streamed from me as I rose. I managed to hook my other foot in a chain too, straddling the tyre. Weight on the right foot, bring the left one up, fumbling for the slippery top of the tyre, moving it until I felt it grip level, the German’s arm like a bar behind me all the way. Nearly there. He echoed my thought: ‘Nearly there. A last effort.’
I gathered my muscles and pushed upwards. Now my chest was level with the walkway, and there were hands grabbing my upper arms from above. My other foot found the tyre top, slithering for a hold, finding it, pushing too. A last shove, and I was swinging clear of the tyres, and rolling over onto the hard stone, blessedly firm under me, with the great grey waves rolling past three metres below.
They hadn’t seen anything, of course; just Per running to rescue me. I stumbled along the dock with Per on one side, the German on the other, his scarlet sailing jacket draped round my shoulders. My teeth were chattering now, and the scars on my back where I’d been shot three months ago were hurting. One hand was red with blood, the other blue with cold. I couldn’t feel my feet.
‘Hypothermia,’ Per said. ‘We should call an ambulance.’
I shook my head. ‘Mareel. Dry clothes.’ I looked at the German. ‘My boyfriend’s there. Clothes in the car.’
It seemed to take an hour to get there. The wind sawed through my wet trousers like glass through rope, and the arriving museum visitors who hadn’t seen the drama looked curiously as we passed. We reached the blank brown end of Mareel at last, and stumbled past it to the door. I saw through the glass that Gavin had got the search underway. He was in the middle of the foyer, while black-clad attendants scurried about him. He looked up, saw me there as I saw myself in my reflection, white-faced and dripping, with my hair in crooked rat’s tails around my face, and came hurrying forward. The German supported me through the revolving door, with Per in the section behind us. I was so tired I could hardly walk. I made it to Gavin and stood there in front of him, swaying, and holding out my hands to fend off his hug. ‘I’m soaking.’
Faintly, through the muffling door, Maman’s voice rose up.
‘She fell in,’ Per said swiftly, from behind me. ‘She was feeling faint, and I took her out for some air, then she swayed and overbalanced, and went straight into the sea. I thought for a moment – but she had a lucky escape.’ He smiled at Gavin, man to man. ‘She is a tough one, your lady.’
‘Pushed,’ I said, through chattering teeth. Per stepped back from me, as if he was startled, his mouth opening to protest. Gavin’s face gave nothing away, but I knew he’d heard. ‘I need to get out of these clothes.’ The cold was running through me in long shudders. I’d sort Per out later. Already it was all making sense, click, click, in my head. ‘Bag. Still in the car.’
A flicker of calculation crossed Per’s face, as if he was considering making a run for it should Gavin go himself, then smoothed away again. On an island, there was nowhere to run to. Gavin had seen it too; he gave him a sharp glance, then fished the key from his sporran and gave it to one of the assistants. ‘Could you get it, please? The red car, over there, third row, in the middle.A navy rucksack in the back seat.’ He put his hand on my shoulder, and gave me a push in the direction of the toilets. ‘Go and get your wet clothes off.’
I headed towards the Ladies, turning my head for a quick look just before I went in. He was gesturing Per and the German before him to the café.
I was only half undressed when the assistant came with my bag. I towelled myself briskly all over, and hauled on new clothes, blessedly warm. I had a few interesting bruises, including a beauty on my temple. There was a graze on my hand, and my elbow still hurt where Per had stamped on it, but on the whole I thought I’d come off pretty well, considering. I must have been very close to my time limit in the sea. I gave my dripping hair a hot rinse, towelled it, gave it a good brush, and headed out to see what Per was saying.
A police car was parked outside, and two uniformed officers were waiting in the foyer. I slipped into the café and saw an older woman officer listening with interest as Per leaned forward towards her. They were talking softly, so I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was using his long,
expressive hands to emphasise some point. He turned to the window, and gestured towards the dock wall. Past him, Gavin sat back; this wasn’t his case.
Per was the first to leap to his feet as I came in. ‘Cassandre! You had a lucky escape. I am so glad I was there.’
‘You pushed me in,’ I said. I turned to the other officer. ‘He frogmarched me out of the building by pushing one arm behind my back, and down the steps, and shoved me in.’
‘You felt faint,’ Per said. ‘Do you not remember? You came backstage to say good luck to your mother, and then you became faint. I opened up the stage scenery door to let you have some air, and you staggered forward, and stumbled down the steps. I was trying to catch you.’ He gave me an intense, sympathetic look that reduced me to a fanciful teenager. ‘Then I ran to the dock to throw you a lifebelt, and help you out of the water.’
‘You’ve had a knock on the head, Ms Lynch,’ the officer said. Her eyes scanned the new bruise. ‘Are you sure you’re remembering correctly?’
Would I swear to it in court, she meant. ‘Positive. He pushed me in from the back of Mareel, and then he ran round to try and push me back in as I climbed up the side of the dock.’ I put a hand up to my face. ‘He kicked me on the head.’
‘The other people there,’ Per said, ‘saw me running to help. They saw I’d climbed down to help pull you up. You said nothing to them of me having pushed you.’ He gestured to the German, sitting silently, waiting. ‘This gentleman was first on the scene. He will bear out what I say.’
‘I could not see what you were doing once you climbed over the side of the dock,’ the German said. ‘But I heard the lady call for help again while you were there with her. Twice, she called. I did not see her go in the water, I only noticed her when she waved and shouted.’ He took his scarlet jacket back from me and added, very gently, ‘That is why I waited here to speak. Before that you were standing and watching. You only began to run when she shouted the second time, and people heard.’
Ghosts of the Vikings Page 25