‘There have been some developments, as they say.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Kevin Pierce.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s turned up dead.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.’
‘Yes, you are.’
Freya tilted her head. ‘Either you were involved in it, or the police already told you. Or someone else did.’
Finn kept his eyes on Freya’s face, not beyond. He shook his head.
Freya went on. ‘Stabbed to death at home, apparently. The police are asking for witnesses to come forward. And more importantly, they’re increasing the search for Maddie Pierce, now in connection with her husband’s murder.’
Finn rubbed at his finger splint. ‘So why are you talking to me?’
She leaned in, lowered her voice. ‘Because I know you know something about all this. I know a liar when I see one and you are a terrible liar.’
‘Is this how you always go about your work?’ Finn said.
Freya snorted with laughter. ‘It’s usually missing pets and primary-school fairs.’
‘Maybe you should stick to that stuff.’
‘I’m offering you one last chance,’ Freya said. ‘Before the Mail and all the rest rip you to shreds. Tell your side of the story. If you give me a proper interview, I promise it will be sympathetic.’
‘And I should trust a journalist.’
‘I’m not like them.’ She held out her hand, finger crooked. ‘Pinkie promise?’
‘Leave me alone.’
Freya put her pen to her notebook.
‘Mr Sullivan,’ she said in an officious voice. ‘Did you have anything to do with the death of Kevin Pierce?’
‘Fuck off.’
She made a song and dance about writing ‘Fuck off’ in the book.
‘Were you having an affair with Madeleine Pierce?’
‘Fuck off.’
Freya mumbled ‘Fuck off’ under her breath as she wrote.
‘Do you know of Mrs Pierce’s whereabouts since the accident?’
Finn sighed. ‘I’m going inside to be with my family.’
Freya nodded. ‘No comment, good, makes it sound like you know something.’
‘Goodbye.’
He began to walk towards the house.
‘Goodbye,’ Freya shouted after him. ‘And good luck.’
Finn went inside and stood with his back to the door. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Pictured himself in court, under oath, being asked the same questions. Imagined standing over Kevin Pierce’s body with a knife in his hand. Saw himself taking Maddie on the Lewises’ bed. Pictured himself in the plane, always in the plane, hitting the ground, his seat thrown backward, losing sight of Maddie, the wing crushing that poor couple who only came here for a winter break, to check out the standing stones, a bit of bird-spotting maybe, some gentle walks along the coastline, their sons and daughters left with no parents, everyone suffering and all of it on his shoulders.
He tried to make his hand into a fist, the unnatural grind of broken bone, the splint not budging. He rubbed at his chest, imagining the blood collecting in his lungs until he drowned in it. His legs went weak and he was about to sink to the floor when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘You’d better come and see this.’
Ingrid led him through to the living room. The television was on, BBC News. Someone slick and shiny standing outside St Magnus Cathedral, then it cut to a press conference, Linklater in a church hall up on stage, a spread of microphones in front of her. She looked exhausted. Finn wondered if she was sleeping, too much workload, too much stress.
Amy turned to him. ‘It’s the black box, they’ve released the audio.’
Maddie’s voice burst out, reverberating around the hall, echoing back on itself. Press snappers took pictures of Linklater, the flashes making her look pallid and plastic like a shop dummy.
Maddie’s voice cut through the sound of engines straining. She was pleading with the pilot, telling him to turn towards Edinburgh. Saying how she couldn’t go back to Orkney, she just couldn’t, not after what she’d done, she had to get away, he didn’t understand, she was dead if she went back, he might as well slit her throat.
The sound went off.
More flashes from photographers.
Linklater leaned into the microphones. ‘So this audio, combined with the discovery of Mr Pierce’s body, means we are now looking for Madeleine Pierce in connection with the murder of her husband. We believe that Mrs Pierce is alive and still on the island, and we intend to find her. We are increasing the police search, and no stone on Orkney will be left unturned until we find her. If anyone has any information about her whereabouts, please get in touch immediately.’
She gave out a number and began answering banal questions from the media, but Finn couldn’t hear any more, the sound from the television a million miles away.
He felt Ingrid rub his shoulder and he wanted to shake her off, wanted to run outside and leap off the cliff.
Amy stared at him.
He didn’t meet her gaze.
‘Finn, who is this woman?’ she said.
Finn sensed Ingrid heading for the kitchen, giving them space.
‘She’s no one.’
‘She doesn’t seem like no one.’
‘I hardly even spoke to her.’
Amy got up and faced him, the television still on in the background. ‘I’m not an idiot, I can Google. I’ve read what the papers are saying.’
‘They make up shit all the time, you know that.’
‘So you didn’t sit with her for hours drinking in the airport lounge?’
‘I don’t know how long it was.’ The sound of his whiny voice was pathetic.
‘And you were sitting next to her on the plane.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘I bet you were chatting her up when you didn’t answer my calls.’
‘My phone was on silent, I didn’t hear it.’
‘Were you sitting next to her when I spoke to you?’
‘I was in the plane toilet.’
‘Were you going to screw her, was that it, join the Mile High Club?’
‘My God, the plane crashed . . .’
‘I know that,’ Amy said, eyes wide. ‘I’m not asking about that, I don’t give a shit about that, I’m asking about you and her.’
‘There was no me and her.’
Finn looked at the television. A picture of Maddie grabbed from her Facebook page showed her in a Mediterranean club somewhere, tight dress, pouting at the camera, a sparkle in her eyes that Finn recognised. Then it cut to another photo of her in a bikini with Jackie O glasses and a sunhat.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Amy said.
‘Amy, come on.’
‘I can see why you found her attractive.’ Amy turned back to Finn. ‘The stewardess said you punched this other guy who was chatting her up.’
‘He was harassing her,’ Finn said. ‘Really aggressive.’
‘So you were her knight in shining armour?’
Her implication was clear, he’d never punched anyone for her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Finn said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Amy was shaking, he couldn’t tell if it was crying or rage. Maybe both.
‘I can’t even look at you right now,’ she said. ‘I thought I knew you, Finn.’
‘You do, you know me better than anyone.’
*
The rest of the day he expected a knock on the door or the phone to ring, either the police or the press. But there was nothing, which was worse in a way, he wanted the axe to fall. The wait was excruciating. Amy kept her distance and he didn’t blame her.
In the living room he picked a battered paperback of Mackay Brown’s poetry from Ingrid’s shelves and tried to read it. Normally Brown’s clarity soothed him, made him think of his mum, but now every line felt ominous
. There was a poem actually called ‘Thorfinn’ that seemed to be about someone drowning. Another line somewhere else jumped out at him: ‘But we must die, fast in our web of lust’. Christ.
He felt an overwhelming itch to walk out the door and up to the visitor centre. Or maybe go beyond the Lewis place to the tomb, commune with the dead, hear their stories, listen to their ancient wisdom. Who was he kidding, they were just as stuck in their lives as he was now, searching for the next meal, hoping their nets would be full of fish, checking crops that could be frost-damaged or dried out or flooded. Thousands of years of human life stuck in a rut. Finn was just the end point, the final link in a chain of shit existence.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked up to see if Amy or Ingrid were around. No sign. He went to the bathroom, locked the door, put the toilet lid down and sat on it. Checked the screen. A text from Maddie.
Going mad here, need to see you. Where are you? Mx
He replied:
Me too. It’s out about Kevin, black box too. Looks bad. Can’t get away.
His life was over now. His relationship with Amy was over too. What did he imagine, that she would forgive all this? She would find out eventually, and even if she did forgive him, he couldn’t live with himself. He had to finish it, he just had to find the right time.
He heard footsteps outside the door and knew it was Amy, she had a lighter step than Ingrid.
His phone vibrated, the buzz echoing round the tiles.
I need you so bad. I want you to touch me. Mx
She was playing him of course, he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself.
Later, I promise.
Footsteps receded outside the door. Amy was checking up on him like he was a naughty little kid. But wasn’t that exactly how he was behaving?
Can’t wait. Mx
He left the bathroom. Amy was waiting for him at the other end of the hall, at the door to the living room. A look on her face. This is it, he thought.
‘Something’s happened,’ she said, glancing back into the room.
‘What?’
She waved at the television.
He walked to the doorway and looked. The sound was down on the news, a reporter standing outside the Balfour Hospital. The ticker-tape display along the bottom of the screen said that Sean Bayliss had died from a massive stroke as a result of his head injuries.
‘That’s not right,’ Finn said.
Amy stared at him. Ingrid came through from the kitchen.
‘He woke up,’ Finn said. ‘I spoke to him.’
‘You went to see him?’ Ingrid said. ‘When?’
‘He was fine,’ Finn said. ‘He was awake and talking.’
‘When did you see him, Finn?’ Amy said.
He shook his head. ‘He can’t be dead, it doesn’t make sense. He just can’t be.’
He caught a look between Amy and Ingrid, the two surrogate mothers in his life, a shared worry, a knowing purse of the lips. One of them, he didn’t know who, tried to stroke his arm, but he pulled away like the touch was poison.
He stood there looking at the floor, rubbing his hand.
‘He can’t be dead, he just can’t be.’
*
The silence was heavy in the house. He lay in bed in the dark with Amy’s head on his chest. Maybe he should do it now, tell her it was over, then at least she would be free of all this, able to escape from whatever he was heading into.
But he didn’t, he just held her until her breath slackened and she fell asleep. He waited a long time in that position, staring at the ceiling, the wind birling outside the house, the odd squall of rain slapping the window. He didn’t hear anything from Ingrid’s room. He slipped his arm out from underneath Amy’s embrace and got dressed. At the front door he picked up a torch and left, pulling the door behind him.
32
The three lighthouses on the Pentland Firth blinked out of synch to his right as he walked. He stopped and watched them. The Skerries, Duncansby Head and Stroma, unable to get their act together and flash in unison no matter how long he stared. The moss under his feet was spongy and wet from the rain but the skies were clear now, so many more stars than you saw down south, so much more of the universe on show. Just in case he needed perspective.
He came round the back of the visitor centre. The curtains were pulled shut on the Lewis home, but he went up close and saw the blue flicker of the television screen in the living room, traces of movement filtering through at the edge of the window.
He went to the front door and unlocked it. The sound of the Yale clicking round filled his ears.
He was two steps inside when she emerged from the connecting doorway to the house. He shone the torch in her face and she squinted and held a defensive hand up.
‘Sorry,’ he said, playing the beam over the floor.
‘Thank Christ,’ she said when she saw him.
Her voice was ragged, wobbly. Maybe she’d been crying. She’d definitely been drinking. She swayed over and threw her arms around him as he closed the door.
‘I’ve been so worried,’ she said. She kissed him on the mouth and he responded without enthusiasm. She pulled away. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Have the police spoken to you again?’
‘Should they have?’
‘Just wondering.’
‘Scared I would give you up?’
She slid a hand down his shirt. ‘Of course not.’
He went past her into the front room. The television was on, Sky News. Looked like something about supermarkets at the moment, business news, profits falling.
‘I could see the television light from outside,’ he said.
‘I can’t just sit here in the dark.’
He nodded at the television. ‘The black box audio is interesting.’
She stepped towards him. ‘I know it doesn’t sound good but there’s nothing I didn’t already tell you.’
‘The tabloids are after me. I’m amazed they haven’t found Ingrid’s place yet.’
Maddie looked at the screen, now clips of a football match. ‘I saw the reporters at the memorial.’
‘I was there.’
‘How was it?’
‘I got beaten up by someone’s widow.’
‘Whose?’
Finn dug the order of service out of his pocket and threw it at her. ‘Take your pick.’
Maddie scanned the piece of paper, looking at the names, soaking them in just like Finn had done. Perhaps they were the same, him and her.
‘My girlfriend’s here,’ Finn said.
Maddie still had the piece of paper in her hand. ‘And?’
‘I don’t know,’ Finn said. ‘I don’t know anything any more.’
He reached for the order of service and she handed it back. He slumped on the sofa with a heavy sound, sighing like he’d been punched. He wished it was as simple as being punched, then he could just recover and get on with life.
‘Everything’s closing in,’ he said.
‘We can handle it.’
He stared at her. ‘Is there a “we”?’
She put a hand on his. ‘Of course.’
He slipped his hand out from under. ‘You have to give yourself up.’
‘No.’
He gestured at the television, now showing a politician he vaguely recognised.
‘You have to. You didn’t kill Kev, right?’
‘You know I didn’t.’
‘Then this is insane.’
She rolled her eyes as if having to explain rocket science to a chimp. ‘But I have his money. They won’t believe I didn’t do it.’
‘But forensics . . .’
‘They don’t give a shit about forensic evidence if they have a murdered husband and a wife with a bag of money yelling at a pilot that she can’t go back because of what she’s done. Especially if the plane crashes and kills half the people on board.’
‘Eight.’
‘What?’
/>
‘Eight people died. Out of eleven. That’s more than half.’
She looked confused. ‘You mean seven.’
‘Didn’t you hear? Sean Bayliss died from his head wounds. A stroke.’
Finn thought of Sally’s cold skin under his touch.
‘Jesus,’ Maddie said.
The smell of alcohol on her was ripe. It made him think of the two of them in the bedroom the night before.
‘Is there any of that gin left?’ he said, getting up.
‘I’ve moved on to brandy.’
‘That’ll do.’
He followed her to the drinks cabinet, the television throwing jerky light across the room. It was their story on now, Linklater at the press conference. Maddie glanced at it and kept walking but Finn stopped and stared. The sound was off and the banner across the bottom read ‘Murder Hunt in Orkney’.
He took a large tumbler of brandy from her and scooped most of it straight off. Loved the burn. He swallowed the rest of it as she watched him. When he lowered the glass Linklater had gone from the screen, replaced by some footage of the wrecked plane, then the same Facebook picture of Maddie, pouting selfie in a club, shimmering dress, make-up, big hair.
He looked from the screen to the real woman in front of him, the light playing across her body as she unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor, keeping her eyes on him the whole time, undoing her jeans and pushing them down, stepping out of them and walking towards him, taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom. He glanced behind at the television, trying to get a glimpse of Maddie before all this happened, but she was gone.
*
‘Take me to the boat.’
He was on his back, still breathing hard. She pushed herself up on an elbow and ran a finger down his side to his hip.
He closed his eyes. ‘What?’
‘The boat at Orphir, I need to get to it.’
Finn didn’t open his eyes, just watched the tracers on his eyelids, the light and shade shifting.
Her hand moved up his chest and she pinched his nipple.
‘Shit,’ he said, flinching and opening his eyes.
Crash Land Page 15