Blood Tide

by Claire McGowan

  ‘Aye, I did. Great news.’ He wore his fair curls short these days, and it made him look harder. Older. There was no sign on Fiacra’s face that he’d once been in love with Avril, or that it had been him who’d broken up her first engagement. Maybe he still was in love with her. Paula herself knew how stubbornly these things could linger, long past the point of any hope or sense.

  She changed the subject. ‘Tell me about this case, then. Will we be able to get over today?’

  ‘Ferries were running this morning. They don’t mind a bit of rain, but if the wind picks up we’ll be in diffs, so we will. Latest forecast said the storm’d go over us, so fingers crossed we can get there and back.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. How long have they been missing?’

  ‘We think since Monday. Fiona Watts was seen getting her shopping in the Spar out there Monday night. Then she never turned up for work yesterday, so Rory McElhone, that’s the local Garda, he went to their place to check on them. The lighthouse was all locked up, so him and a few fellas broke in.’

  ‘Any signs of disturbance in the house?’

  ‘Nothing except for the bulb of the light itself. It’s been broken.’

  ‘Broken how?’

  ‘Shattered, I’m told. I’ve not been over myself yet. You know the place was locked from the inside? The key was sitting in the lock and everything.’

  She thought about it. ‘Whose key? I assume they both had one.’

  Fiacra gave her an appreciative look. ‘No flies on you. It was his key, had his company keyring on it. Her key’s not there.’

  So maybe she hadn’t even been home that day. ‘Nothing else weird?’

  Fiacra shook his head. ‘There’s been search teams all round the island – with the weather, we were thinking they’d maybe had some kind of accident, slipped into the sea or that, but, you know. That doesn’t explain the door. Their boat’s gone too. They’d a wee dinghy, normally kept it pulled up on the shore near their lighthouse.’

  ‘Have forensics been in?’

  ‘We’re taking someone over with us today. Had to fight for it – if it’s an accident all the energy needs to go on searching for them, not preserving the scene.’

  Paula looked at the side of his face. ‘But you don’t think so?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s weird, is all. That’s why I wanted you down. You live for this kind of thing, aye?’

  True, it was the kind of puzzle Paula’s mind loved to worry at, like a dog with a chew-toy. She was already running over possibilities. Was there another way out of the lighthouse? Could someone have locked it from the outside and made it look like the opposite? Most of all, the question that tugged her down like a drowning current – where are you? And once she’d asked that, she could never stop until she knew. As they drove the trees buckled alarmingly in the wind, and Paula for a moment thought – I better tell Aidan to check our gutters. Then it hit her again, a loss so bone-deep she had to turn her face to the window, gasping in air. Stop it, Maguire. He was gone, she couldn’t see him any more, and she had to just deal with that and get on with her life. Still she couldn’t help the niggling guilt: was she wrong to go away – could Maggie cope with more disruption just now?

  But Paula knew she had to. A lighthouse. Locked from the inside. How? She’d been snagged now, and she’d have to follow this ball of thread to the centre of the labyrinth.

  ‘This is the ferry?’

  ‘It’s only a wee island, Maguire, what did you expect?’

  They had now arrived in the harbour at Dunquin, which was little more than a stone wall against the sea, down a steep one-track lane. The roll-on roll-off ferry rose and fell alarmingly with the swell of the waves. A queue of anoraked travellers were already waiting to get on; islanders, probably, plus a few hardy tourists trekking out for the day. On the slope of the dock was a small cafe selling teas and bacon rolls. It was basically a Portakabin with a steel roof attached, making a semi-sheltered waiting area that was next to useless in the horizontal rain. A man with a bum-bag collected cash and issued paper tickets on the deck of the ferry. Fiacra parked. ‘It’s backed up because they stopped early yesterday. But I’ll get us on.’

  ‘More Garda privilege, eh?’

  ‘Well, we need to get out there. Fiona and Matt could be in a bad way if they’ve had an accident.’

  ‘What happens if the ferries don’t run? Is there another way over?’ Paula got out, pulling a knitted black hat over her flying red hair, and wondering why she’d thought a hot-pink raincoat was a good choice with her colouring.

  Fiacra had to raise his voice over the drumming of the rain on the car roof. ‘Nope, you’re basically stuck. Islanders are used to it – there’s a pub on the quays will put people up if they need it. Or some have their own boats – but if it’s not safe it’s not safe. And there’s the police helicopter for emergencies. That’s about your lot.’

  It seemed so strange, in this world of instant updates and ubiquitous Wi-Fi, to be somewhere you could genuinely get stranded. Across the rainswept bay, several hulks of dark rock sat in the mouth of the sea. The furthest one, Paula knew, was their destination. Bone Island. As she looked, cold rain ran down her neck, and a marrow-deep chill seemed to settle into her own bones.

  Chapter Five

  The forensics officer they’d met at the ferry was an older woman with a sensible haircut and even more sensible raincoat. Paula regretted the hot-pink choice again (never let a toddler pick your clothes was the lesson). She’d also brought along a little tool-kit, which now sat by her feet on the Bone Island quay. The hour-long journey had been turbulent, with waves licking over the prow of the boat and soaking the deck, and several people puking in the chemical toilet, but apparently this was nothing out of the ordinary. As they waited to get off – you had to dash between the waves that swamped the ferry’s ramp on each swell – Paula was shivering. It seemed several degrees colder out on the island. But it was stunning, even under roiling grey skies and with an uneasy sea tossing the boats in the harbour, so they scraped together with a rusty sawing noise. The white sand which gave the island its name was like sugar, and the water in the harbour a deep, clear green. Fiacra examined his phone. ‘No signal. Thought as much. The local fella’s meant to be meeting us.’

  Sure enough, a very muddy jeep was drawing up to the harbour and a ginger-haired man was getting out of it, pulling a navy Garda fleece around him. Paula was always pleased to see a fellow redhead, and felt well-disposed to him already. ‘Hiya,’ he called over. ‘Youse are from the mainland?’

  ‘Aye. Detective Sergeant Fiacra Quinn. Don’t think we’ve met – they have me in Killarney since the New Year. Doing the country stint.’ Fiacra was angling for a transfer back to Dublin once he’d served his time. He wanted the big glory cases, and down the country you mostly got drunken fights or accidents with farm vehicles. A juicy double missing persons’ like this wasn’t common – he must be feeling like he’d won the Lottery.

  The other Garda shook Fiacra’s hand. He was wearing wool gloves. ‘Ah, sure, some of us like the country stint so much we stay.’

  Fiacra said, ‘You know Anne Malone?’ The forensics woman, who Paula still hadn’t heard speak, nodded to the Garda.

  He turned to Paula. ‘And this must be the expert I’ve been hearing so much about?’

  Paula resisted the urge to put herself down. ‘I’ve done a fair bit of missing persons’ stuff, yeah. Fiacra and I were in the MPRU together.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ve not had a wasted journey. Like as not they’ve had an accident.’ Rory McElhone had a firm handshake, and was tall enough to look five foot ten Paula right in the eyes. His were warm and brown, like those of a loyal dog, and his face was lightly sprinkled with sandy freckles. ‘Come on, get in the car before this wind blows you away.’

  Anne got in the front with her little b
ox, and Rory drove off at a great rattle into the island. They passed a huddle of buildings, a Spar and a shuttered-up craft shop, a pub signposted DUNORLAN’S, its umbrellas flapping forlornly in the wind. Paula recognised it, though she’d been here only once, twenty years ago. A sunny day then, between skiffs of rain. They’d gone to the pub for a drink. A coke for her, a pint for her dad, and a juice for her mother. Strange, the things you remembered.

  The interior of the island was a winding stony road, and the Jeep wheels kicked up muddy water as they drove. They passed teams of people in anoraks trudging across the fields, whacking at long grass. Looking for any sign of Matt and Fiona. ‘So tell us about the missing couple?’ Paula leaned over, looking at the pale back of Rory’s neck. She wondered how old he was – maybe thirty?

  ‘Fi and Matt moved over here three, four months back. He’s an ecologist, so Enviracorp hired him to monitor the puffins and that on the island.’

  ‘What’s Enviracorp?’

  Rory glanced in the mirror, as if Paula ought to have known that. ‘Seaweed processing company. They’ve a base out here, north side of the island. And Fiona’s a doctor, and we didn’t have one since our old one died last year, so it was kind of handy enough. They seem to like it over here. Sort of outdoorsy types. Surfing, climbing, all that jazz.’

  ‘They weren’t married?’

  ‘No, but they seemed tight enough. I think they were together three years or something.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Fi’s thirty-six, and Matt’s, he’s like thirty-eight, I think?’

  ‘You know them pretty well, then,’ said Fiacra, scrubbing at his fogged-up window to look out. ‘Do you know everyone here?’

  ‘Aye, it’s only a small place, you know. We don’t get many outsiders. I liked having a chat with them, I guess. We’d have a drink the odd time in the pub – they loved all that diddly-dee and pints of Guinness.’ He’d switched to the past tense, Paula noticed.

  Fiacra said, ‘So what you’re saying is, it’s out of character they’d be gone like this?’

  ‘Yeah, it is. Fiona never missed a day of work before. Probably in her whole life, she’s one of those real diligent types, you know.’ He parked up. ‘Anyway, we’re here, so youse can see for yourselves.’

  When they got out of the car, Paula could feel the press of the wind, and almost staggered against it. Rory McElhone caught her eye, but didn’t offer help. This side of the island looked right into the Atlantic, with no shelter or buffer against its rage. Once inside the lighthouse – which stood high on the western cliffs, white and slender against the grey sea – Anne sprang into life, issuing orders and passing out foot covers. ‘Though no doubt you’ve already tramped all through the place,’ she said to Rory, somewhat fiercely. Her voice was dry and precise, posh Dublin.

  ‘Aye, well, we had to check they were OK first. Anyway I don’t carry a boiler suit or anything like that. Not much call for it out here.’

  ‘Who else was in here? I’ll need elimination prints.’

  ‘Seamas Fairlinn, he owns the pub, and the young fella who works there. Colm Meehan. That’s all.’

  The lighthouse was built with two small rooms on each floor, on either side of the spine of a winding stone staircase. On the ground floor, just inside the cheerful red-painted door, was the kitchen and a utility room filled with raincoats and boots, walking poles, a surfboard, and even a wetsuit, sprinkled with sand. The place smelled of damp and saltwater. Fiacra said, ‘So what happened, Garda McElhone? Can you talk us through it?’

  Rory stood in the small hallway between the rooms, hovering as if reluctant to go in. ‘Fi’s first patient called into my office yesterday morning to say she wasn’t in work. I went to check on her, she wasn’t in her surgery, so I came out here. When I got no answer I went down to Dunorlan’s, asked for some volunteers. Came up again with young Colm and Seamas. He’s out leading a search party right now.’

  ‘And you broke in?’ Paula moved past him to the kitchen. It was clean and tidy, a flowered tea towel hanging over the back of one kitchen chair. Fiona and Matt were either very organised, or they’d had time to get sorted before they disappeared. On the draining rack stood one blue mug.

  Rory sounded slightly defensive. ‘Aye. We forced the lock. We were worried about them, see. These old doors are flimsy anyway, one good boot will get you in.’ Outside, the splintered lock had been bolted over with a new padlock, and a bit of police tape fluttered ineffectually in the wind.

  Anne was poking about the kitchen, spraying things and taking little samples from the furniture and windows, which looked out on the green sweep of the Atlantic. She opened the cupboard doors, and Paula saw the kitchen seemed to be stocked with pre-packaged supermarket food. Gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free. The kind that cost a good two pounds extra per packet.

  ‘Some view they had up here,’ said Fiacra, his voice floating down the stairs.

  ‘Aye, but it’s fierce cold and exposed,’ said Rory, his eyes following Anne as she worked. ‘Lonely, you know.’ Even inside the thick walls they could feel the wind rocking and moaning, licking its way into every little crevice. The place was freezing, Paula thought, huddling her jacket around her.

  The next floor up had a bedroom and living room with an open fire, the ashes cold in the grate. Everything was neat here too, the bright red duvet pulled flat, books and magazines in tidy stacks beside the two armchairs. Bowls of candy-striped stones had been set around the place, as if someone had been aiming for what magazines might call a relaxed beach house vibe. The place was full of little touches, scented candles and wooden bowls and prints of Irish seascapes, the kind of home-making decoration Paula had no knack for. Her own house still contained all her parents’ tacky seventies pictures, from the Sacred Heart of Jesus to the framed shot of the Pope’s visit. It was cosy, romantic. As if arranged by someone who thought people might be seeing it, judging them by the smoothness of their duvet. Paula’s best friend Saoirse would be sticking it on her Pinterest board. She asked, ‘Would anyone know if things were missing – their clothes, toiletries, that sort of thing? Anyone a regular visitor?’

  Rory shrugged. That was a shame. Paula went in to look closer. There was a small bathroom off the bedroom, with seventies fittings. Again, everything was clean, even spotless. Paula looked for obvious gaps and found none – two toothbrushes, toothpaste, some items of make-up, lots of vitamins and supplements, electric razor. A woman’s gold watch sat on the bedside table, beside a framed photo of Matt and Fiona. A white middle-class couple, her with shoulder-length dark hair she wore tied back, and a calm, capable smile. Him taller, fair hair, stocky build. They were wearing North Face jackets – hers lime green, his red – and smiling in a selfie from the top of a mountain somewhere. ‘They look so happy.’

  Rory didn’t reply. What could you say? Happiness didn’t protect you from winding up in a case file. Smiling faces in a picture didn’t mean the truth wasn’t lurking behind them, dark and coiled. Paula had seen more such photos on Instagram. Fiona had started an account – @islanddoc – three months before, and filled it with shots of seals on the rocks, white-topped waves green as glass at their core, fishermen landing their catch in the harbour. The two of them posing in their small boat, which they’d called the London Lass. All hashtagged island nature rurallife and so on. The kind of thing Paula really couldn’t be doing with, but she had to admit it helped with the investigation. In a missing persons case, when all that was left behind was silence, you could sometimes find a clue in the chatter people put online. A nugget of truth among the hashtags and one-upmanship and bragging. According to Fiona, their life together had been perfect.

  ‘What’s up there?’ Fiacra gestured to the next floor, snapping at his gloves. Above their heads, the dome of the building soared, a skeleton of metal beams.

  Rory nodded his head. ‘Lighthouse.’

/>   ‘It’s still running?’

  ‘Oh aye. All automated these days, but a fella comes in every so often to check the bulb and that. It runs on a generator. That’s how we knew something was up with Matt and Fi, you see. It wasn’t just her being late to work – the light had gone dark.’

  Paula was already starting up the stone staircase. ‘We heard it was broken?’

  ‘You’ll see. Go on up.’

  The floor of the third storey sparkled, even in the low grey light. Smashed glass, ground in places into a fine powder, as if someone had walked all over it. The great bulb was empty and dark, and around it, in the wider glass bubble they stood in, you could see nothing but sea and sky, the edges smudged with mist. Paula felt dizzy just looking at it, the space, the light. It was warmer in there, the meagre heat of the day trapped under glass. Outside, a thin strip of balcony ran around the lighthouse.

  ‘Someone smashed it?’ she said.

  ‘Aye, we found it like this, so we didn’t touch a thing.’

  ‘We need Anne to take a look at this. There might be foot impressions.’ Fiacra called down. ‘Anne, would you come up here a wee second?’

  Her voice floated up, dry and professional. ‘I think we should focus here for now. There’s blood in the kitchen.’

  Fiona

  ‘Bone Island,’ I said. ‘You seriously want me to go and live on a place called Bone Island? There wasn’t one called Scary and spooky island of death?’

  Matt never rose to me. Sometimes, many times, I wished he would. ‘It’s from the Irish, babe. It just means White Island – Eilean Ban. They have this amazing white sand there, and a coral beach, even. I’ll show you pictures.’

  ‘How long have you been planning this?’ I was in the living room of our London flat, on the stained grey sofa the landlord had provided. Matt was in the kitchen. The place was so small we could have a full conversation like this. It was one of the many things I missed about our old place, our lovely two-bed Victorian conversion near Cambridge Heath station – the ability to be alone, to put walls around me. But we couldn’t go back there; the police said it was too dangerous after everything that happened, and we couldn’t afford a two-bed now. In the past few years, house prices had risen around our heads like floodwater.