Vicky turned her head. Her frightened face gleamed white against the darkness. ‘I don’t know which is back now. I can’t steer against this sea.’
Another bout of retching took Livvy. The boat was broadside to the waves now and water was coming in; there was a great pool in the bottom already. She thought of trying to bail with her hands but she had no strength left. And anyway, if she drowned she wouldn’t be sick any more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Murdo John Macdonald had listened silently to Strang’s gabbled request, nodded, then, pausing only to grab a halogen lantern torch, an oilskin coat and a couple of life jackets, he strode across the street. While Strang climbed aboard, struggling into one of the jackets, he put on his own, unhitched the boat from its moorings and launched it into the stormy waves. It was old-fashioned, clinker built with a large outboard motor, and he took the tiller with what appeared to Kelso Strang to be calm confidence.
‘You don’t seem too much bothered by this.’ Strang, soaked by the flying spray, turned to shout as a surge of power took them out into the bay, cutting through the waves.
‘Seen worse.’
Strang had lost sight of the little boat and as the thunderstorm moved further away the visibility was growing worse. He switched on the powerful torch, swung it in great arcs to try to find it again. It ought to be somewhere on a line between the other shore of the bay and the village, but he couldn’t pick it up. He swung it wider and wider in increasing frustration, but it was Murdo John who spotted it first.
‘To your left,’ he called.
Strang got a fix on it. The boat was no longer under any sort of control; it was being pitched about on the breakers, bucking and dipping as it hit the cross-waves. It was sitting low, shipping water. Their own boat was powering towards it now but it was dependent on the whim of the waves whether they could reach it before it sank. It would be when, not if.
‘Lifebuoys. In the locker,’ Murdo John shouted.
It wasn’t easy with their own boat bucking as it smacked the wave crests but Strang had them ready, attached to the boat by their orange lifelines, as they approached.
‘Boat hook. Along the side there,’ Murdo John instructed.
Aware of his own inadequacies as a boatman, Strang picked up the long pole but was far from sure of his ability to keep his footing while he did anything with it. He could see clearly now in the wide beam of the torch: Vicky was still holding the wheel but when she turned her head towards the light he could see terror and despair in her face. Her mouth opened wide as if she was screaming but he couldn’t hear her.
But where was Livvy? His heart skipped a beat. Had she been swept overboard already? Then her head came up; she must have been lying in the bottom of the boat. He remembered she was a bad sailor; seasickness was no joke and in conditions like this it would have laid her out.
They were almost alongside now. He half stood, trying to grapple the side of the motorboat while Murdo John manoeuvred for position, but their own pitched sharply as a rippling, deadly wave powered over them, throwing him back onto his seat.
When he looked, the other boat had vanished. Gone! He stood up again, not sure what he was going to do – plunge in to the rescue, and probably drown?
‘Sit down!’ Murdo John snarled. ‘Lifebuoys, for God’s sake!’
Feeling a fool, Strang threw them, first one, then the other, their flashing lights coming on as they hit the water. Frantically he scanned the waves, playing the torch across.
Then he saw white against the black of the sea; Livvy’s face, then the yellow of her jacket. Pulling on one of the lines, he swung the lifebuoy through the waves towards her and saw her grab at it, but saw, too, her hand slip off the wet surface. Too weak to hold on? For an agonising moment he lost sight of her, but then she reappeared. Her oilskin jacket seemed to have trapped some air; perhaps that was giving her buoyancy. With what looked like a supreme effort she rose in the water and threw herself across the ring.
His heart in his mouth, he pulled on the lifeline, terrified that each wave would knock her off, but she was still holding on as he pulled it closer, closer, and at last she was at the side of the boat. He wasn’t sure that she was fully conscious; he thrust the torch at Murdo John to let him keep searching for Vicky, then, keeping his own centre of gravity as low as he could, he reached over to grab her.
He couldn’t get a proper hold. It was too far below and every time he touched her the swell of a wave pulled her out of his grasp; each time it subsided he expected to see that she had been swept off. She was still there, but sooner or later she wouldn’t be; she would be drawn inexorably down by the savagery of the sea.
There was only one thing to do. He was afraid, very afraid, but he gave himself no time for reflection, just kicked off his boots, knotted a loop of the lifeline diagonally across his chest and round his arm and slipped over the side into the water.
It was deathly, deathly cold. He was chilled to the core in seconds, his chest so painful from the icy shock that he could hardly breathe. The life jacket buoyed him up and he was holding on to the side, but the force of the waves grabbed him and threw him contemptuously back against it, breaking his hold. For a terrifying moment he thought he would be swept away himself but the lifeline held and he pulled himself along it to where Livvy lay motionless on the buoy.
At last he had a grip on her, treading water frantically and relying on his jacket to keep him afloat. She was slight in build but her clothes were waterlogged and he was beginning to struggle. He was being dragged down and then they would both drown—
Then he felt something lift him. Murdo John had pushed the boathook through the hood on his jacket and, stabilised now, he managed at last to thrust Livvy over the gunwale, then with the boat rocking crazily climbed back in himself, teeth chattering so hard he thought they might break.
Murdo John said nothing in reply to his stammered thanks, only handed back the torch and again set the boat circling round the area where the boat had gone down.
He put Livvy in the recovery position and to his relief she began coughing, then vomited up seawater. She was very, very cold but she was alive and finding Vicky had to be the priority now. He went back to playing the beam across the dark expanse. Nothing but waves and the bobbing lights of the other lifebuoy. No sign of the boat; no sign of Vicky.
He gave Livvy a worried glance. It was a good sign that she was still shivering: when shivering stops, hypothermia has set in, but he wasn’t sure how long it would take. They could lose her as they conducted a fruitless search for a woman who was almost certainly dead already. How long could anyone survive in water as cold as that? The Little Minch, in the winter, in a storm, with no life jacket? Ten minutes, maybe, and it had been that by now.
But how did you tell a man to stop searching for his own wife? What would he himself have done? Knowing with shame that if there had been any chance, however slight, of saving Alexa he would have ignored everything else, he said, ‘Murdo John …’ and shone the torch towards Livvy, who seemed, he thought with alarm, to be shivering less and less.
For a second Murdo John held his course. Then, with deep groan, he swung the boat round and headed back to shore.
They took Kelso to hospital in Broadford as well, seeming to find his protests that he was all right less than convincing given that he was shivering so much he couldn’t properly form the words. They packed him into the ambulance, dry and wrapped in a survival blanket, then ignored him as they worked on Livvy, trying to raise her core temperature.
He remembered being told that core temperature actually drops after removal from the cold environment, and that post-rescue collapse was often the reason for death. The paramedics were experts, no doubt, and experienced too in this place where the sea and the mountains claimed regular victims, but it would have been good to see her stir, hear some sound to show she was still with them, even if it was only a moan of protest. He couldn’t work out how long it had been before the treatmen
t started; his waterlogged watch had stopped and time seemed to have developed a curious plasticity.
Certainly the journey through the darkness to the hospital seemed interminable; an ambulance is not the most comfortable mode of transport and though he had stopped shivering he was indeed feeling unwell by the time they reached it, queasy, headachy and with painfully strained muscles in his arms and shoulders.
It was a huge relief when the lights of the town appeared; they had either been spared the power cut or it had been short-lived, and there was a trolley waiting in the entrance for Livvy when the ambulance stopped. She was whisked away along a corridor while he climbed out shakily.
‘Will she be all right?’ he asked one of the paramedics.
‘Oh, she will, right enough,’ he said brightly. ‘Don’t you worry.’
Kelso gave him a sceptical look. ‘I can recognise PR speak when I hear it. I’m a police officer and I’d prefer it straight. How is she?’
‘Mmm. Well, not great. She wasn’t responding much but we did get the core temperature up a wee bit and the guys here will be able to do a lot more for her. Odds on, if you’re a betting man. Now, I’ll take you along to A&E. You’re looking a bit rubbish yourself.’
Later, in the peace of a side ward, Kelso found it hard to sleep even though he was exhausted. Everything ached and his tired mind kept rerunning the horrors again and again. Murdo John had gone back to the search once he’d put them ashore and they’d got other boats searching too but they would be looking for a body by now.
Was there anything he could have done to stop it happening? Vicky Macdonald’s arrest could have waited if Murray hadn’t been inspired to use her initiative. She hadn’t been detailed to interview Vicky; he’d no idea what had happened except that Beatrice Lacey had said Murray had been chasing her, so he could only guess it was in trying to make an arrest.
Arguably, if she hadn’t been in hot pursuit Vicky Macdonald would still be at the Lodge. She might have been planning an escape, but she certainly wouldn’t have chosen the middle of a storm to do it. And what, for God’s sake, had Murray been doing in the boat with her? It raised a lot of questions about her judgement. Surely she should have been smart enough to know that tackling a killer on your own was lunacy.
But she’d put her whole heart into it and you couldn’t fault her courage. If she didn’t make it – he shifted restlessly, trying to banish the thought. Too many women had died already. He mentally recited the litany of names: Veruschka, Eva and now Vicky. Perhaps even Livvy Murray as well. And Alexa.
He’d used all the skills he’d developed in the darkest days in Afghanistan to compartmentalise, to seal away the memories and the grief while he immersed himself in his work, but sooner rather than later he’d have to deal with it. Unconsciously he fingered the healing scar on his face.
Alexa had still been there, somewhere, in that sealed room in his mind. She would be in every room of the empty house when he returned, the echo of her voice, her laugh, still almost audible, the perfume she used a hint on the air. With her all about him, the lacerating grief would return.
He buried his face in the pillow to stifle a groan. The door opened softly and he looked up as a nurse peeped round the door. ‘Still awake?’ he said. ‘Do you want that sleeping pill you wouldn’t take earlier?’
‘Yes, Nurse. Sorry,’ he said meekly. Oblivion sounded wonderful.
Her throat felt as if someone had been hacking at it with a razor. Her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth and she had a splitting headache. Her eyes were so swollen that she could barely open them, her cheeks were stinging and every bit of her body seemed to be sore. She felt hot and it hurt to breathe; she coughed and that was so painful that tears poured down her cheeks, irritating the raw skin even more.
Livvy forced her eyes open. Bare walls. White bed. Drip stand – there was a needle in her arm. Hospital. Why was she in hospital?
It took a moment, but then it started to come back. Vicky. Darkness. Her head. She put up a hand to touch it: a neat bandage. Yes, she’d arrested Vicky and then been knocked out. Then the boat – oh, she remembered that all right. She’d thought she could stop Vicky going by refusing to get out. She must have been mad.
The terrifying sea. The sickness – oh yes, the deathly sickness. She wouldn’t have cared if she’d drowned, as long as it stopped. Then suddenly, the cold – the brutal, icy shock that was like knives going through her.
After that everything was patchy. She could remember weird lights in the water coming towards her, grabbing at them and her hands slipping off. Then she’d seemed to be skimming, somehow, on the waves, then …
Unwisely, she started up and yelped with pain. Kelso Strang’s face – had she really seen Kelso Strang’s face? Oh please, God, no! It was bad enough that he’d have to know what she’d done; if he’d been there, seeing it happen, it would be that much worse.
Her mind was clearing. She knew perfectly well what she ought to have done when she recognised Vicky’s guilt: she should have said nothing, gone back and reported to the boss. But she hadn’t. She’d wanted to keep all the glory for herself, wanted to show the Strangs and Tennants that she wasn’t just some wee Glasgow hairy.
She’d screwed up, massively. She could hear her mother’s scornful voice ringing in her ears: You always do. You’re useless. She’d been trying to kid on she was worth something to the investigation, and look what she’d managed to do.
And Vicky – what had happened to Vicky? She felt sick. When the boat sank, had Vicky been saved along with her – or not? Her eye fell on a button on a flex, draped over her bedside locker. The nurses would know, surely.
‘Oh, you’re awake? That’s good.’ A nurse appeared, carrying a clipboard and a tray. ‘I was just coming in to sort you out. How are you feeling?’
Livvy ignored that. ‘Do you know if someone called Vicky Macdonald was brought in at the same time as me?’
The nurse was checking the drip. She shook her head. ‘No. The only other person was your inspector. He’s in the next room.’
She had been feeling feverish; now she felt very cold. ‘My inspector? DI Strang? What was he in for?’ As if she didn’t know.
‘Same as you, but not nearly as bad. You’re a lucky girl – he went into the water to pull you out. Bit of a hero, really.’
And at that moment, Livvy wished he’d let her drown.
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ DI Strang said when Sergeant Buchanan appeared in his room, carrying a small suitcase.
He’d been told he’d be able to leave whenever his clothes arrived. He was desperate to get back, to try to take a grip on a situation that was likely to prove a media sensation. He still felt pretty rough; he was so stiff he could barely move but the doctor had passed him fit.
As he took the case he said, ‘Have they—?’ but from Buchanan’s sombre expression he knew the answer and changed his question to, ‘Not even the body?’
‘There was some debris fetched up on the shore at first light,’ Buchanan said. ‘Looks like it’s come from the boat. They reckon with the currents she’ll wash up just this side of the point.’
Strang pulled on a shirt. ‘Have you seen Livvy Murray this morning? They say she’ll be all right – still suffering, but no more than that.’
‘No, not yet,’ Buchanan said. ‘Terrible thing – poor lassie. Have you spoken to her yourself?’
‘Didn’t fancy turning up in a hospital gown, but we can go in together now. If she’s recovered I’m planning to wring her neck.’ He pulled on trousers and a sweater. ‘For God’s sake don’t say anything to her about me going in after her – I don’t think she was fully conscious last night.’
Buchanan was grinning. ‘It’s my bet that you’re too late. The place is fair buzzing with it this morning and she’ll have had it served up with her breakfast.’
Strang groaned. ‘Oh, great! Anyway, our first task is to sort out a story for the press. Does DCS Borthwick know?’
&nb
sp; ‘We contacted her first thing. She’s hoping to get the use of the helicopter again.’
‘Right.’ He shut the suitcase. ‘That’s me. Let’s go along and see how Livvy’s doing.’
She was a sorry sight. Bruised and grazed, her face thick with ointment and her eyes puffed up and blackened, she looked like a waif as she lay against the pillows. Strang saw she was welling up.
‘Sorry, boss,’ she said stiffly.
‘Know what my father used to say to me, when I said sorry? “Damn your sorrow – just don’t do it again!” Cheer up, it’s not the end of the world. How are you feeling?’
‘Horrible, but I suppose it beats being dead, like I would be if it wasn’t for you. Don’t know how you say thanks for something like that.’ The tears were threatening to spill over.
He smiled. ‘Aw, shucks, it was nothing. Don’t cry – it’ll hurt your cheeks.’ He handed her a tissue.
Livvy dabbed her eyes cautiously. ‘Is there – is there—’ she said, then stopped, looking from one man to another. ‘There isn’t, is there?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Strang said. ‘But don’t get eaten up with guilt. As far as I can make out, you were doing your best to stop her.’
‘But maybe if—’
‘If she hadn’t taken matters into her own hands and killed Adam Carnegie, you wouldn’t be in hospital now.’
It didn’t seem to comfort her much. ‘I got it wrong. If I hadn’t …’ Her voice tailed away.
‘You just concentrate on getting well quickly,’ Buchanan said. ‘I’m lost without someone to argue with.’
That produced the wannest of smiles. Strang said, ‘Put it out of your mind just now. We’ll get the details once you’re feeling better. Don’t argue with the doctors, anyway – just do what they tell you and rest.’
They went out. ‘Poor wee soul,’ Buchanan said. ‘She’s a smart enough lassie, you know – wasted up here, in the general way of things.’
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