‘Oh no,’ said Fiona. ‘I’m sure they take you very seriously, Iris. It’s certainly my impression of them all.’
She sighed. ‘Thanks. Nothing about this is easy, so far.’ She raised the bottle again. ‘And Madison …’ she paused, let this trail off. ‘Madison is missing.’
‘I know.’
‘Will the police contact you if they find out anything more, do you think?’ Iris glanced sideways at her.
Fiona shook her head. ‘I think it’s unlikely that they’ll talk to me much. Now with her mother coming over. And Hugo.’ She let this hang there. ‘Anyway.’
‘Oh, is this the brother? Madison mentioned him. They don’t get on, do they?’
Fiona marvelled at this understatement. ‘Not really.’ She let her gaze fall to her feet, hoping the subject would be dropped. Even talking about Hugo made her feel uncomfortable.
The memory of that night in Cala Llombards was never far away.
‘Yeah,’ said Iris, contemplating the Hamnavoe in the darkness. ‘Madison mentioned that he came over here.’
Fiona shot a look at her, a wash of cold drenching her that had nothing to do with the weather. ‘What? To Orkney? When?’
‘It was a couple of weeks ago,’ said Iris, shrugging. ‘Near the start of the dig. She wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, if I remember …’
‘No, she wouldn’t have been.’
‘I don’t think they’d been in touch much …’
‘No,’ said Fiona. ‘As far as I knew, the last time was at his mother’s house on Majorca. There was, well, kind of an unpleasant episode. She hadn’t spoken to him since.’
As far as you know, she thought to herself.
Iris raised an eyebrow, but Fiona was relieved to see she had no interest in prying.
Hugo, here on Orkney?
Yet another thing Madison hadn’t told her about. But unlike the rest, this had the cold jab of treason. Had Madison invited him here? He was her brother, after all. Had she been making up to Hugo behind Fiona’s back, after what had happened?
Girl, she thought to herself, you should have called the police on him.
‘Ah, there you both are,’ Jack appeared in the hallway. ‘Everything all right?’
Fiona, mastering herself, nodded. Iris regarded her with a cool, steady gaze, her bright necklace winking in the porch light.
‘I know you don’t want to … you know, talk about Madison’s business, Fiona, but can you think of any reason why she might have disappeared?’
‘Other than Dom Tate being back on the scene?’ Fiona shook her head. ‘No. But you know,’ she said, suddenly remembering, ‘Douggie and Maggie thought she might have been seeing someone at the cottage.’
‘Seeing someone? Really?’ asked Iris, leaning forward and clearly fascinated. ‘Did they know who?’
‘No. But they came in unexpectedly to fix her wardrobe and found her with a guy there, and they mistook him for her boyfriend Caspar and …’
‘Mistook him for her boyfriend?’ asked Jack, his blond brows furrowing.
‘Um, yeah, it was kind of embarrassing, they said …’
‘That was me,’ said Jack.
Fiona stopped, stunned. ‘It was?’
‘Yeah. I remember being there. She’d smacked her head against the wardrobe door in the night. I said I’d come over and see if it could be fixed. Of course, it couldn’t be fixed – the glass was too big a piece and would need shipping in from the mainland – but I remember coming round, and the mix-up where Douggie and Maggie called me Caspar.’
‘But … oh …’ Fiona didn’t know what to say. ‘They seemed to think …’
Jack’s blue eyes widened. He was alarmed, as though he had only just begun to understand the implications inherent in this conversation. He looked to Iris. ‘I don’t know why they would think that.’
Iris shrugged. ‘It’d be none of my business either way.’ That said, she had blushed as well, and Fiona doubted it was with pleasure. Her mouth was a thin, hard line.
Jack glowered at her. ‘I’m not sure how happy I am that they’re spreading stories like that around.’
Iris sighed, let her eyes close. ‘Why? What’s it to do with them, anyway?’
‘Because she’s gone missing,’ he said. He was growing more and more angry, the knuckles of his muscular hand whitening around the bottle. ‘And, most importantly of all, it’s simply not true. Lots of people could end up hurt.’ His face was ruddy. ‘I’ve half a mind to say something to those two …’
‘Please don’t,’ said Fiona, growing alarmed. ‘I feel terrible. I’m quite sure they’re not telling other people.’
‘With all due respect, Fiona, you don’t know that,’ said Jack.
‘I’m sure they meant no harm,’ said Fiona, miserable now that she had only been on the island two nights and had already embroiled herself in a fight over loose talk.
Almost as if he had read her mind, Jack smiled briefly at her. ‘You know, I can see that it’s worrying you, but I have no intention of coming at them all guns blazing. That said, I’m going to let them know the truth on that score. Just so we’re all straight.’
‘Of course,’ said Fiona, though she still felt anxious, as though she was betraying somebody. ‘Especially with her family arriving tomorrow.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jack, nodding vigorously.
‘I better get off,’ Fiona said, the chill starting to seep into her clothes, ‘I’m sure you guys want to get to bed.’
‘You too,’ said Jack. ‘It must have been a long day. Becks,’ he called back into the house, ‘are you ready to take Fiona here back?’
‘I was ready ten minutes ago,’ said Becky coldly.
‘It’s all right,’ said Fiona, dreading getting into the van with her again. ‘I can always get a taxi …’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Iris. ‘Becky can take you. It’s not that far. And we did offer.’
There was something very precise and definite about this speech, and though Iris didn’t look around, Fiona had the sense that it was being made to Becky rather than herself.
In any event, Becky appeared, sighing. ‘Come on then. Let’s go.’
‘Uh, thank you,’ said Fiona to them all. ‘It was lovely to get out.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ said Jack. ‘And keep us posted. Good luck tomorrow with Madison’s family.’
Iris smiled at her. ‘Honestly, Fiona, I’m convinced it’ll turn out to be all right,’ and to Fiona’s surprise she gave her a brief, tight hug. ‘But keep us in the loop, okay?’
‘Yeah, of course. And thanks again.’ Fiona picked up her coat off the hook near the door, and then saw, next to it, a flash of dark grey fur, something she recognised.
‘Is this Madison’s hat?’ she asked Iris, lifting it off the peg.
Iris turned to peer at it, shrugged. ‘You know, I think it is. Madison was always leaving things here.’
Fiona turned it over in her hands. Yes, it was Madison’s trapper hat, all right, with its waxed grey crown and faux-fur lined earflaps. It had always made Madison look like an adorable wolf, and Fiona had often teased her about it.
She sniffed it, and the vaguest whisper of the scent of Madison’s hair came out of it. Something squeezed hard within her chest.
‘Can I borrow this?’
‘Of course,’ said Iris gently. ‘If you want.’
19
Grangeholm, Orkney, January 2020
Fiona woke in the middle of the night, curled up in her bed in Langmire.
She was groggy, disoriented and slightly hungover as the wind thudded into the windows. She had no idea what time it was, or what had woken her – she had only the sense that she’d heard something that somehow didn’t belong.
She lay motionless, listening to the tiny scratch of her eyelashes against the cotton of her pillow, to the murmur of the window glass juddering gently in its frames, to the distant cry of guillemots out over the sea. On the little bedside table
, her phone, upright on its charging stand, read 3:17 a.m.
Seconds ticked on into minutes, became 3:19, 3:23, but whatever had woken her was not repeated.
She must have dreamt it, she realised. Perhaps it wasn’t that surprising, with all that had gone on.
Her eyes fluttered shut once more.
And then it happened. It was the most minute non-sound, a sigh of held, controlled breath, and then, next to it, the mere shadow of a footfall.
It was coming from outside her bedroom door.
Fiona absolutely froze, even her lungs stilling, leaving her alone with nothing but the hidden, racing beat of her own heart.
A few seconds more, and then another footstep, and this time there was no doubting what it was, stealthy though it had been – the floor creaked beneath it.
An unbearable panic and terror washed over her, thick and cold, drenching her in icy sweat. She could no longer even think clearly. She lay as still as the dead, waiting for the bedroom door to open, for this interloper to walk in to her room, for …
No. This would not do. She couldn’t be discovered here like this, supine and helpless. She had to get up.
She had to get up.
Slowly, so slowly, she slid out from beneath the duvet, bare inches at a time, even the tiny sounds of her skin scraping against the linen filling her with fear. She had no plan, except, perhaps, to steal along the bedroom floor, plant her back against the door, and …
She glanced at her phone.
Yes. Call the police.
Her hand closed around it as, trembling, she rose to her feet.
And suddenly the whole room was bathed in white light, with an accompanying motorised roar.
Somehow, she managed not to scream. In fact, she could not have screamed, her throat closing shut, her body growing stiff.
Outside the bedroom window a car had growled awake, and the white lights, she realised, were its headlights, piercing the gaps in the curtains. They were on full beam and she was dazzled then, raising her hand to shield her eyes as the car roared again, groaning as it was thrust into reverse, and then peeling away and vanishing into the night, with a high squealing that moved away with immense speed.
It came into her head, suddenly, almost nonsensically, that whoever it was had perhaps been as startled as she was.
Despite this, and the heavy, empty quiet that descended once more over the house, it took her at least five minutes before she even dared to move towards the bedroom door, the phone still gripped in her hand. She was too frightened to raise it to her face, to even speak into it.
Out in the hall, in the living room, all was exactly as she had left it, bathed in gentle moonlight. Her handbag still sat on the couch, undisturbed. The empty coffee mug lay where she had left it on the table.
There was no sign of any intruder.
The door. Try the door. If that door is …
The front door was locked. Locked exactly as it had been when she’d checked it when she came in, surly Becky already gunning the van away, ignoring her called out goodbye.
She tried the handle, flexing it up and down, but it was impervious, resolutely sealed.
Had it been the van outside, just now? Was that what had woken her? Could the archaeologists, or Becky, have come back for some unknown reason at three in the morning? No, no, she didn’t think so. It had sounded like a car as it drove away. A small car. So it wouldn’t have been the Fletts, either – Douggie had a truck.
She searched the house, slowly, shaking still, but growing in confidence that whoever it was had now gone. All was in order. Picture frames glinted and the sofas were a soft grey in the moon’s light, innocuous, waiting for her as she flicked on the light. She paused at the big picture window upstairs, looking out over the drive to the sea, the wood flooring warm beneath her feet, and felt her heartbeat returning to normal.
Out on Helly Holm, the lighthouse flared and went out, flared and went out.
She’d checked all the windows. Everything was locked.
Her phone was still in her hand, her fingers curled tightly around it, the knuckles white.
Now it was time to call the police, to tell them …
To tell them what?
She couldn’t, she realised, swear that someone had been in the house. Yes, she’d thought she’d heard a footstep, a breath, and there had definitely been a car here, a car with no business at this address, but what if she had imagined the sounds coming from inside? After all, the wind was buffeting the front of the house, a feisty fore-taster of the gales the archaeologists were expecting on Tuesday. Of course the house would shift and creak. Tiny draughts moved through the most secure windows.
She’d been woken, perhaps, by the car noise. Yes, that made sense. There was no traffic out here, so any car would have been loud, have disturbed her sleep.
But what had they wanted?
A tiny hope flared up in her then.
Could it have been Madison?
But that was impossible. Why would Madison be skulking around the cottage and not tell Fiona?
She peered through the window: the drive was dark, the road a pale silver. No cars moved along it now.
Perhaps it was someone that was looking for Madison?
And as it occurred to her, she realised the absolute truth of it. They had been looking for Madison. Perhaps whoever it was had realised that this wasn’t Mads’ car in the driveway.
Perhaps they had peered in through the curtains, she thought with a slippery nausea, and seen her asleep in Madison’s bed.
Was it the mysterious boyfriend? No, no, it couldn’t be, because Jack had told her that was him. That had been a misunderstanding, a mistake.
She paused, staring still into the darkness.
Or so he had said. She should not be too quick to trust any of them, she realised. But it didn’t explain why Jack would be driving out here in the middle of the night. He already knew Madison was not here.
Her fingers tightened on the phone, so tightly they hurt.
It could only be, it must be, Dominic Tate.
He wouldn’t be shy about coming after Madison. About coming after her.
After all, he’d done it before.
20
Saxon Street, Cambridge, March 2019
The first thing that struck Fiona as she opened the door, her black sack of rubbish in hand, was how mild the night was.
It had been a beautiful day, and the low murmur coming from the people sitting outside the pub opposite was full of laughter, a barely restrained joy. Spring had come at last, and it seemed all of Cambridge had caught the scent of it.
She felt a little tug of sadness as she stood in the narrow lane that was Saxon Street – here it was, this gorgeous evening, and she was alone, buried in work, confined to barracks. Perhaps Madison was right. She should get that dating app she’d been thinking about for months.
After all, she thought, stepping out on to the cobbles, gazing up at the moon as she let the door swing shut behind her, lots of people met through apps nowadays. She didn’t need to feel as though it made her a failure. Lots of people found it hard to connect in real life, not just her, and …
A lone cyclist let out a sudden yell and ring of his bell as he raced up the tiny cobbled lane at dazzling speed, heading against the one-way direction, and she shouted in surprise as he shot across in front of her.
‘Look where you’re going!’ he snarled out behind him.
She bridled. ‘You look where you’re going – idiot!’
He threw back an obscene gesture, and she glared after him as he vanished into the gloaming.
‘Twat,’ she muttered, aware of herself breathing hard at the near miss. She hoisted the black bag higher.
The bins were in the central courtyard where the cars were parked, and as she pushed open the red gate on its swing mechanism and its strident signs saying PRIVATE, she became aware of something wet brushing against her bare calf below her pink capri pants.
The b
ag was leaking – it was over-full and dripping some dark stinking liquid on to her skin, on to her newish white tennis shoe.
‘Oh, for fuck’s … argh!’ She could never keep anything nice for longer than ten minutes, she thought, crossing quickly through the narrow pathway in the dark. She needed to throw this in now before it split any further and she was left with a pile of festering muck on the paving stones.
Typical. And she had so much to do. Just typical.
The bins were full – it seemed the entire estate had had the same idea, all hours before she had – and then there was the disgusting work of swinging up the sticky lid of the skip from where it rested on the pile, before she could toss the ruptured bag on top.
The lid banged down on to its burden, closing like jaws. Rubbing her grubby hands together she turned to head back to her flat; to her half-drunk coffee and the article on Aztec goldwork she was in the process of reviewing for World Archaeology.
She froze.
Standing in front of her, not five feet away, was Dominic Tate.
He wore a pale T-shirt and tight skinny jeans that belonged on a younger man. In the weak streetlighting his face was shadowed, saturnine, and a faint gleam of sweat dewed his clenched forehead, his thin moustache.
She had not seen him since the court case a week ago, when he’d been standing in the dock in his charcoal suit, glaring at her as she sat in the public gallery.
‘Hello, Fiona.’
His voice was tight, neutral.
A flush of cold panic came over her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, hearing the fear in her voice and hating it.
‘I’m not here for you.’ He gestured away, as though she was of no account. At least his hands were empty. He was trying to stay even, dispassionate, but he couldn’t quite control the edge of his rage, his contempt for her. ‘I just need you to pass a message on to Madison.’
She stood absolutely still, considering him. What she wanted, more than anything, was to tell him where to shove his message. To point out to him that she was not his courier and that after a mere six days he was already breaching his restraining order – was he insane?
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