‘Another of Wheeler’s children has gone missing,’ Grey said, ‘and Ewan’s going to be blamed.’
Bella saw in Grey’s anguish a conscientious man beginning to wonder if the township had been hiding a killer all this time, if the police and the media had been right, if Wheeler had been justified in his long persecution.
‘Ewan,’ she stammered. ‘No. Not Ewan. No … It was McGill, don’t you see, McGill, after Joss attacked him. It must have been him.’ She wasn’t sure she believed the accusation but she was in a panic to stop suspicion spreading about Ewan.
She saw Grey’s puzzled expression and heard him say, ‘I must be getting back, to help Alistair with the search.’ And in the abruptness of his leaving she realized he must have understood her motives. What else could she have said? Panic gripped her. She looked out through the windscreen at Grey’s retreating back and felt a lurch in her stomach at having let down Ewan, at having given Grey more grounds for suspicion. Should she call him back, should she confide in him, tell him about Ewan being on Priest’s Island with Pinkie? She daren’t. Nor could she let him leave like that. She had to do something, but what? In her confusion and worry she became aware of a red pickup ahead of her on the road, of Grey stopping briefly at the driver’s window and pointing. The next thing she knew she was leaning into the wind, the rain stinging her face, her skirt becoming heavy and clinging wet to her legs.
She arrived at the pickup when the driver’s door opened and Cal McGill got out. She heard herself screaming. ‘You did this, you. You cut the hawser in revenge.’ She jabbed at him with her finger. Two arms closed around her from behind. ‘You, Dr McGill. You’re to blame. You. You’re responsible. See what you’ve done.’ Her legs gave under her and Grey caught her as she fell. ‘It wasn’t Ewan.’ She stared up into the old crofter’s face. ‘Is Joss dead? Is she?’
19
Cal watched the men’s solemn faces and recalled Mr Close’s account of the investigation into Max Wheeler’s disappearance. The township had put on a public display of grief that the police believed to be an elaborate deception. He wondered if they had been right about that, and if they would think so this time as well. Cal glanced at the clock on the pickup’s dashboard: forty minutes already gone. ‘Come on.’ The weather was closing in: the sea and land turned brooding, visibility and hope slipping away. In two hours, less, the wind would be so strong the search would have to be abandoned, the risk to other lives and limbs too great.
Cal thought: if not the community in conspiracy against Joss Wheeler, then the elements. What chance did she have? He closed his eyes. ‘You’re to blame. You. You’re responsible.’ Nor was Bella alone in regarding him culpable. By their hostile glances, the township men did too. He’d stood among them after Bella’s departure, seeing surly accusation in their eyes. Even if he hadn’t cut the hawser, hadn’t he caused trouble enough by his unwanted meddling, by stirring up old tensions? In Alistair’s chilliness – ‘Dr McGill, it’d be better if you remained in your vehicle’ – he identified the same quick reflex to blame. It was why Cal still waited. Better not argue when searching for Joss was the priority.
‘You got four-wheel drive?’ Alistair’s head suddenly appeared at Cal’s open window.
Cal nodded.
‘That thing works, does it?’ Alistair spoke out of the side of his mouth. His head jerked upwards. Still, he didn’t look at Cal.
‘The spotlight?’ Cal said. ‘Yes.’
‘We’ll need this vehicle down at the search area.’
‘OK. Tell me where to go.’
‘Not you, leave your keys in the ignition. I’ll take it down. You’re to inform the family, Wheeler and his daughters. You’ll be taken to the harbour – your lift’s three cars back. The driver’s called Helen Jamieson.’ Alistair banged on the side of the pickup: end of discussion.
Cal swore.
He did so again as he got into Helen’s car.
‘Short straw?’ Helen said.
‘You’ve heard.’
Helen nodded. ‘I’ve been hearing quite a bit about you – about Bella MacLeod blaming you.’
She started the car and waited for four men to cross the road. Each held a black bin bag which jerked and flapped in the wind. Helen remarked on their resemblance to dogs straining at their leashes. ‘The bags are Beacom’s idea,’ she said. ‘He’s told Alistair to instruct the search parties to collect up anything that’s been blown from the caravan because it won’t be around for much longer.’
‘Christ, Alistair’s slow,’ Cal said. ‘Why don’t you take charge?’
‘Beacom doesn’t want me to.’ Helen pulled out into the road and changed gear. ‘Not if Alistair’s got things under control. Which he has. He’s methodical. What’s more he knows the men who are doing the searching and the ground that’s being searched. I don’t.’
A gust of wind shoved at the car. ‘Anyway,’ Helen said, ‘keeping a car on the road seems to be about the limit of my abilities.’ She glanced at Cal: ‘What will you say to Wheeler?’
‘What can you say to a man who’s already lost a son?’
‘Will you tell him about the blood in the caravan?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cal said. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’
‘To see Wheeler?’
‘Why not?’
‘Alistair’s asked me to go to the Deep Blue. I’ve to collect a kettle, coffee, tea, milk and some cups.’ She peered through the windscreen. ‘I’ve to leave them before the turn-off to the harbour, a council depot of some kind.’
Cal pointed ahead and to the left. ‘Just round the next corner. It’s a bit off the road.’
‘Apparently it’s got a phone, water, a toilet. Beacom’s going to base himself there when he arrives. There’s a key at the Deep Blue. I’ve to pick it up from Catriona and leave it in the lock so that Alistair can drop off the bin bags later on.’ She paused: ‘Interesting young woman, Catriona.’
‘In what way?’
‘She doesn’t like Joss Wheeler very much. In actual fact, she doesn’t like her a lot.’
‘Why?’
‘She thinks Joss stole her boyfriend.’
‘What, Ewan Chisholm?’
‘Catriona’s certain of it.’
‘So certain that she’d do something about it?’
‘Oh, every night she’d be slashing away at that hawser with a knife. In her dreams she would. In the mornings she must be surprised her bedroom isn’t a caravan scrap yard.’
‘Only in her dreams?’
‘I think so.’
Helen turned down the slip road towards the harbour. The Deep Blue’s windows were bright with light. ‘Speak of the devil.’ Helen looked into the tea room. The women were still sitting at tables, waiting for news. Catriona was standing at the counter. But Cal was looking in the direction of the harbour, at the Jacqueline.
Helen noticed the movement of his head. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ Cal said.
The hood hid her face, sheltering from the wind by the wheelhouse, a cigarette in her right hand.
‘Hannah?’ Cal asked.
The hood moved. ‘No, Chloe.’ The cigarette burned red as she put it to her mouth.
‘Chloe, I need to speak to your father.’
‘He won’t want to talk to you.’ She flicked the cigarette into the gap between the Jacqueline’s hull and the harbour wall, then she lit another. ‘You still here?’ She dragged on it twice. ‘Weren’t you told not to bother my father? You’re supposed to contact Mr Close.’
Cal pushed past. ‘For God’s sake, Chloe.’
The girl’s disdain turned to fearfulness as Cal went into the wheelhouse. ‘Tell him I told you not to disturb him,’ she shouted after him, as though concerned she would be blamed.
Cal found Wheeler in the saloon. He was sitting at the end of the small rectangular table. His shoulders were slumped. His hands gripped a half-empty bottle. His head hung over it, swaying with the m
ovement of the whisky and the boat. ‘Come back, have you?’ He cleared his throat, a cough which extended into a snarl of rage. ‘My favourite darling daughter, come back to pity me …’
‘I’m not Chloe, Mr Wheeler.’ He waited for Wheeler to react. ‘I’ve got some bad news about Joss.’
Wheeler’s head stopped moving. ‘What about her?’
‘She’s missing. The township’s out looking for her. Her caravan overturned in the gale. She was inside when it happened.’
Wheeler started swaying again and Cal waited for him to speak. He noticed the framed photograph on the wall above Wheeler’s head. It was of the family on the Jacqueline. In happier times, Cal thought. Wheeler and his wife stood at the prow; their children, like half-folded wings, in front and on either side, Max and Chloe by Wheeler, Joss and Hannah by their mother.
‘Mr Wheeler,’ Cal tried again. ‘Do you understand? Joss, your daughter, she’s missing.’
The swaying stopped. Wheeler growled, ‘I don’t have a daughter called Joss.’
The cabin door behind Wheeler opened. Hannah’s thin face appeared. ‘Are you talking about Joss?’ She seemed disorientated, woken from sleep. ‘What’s happened? What are you saying about her?’ She looked from Wheeler to Cal. ‘Well, what?’
Cal waited for Wheeler to speak.
‘Tell me.’ Hannah looked at Cal. ‘One of you.’
‘I’m sorry, Hannah,’ Cal said. ‘Joss is missing. There’s a search going on.’
He saw Wheeler’s hands move. Cal jerked to his right. The bottle struck wood panelling to his left. It fell unbroken on to the bench seat below and made a glugging noise as the remains of the whisky spilled out. ‘Get out,’ Wheeler shouted. He thrust his head forward. His eyes bulged. ‘Get out, damn you. Get out.’
Cal went back through the saloon’s double doors. Chloe was inside the wheelhouse. By her shocked expression, he thought she’d overheard.
‘What’s happened to Joss?’
‘Make your father understand, Chloe. Tell him it’s serious. Joss is probably hurt. She’s been missing since last night. Her caravan overturned. The township’s out looking for her. If she’s not found soon …’
Chloe gasped, ‘How, how did it happen?’
‘The hawser was cut. It was deliberate.’
Her eyes closed. Her head shook. ‘Why? Why Joss? She was on their side. Why would they want to hurt her?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cal said. ‘No one does. The police will be here tomorrow. They’ll find out.’
Chloe stared into Cal’s face, still searching for an answer.
Cal said, ‘Tell Hannah, will you? Tell your father.’
Chloe smiled weakly. ‘My father doesn’t care, not about any of us really, not at all about Joss, not since she went to live in the township.’
Going back across the parking area between the harbour and the Deep Blue, Cal wondered if the Wheeler family had ever been happy. He said the same to Helen when he got into her car.
‘How did Wheeler take the news?’
‘He said he didn’t have a daughter called Joss.’
‘You’re not serious?’
Bella wished Catriona would go to bed. It was night, probably ten o’clock, and here she was back in Bella’s room. Instead of saying anything, Bella kept her eyes closed and her breathing slow and rhythmic. She was alert for every movement Catriona made. When her niece put her face close to hers, Bella felt the lightest touch of warmth against her cheek. When Catriona stood up, Bella heard the rustle of her clothes. When she stepped back, one footfall, another, Bella followed Catriona by the creak of the floor. But when Catriona was still, when she stood and watched, Bella found the pretence of sleep difficult. Not only did her lids begin to twitch and her breathing become irregular and fast (or so it seemed to Bella) but her mind started to race. Was Catriona concerned for her – after confronting McGill she’d become faint and rather confused – or was she troubled about Ewan? Was that the reason she was lingering?
What more could Bella say to the girl other than the reassurance she’d given her earlier?
‘It’s not true what they’re saying about Ewan, is it?’ she’d asked Bella as she put a cup of tea on her bedside table. ‘He wouldn’t be involved, would he?’
‘Of course not,’ Bella replied. Then, in case Catriona thought Bella knew something, she added, ‘Don’t we both know Ewan well enough to be sure he wouldn’t do anything violent like that?’
Catriona nodded.
‘Well then.’
‘How do you know Ewan’s not involved?’ she asked quietly when she returned to Bella’s room. But Bella couldn’t answer. Nor could she lie. Pretending to sleep was the only deception possible while making silent declarations to Catriona, affirmations of love. While Bella willed her mental messages to vault the space between them, Catriona took a step away, another and another. Bella listened – now she heard the click of the door closing and she opened her eyes. Her breath came in gasps after the effort of keeping it slow and rhythmic while Catriona was close by. She made a promise. In the morning, she would hug Catriona and say aloud everything she’d thought in silence. How much she loved her. How precious she was.
Bella rearranged her pillows, sat up and watched the night sky. The wind chased black clouds fringed in white past her window – they looked like priests fleeing from the devil. Bella repeated the bargain she had struck with herself. Until she knew Joss and Ewan were safe, she wouldn’t sleep. She would watch over them. Though, in all honesty, what choice did she have but to stay awake? Bargain or no bargain, her eyes would be open wide, as they had been when she watched the caravan, when she saw it bucking and rearing.
An hour passed, another and another. Bella got out of bed, put on her dressing gown and went to the landing. She looked for a light under Catriona’s door. Seeing none, she allowed herself some small relief from her guilt. Perhaps, by feigning sleep, a responsibility had been lifted from her niece, allowing her to rest. At the bottom of the stairs, she removed her coat from its hook and went to the front door. She waited for a lull in the wind before opening and closing it quietly behind her. The wet and cold made her shiver, a shudder of fear for Joss. Would she have had time to put on her boots or even a coat? Inside the tea room, she turned on the lights. Instead of the chaos she expected, it was as neat and orderly as if she had tidied it herself. Everything was as it should be; tables cleared and wiped, clean napkins and cutlery on trays at the counter, ready for that morning. The kitchen was the same, nothing out of place. The pans were stacked, the teapots upside down on the drainer.
A single sheet of paper was on the table, a pen on top as if to prevent it, too, blowing away.
Everything’s been tidied away and ready for tomorrow, love you, Catriona. PS Helen helped, a lot!
The writing went smeary as tears filled up Bella’s eyes.
Helen, she wondered: who was Helen? Of course, the chalet! Bella had quite forgotten they had a guest. She boiled the kettle, made herself a mug of instant coffee and went back to the tea room. After turning out the lights she sat at a table by the large window. She stared unblinking into the darkness until dawn, when she hunted the emerging landscape. Her eyes flicked and flashed from place to place, going wherever light began to fall, as though by willpower alone it was possible to fashion a happy ending to this drama. Believe and it will be so, she told herself. Believe with every fibre, every muscle and every thought. She imagined Joss stumbling into view, making her way towards the tea room and to Bella.
There!
There!
Someone was there! Joss!
She hurried across the tea room floor, her legs and feet so cold they were numb apart from a pain in her toes. From the coat hook by the back door, she removed a pair of binoculars and returned to the window. Where was she? Bella couldn’t see any movement or any shape that looked like a person. Had she imagined Joss? Her hands shook when she lifted the binoculars to her face. She fiddled with the focus.
> There!
There she was!
Bella let out another cry of elation followed by one of disappointment. Her arms fell as though the binoculars had become too heavy. She sank into her chair and watched the moving figure now silhouetted against the sea: not Joss but McGill.
20
Past the harbour, the shoreline changed. From open bays, it became gap-toothed with deep inlets. Instead of waves breaking on gravel or sandy beaches, they dashed themselves against jutting headlands. Each impact was like a detonation. To Cal, it seemed as though he walked among a battery of guns; now this one firing, now that. Their reports roared in his ears. Salt spray stung his nostrils and eyes. For respite from the wind’s astringent blasts, he cupped his hands over his nose and narrowed his eyes to slits while he hunted exposed rocks and ledges in case Joss was already lying broken-backed and discarded. Then, before moving on, he searched the breaking waves, expecting some part of her, an arm or a leg, to breach the surface and to flop lifelessly into view. Walking between inlets, he turned his left shoulder to the wind and let his eyes stray inland, if only for relief from the storm.
On one of these times, he saw a helicopter. It flew low, appearing to clip the horizon before dipping out of sight: Detective Chief Inspector Beacom’s arrival. On another, wondering if the upturned caravan was yet in view, he looked to the north-west and saw a group of men. They were three hundred metres away and standing so close that Cal supposed they were discussing where next to search and using each other for shelter while they decided. He carried on to the next inlet, a gash of heaving sea, and only when he was climbing on to the next promontory did he see the men again. They had not moved and now that he was closer he noticed something familiar about their manner, how erect they were despite the ferocity of the conditions (why didn’t they crouch rather than stand?), how agitated they seemed to be.
The Malice of Waves Page 16