‘And who would have access to that?’
‘Um, well, the sys admin,’ said Callum.
‘Who would be …’
‘Me, usually. But to be honest, we’re a small team so we all log in as admin from time to time. It’s one thing to have this locked-down security when there are dozens of overly hormonal undergraduates under your feet, sending each other dirty pictures, but when there’s just half a dozen of you, it’s starting to get ridiculous.’
‘So, anyone on the team could read those log files?’
Callum looked uncomfortable again. ‘I suppose so. That said, I’m not sure where they are. Once it was done and dusted, we never bothered reading the log files. Nobody has the time to sit there and monitor what everybody else is doing on their company laptops.’
‘No,’ said Fiona, her thoughts a million miles away. ‘I suppose not.’
She had discovered so much more than she had bargained for, she realised. Potentially any of the archaeologists could have accessed Madison’s passwords at any point.
Any one of them could be Mads’ murderer, and she was contemplating joining them on a tiny remote island, far from aid.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said, opening the van door. ‘See you at the dig.’
41
Helly Holm Car Park, Orkney, January 2020
The minute Callum pulled away Fiona was on the phone, letting herself into her car, pushing down Madison’s trapper hat to control her wind-whipped hair. This close to Helly Holm she was down to a mere couple of bars of signal.
In the distance, against the louring sky, storm clouds roiled towards Helly Holm.
‘Hi, I’d like to talk to DI Gillespie. This is Fiona Grey. I just found something out about Madison’s laptop …’
‘I’m afraid he’s not here yet.’ It was the woman she’d spoken to yesterday morning. ‘But I can get him to call you back.’
‘Um, that’s no good to me,’ Fiona clutched her phone tight to her ear, gazing all around her. ‘I’m about to head off to Helly Holm soon. There’s no phone reception out there.’
‘Ah. Well, I can certainly take a message. Is this in connection to the missing persons case?’
∗ ∗ ∗
There was one more thing she could do, she reflected as she opened up her phone.
She could check Madison’s email account. She knew the password was Rhub4rb1. It had used to be Rhubarb, until Fiona had persuaded her, and not without encountering some resistance, to add the numbers in.
Madison was a hacker’s dream.
It had, up till now, seemed an unforgivable breach between them, even if Madison was dead, but Fiona’s thoughts had changed in the aftermath of her conversation with Callum. It was very likely Madison’s enemy had been hacking her online life constantly.
Maybe it was time one of her friends did. There might be something in there that would help.
She logged in on her phone, entered Madison’s details.
At first, when the email portal came up, she thought she’d typed something wrong.
The second time, her heart started to pound.
Everything in Madison’s inbox had been deleted from before she went missing. There were the eight emails Fiona had written; enthusiastic, suspicious and then desperate. There was a welter of promotional spam and newsletters, none older than Wednesday. There was an email from a Sam Hardwick, someone Fiona didn’t know, titled Greetings! which she didn’t want to click on, as she realised it would then show as read …
Oh, of course. How stupid she was.
She realised that the mere act of looking at this page altered the evidence on it – that the police would be able to tell when it was last accessed, and her imagination embarked on a car crash scenario where the police saw it had been opened, and gave up searching for Madison, abandoning her to her fate.
She was going to have to explain that she’d done it, and she wasn’t sure, but she suspected it might be illegal, even though Madison had told her the password. What with tearing open the box with the laptop, she was starting to rack up her Interfering With Evidence Miles – throw in the assault on Hugo and she wondered if she was looking at actual prison time.
Maybe she should blow out Helly Holm and head back to the mainland, explain herself, throw herself on DI Gillespie’s mercy.
‘I am so stupid,’ she said to herself, and once again had that hot, squeezing sensation of wanting to cry, of longing for the relief of tears, and being unable to satisfy it. ‘I’m sorry, Mads. I’m so sorry. I keep fucking everything up.’
She was about to close the browser, when she thought she would just briefly look at the other folders. Perhaps not all was lost – there was Mads’ Sent folder – no, that was completely empty, everything in it deleted, and this gave her a pang of pure fury. Mads had been silenced within her own account, the central repository of her funny, touching, spiky, rambling missives gone, and it struck Fiona as yet another violence against her.
The other folders were empty too – Spam, Junk, Trash, and in Drafts there was only a handful of things Mads had started but never sent: an email to her landlord about the stinking drains, a note to Fiona about a play they were off to see at the Donmar that night, and finally, an email addressed to her, dated January 12th that year. Whoever had gone through, systematically deleting the contents, must have missed this folder.
They had probably had a lot on their mind at the time.
Eagerly, she clicked on it to open it.
There was no text, and she ached with disappointment. It seemed just an empty email, before she realised it was not empty – it was just a single large attachment: SMAIDENNOV19.mov.
Before she could stop herself, before she could think, she had hit Send. It blinked for a moment, then vanished out of the folder, on its way to her.
Ah well. In for a penny, in for a pound. Mads had been in the process of sending it to her, after all, right?
Sometimes the ends justified the means.
It would take a while to arrive, with such a large attachment (a video – what could it be?) and she probably wouldn’t get to watch it till she was off Helly Holm.
Now she had done it, so impulsively, so spur of the moment, anxiety and guilt suddenly assailed her. Was she mad? What if she’d destroyed something important, committed some computer faux pas that would keep Mads’ killer out of prison?
What if she’d committed an actual crime? Would she be fired from work? Would she go to jail?
Stop it, she told herself.
Calm down. You need to think.
Her fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel.
She had been right. It was one of them. Whoever it was had faked being Mads from a computer. She knew now that they had access to all her passwords – they had the means to pretend to be her.
But why? She still had no idea why.
And what was she going to do? She couldn’t go over to Helly Holm now, surely?
A cold chill stole over her. Her tapping fingers ceased.
You know, I think I have to.
If she didn’t go, whoever it was would know that she knew. If she just ghosted them now, they’d ask Callum when he’d last seen her, perhaps even ask him what they’d been talking about. From there whoever it was could destroy evidence, run away, or even hurt someone else.
And whoever they were, they couldn’t get away with this.
Her teeth gritted, and she felt wild, almost feral. I will not allow it. I owe it to Madison.
She had to go. She had to get herself to Helly Holm once the way was clear. She must give them no reason whatsoever to suspect anything was wrong. Callum wasn’t the threat – he would never in a million years have told her what he did if he’d thought it mattered.
She wouldn’t be in any danger, they weren’t on alert. She just needed to make sure she wasn’t alone with any of them. Just cover up that boat burial and get off the island, and then run, not walk, back to Kirkwall.
She had al
ready packed her belongings into her little suitcase, thrown it into the back of her car that morning.
She would not spend another night in Nordskaill House.
There was every chance one of them was a killer.
42
Helly Holm, Orkney, January 2020
Fiona stood on the edge of the causeway leading out to Helly Holm. Before her, the islet rose out of the sea, the straight concrete road to it wet and grey before her. The smell of the ocean, briny and organic, blew all around.
She dropped her chin into the collar of her coat, the wind already tugging at Madison’s hat, and started walking.
The sky behind the islet was an icy blue-grey and swirled dangerously with fast moving clouds as she picked her way over the slippery causeway. A growing smudgy line of darkness stretched across the horizon, and from far away came the first rumbling of thunder.
On Helly Holm itself, the boat bobbed next to the little shingle spit they had tethered it to. The archaeologists were on the islet, hurrying about their tasks. The tent they had erected over the burial lay to one side, the poles splayed, like a grounded jellyfish, and someone, probably Callum, though it was hard to be sure at this distance, was standing over it, rubbing at his head.
Beyond, the white stub of the lighthouse flashed in the gathering darkness.
She had the sense then that she should go no further – that she should turn around, flee.
Someone on that island had very likely murdered Madison. Yes, Dominic Tate and Hugo had motives, it was true, but it could only be one of the archaeologists who had the means. It was one of them that had got hold of Madison’s account details, who had pretended to be her, all the while knowing she was gone.
But why? She just didn’t understand why …
The fact that she didn’t understand why put her in a very dangerous position.
Surely whoever it was wouldn’t attempt anything against her – they had no reason to suppose she knew anything suspicious.
She would be in the open, in public. She would be perfectly safe, so long as she was careful.
But all of this opened up the burning, gnawing question – who had killed Madison? Was it Jack, who’d lied about sleeping with her? Was it Becky, who she’d befriended then dropped? Callum, who’d envied her Iris’s favour? Or even Iris herself for some strange, hidden reason?
All of these motives seemed tenuous to Fiona, though; barely enough to trigger a quarrel, never mind a murder.
There’s something you’re not seeing. You were brought up here to look.
As she hesitated, her steps slowing, she saw them noticing her on the islet, calling to one another as they rushed between the storage boxes. Iris waved at her.
Don’t be a fool, she told herself. Don’t tip them off. She’d help them pack the site up, wave goodbye, cross this causeway back to land, get in her car and never look back. She’d tell the police all she knew and then, the minute she could, head on home.
She’d call Adi, when she was done here, and tell him she was coming back.
So, though the skies churned and the sea roared, she walked on, the water lapping at her new, creaking boots, as though it wished to drag her down and claim her.
∗ ∗ ∗
She arrived into a typhoon of activity, whipped on by the darkening skies. The three big storage boxes were being pulled into a circle by the men, as if they were cowboys defending a wagon train about to be attacked by Indians.
‘Fuck me,’ snapped Callum. ‘Where’s the key for this? It’s so heavy. Is there a body in … Fiona!’
‘Hey, Fiona!’ Jack called out with a grin. He and Becky were now wrestling with big rolls of black plastic sheeting. ‘There’s gardening gloves in the storage locker, the one on the end.’
‘Thanks!’ she shouted back. From here, at the top of the dig, the wind was already strong and gusty enough to make standing feel unsteady. It had blown down the tent protecting the main chamber of the burial. Pools of water collected in the waterproof fabric, gently vibrating as if to the footsteps of monsters.
Iris was at one of the storage boxes, kneeling to examine the lock. She looked up as Fiona approached and smiled. Now Fiona was here and ready to work, it seemed all was forgiven.
‘What are you after?’ she said, half-shouting over the wind, the far away crash of thunder.
‘Gloves,’ said Fiona.
Iris pulled off her own. ‘Take these, they’re dry. I’ve a pair in my coat. We’re going to pack the tent up next and take it down to the boat, yeah?’
Fiona responded with a nod.
∗ ∗ ∗
It took the best part of an hour. All activity – even something as simple as rolling up the tent fabric – took far longer than normal as everyone was hampered by the wind and the driving sleet that came up out of nowhere. Holding things up to pour the gathered rainwater out of them caused it to spray into faces and over coats. Aluminium poles thrummed as though they had independent life, and at one point one was knocked into Callum’s chin, grazing it.
Fiona was pink-faced with effort, the inside of her coat hot and damp in spite of the weather. Her ears stung, and her hair was soaked.
On the horizon, lightning arced across the clouds, down into the gunmetal sea. The storm was drawing nearer.
She was dispatched with Jack to the boat, each gripping heavy, sweat-damp, folded tent fabric.
‘Watch your step on the way down!’ shouted Iris, carrying big whorls of twine and coloured pegs in a wheelbarrow. ‘Becky, no, leave the big tools, the spades and mattocks! And don’t forget, we need to get the wheelbarrows on board too, so save space for them!’
Fiona turned, looked back towards the mainland. Already the water looked nearer to the causeway, the rock pools fuller.
‘I need to go soon!’ she shouted to Jack, pointing.
He nodded. ‘Yep. Just this load and I think we all need to go. The sea’s not looking too clever.’
They now began marching down the slippery, sodden turf, with its pockets of ice and snow, to the spit at the bottom of Helly Holm.
Fiona regarded the boat with dread and suspicion.
‘Are you all right getting on it while it’s tied up?’ shouted Jack over the wind.
‘Yeah,’ she said, her heart in her mouth. Already she was alone with one of them. How had that happened? ‘I think so.’
Jack flashed her a smile. ‘Let’s do it, then! Are you all right? You look pale …’
‘I’m fine.’
They carried the poles and sticks down three steep steps, piled them in the cabin. Within, crates and stray boxes had begun to mount up. The deck lurched beneath her feet.
‘Here, Fiona, give me that,’ said Jack. ‘We can put that across the stuff at the back, keep the rain off it.’ He lifted the tarpaulin out of her hands. ‘You’re soaked,’ he said. ‘I’m going to run back up. You stay down here, and clear spaces for the buckets and smaller tools.’
‘Right,’ said Fiona, conscious this would leave her alone. ‘But I n-need to get off soon …’
‘Yep, just do this for me now and we can all take care of the rest. See you back at the house later for a beer, yeah?’
She hesitated, barely able to meet his frank, friendly gaze. ‘Um, yeah. I’ve got an errand in Kirkwall, but …’ she stammered, aware of herself as evasive, shifty. ‘Of course.’
‘Great,’ he said, but his face was cloudy, and she felt he had guessed something was up. ‘Catch you later.’
Then he was gone.
She quickly moved various things into a more stable order, tidying up fallen measuring tapes, stacking the poles against the walls, but nobody else came. Anxious, she popped her head out.
Up on the top of the islet, she could see them manipulating full wheelbarrows down the steep path, moving slowly, Iris at the front, acting as a guide. It would take them a little while to reach her. Becky and Callum followed her. There was no sign of Jack.
Idly, she pulled out her phone, rubbed
the condensation and water off the front with her bare hand. Her mail was open, and she saw that the file from Madison’s account had downloaded.
It was, indeed, a video.
She looked out again. The others were still quite far away, and in fact had stopped, as Becky’s barrow had tipped over, and some trowels and short shovels had fallen out.
Fiona swiped through her phone, while rain pattered once more against the cabin roof, the tapping of a thousand fingers – a few at first, then a driving tempo of them.
The video, SMAIDENNOV19.mov, opened instantly. It must have downloaded while she crossed the causeway.
It was short, a mere three minutes. Numbers ran along the bottom, showing the running time. It opened on Iris, peering into a display case, containing a golden necklace that Fiona instantly recognised as the Jesmond Hill torc. This must be the British Museum. Iris leaned in towards it, her face glowing with soft wonder, one hand drifting up to her chest. Then she stood up, faced the camera. Her brightly coloured geometric top was of a piece with her painted lips, the vivid dark mass of her hair. A thin leather thong went around her neck, vanished down into the front of her shirt.
It was film, an outtake, perhaps, from Discovering the Past. It was some kind of pre-production footage – with the date, it must have been made in the past couple of weeks.
‘And this is one of my favourite objects – both historically, and also in a personal context. The torc is made out of nearly pure gold.’ The camera now concentrated on the object itself, a solid golden necklace, open at the front with lavishly ornamented ends. It was sumptuous and beautiful.
The archaeologist in Fiona lingered, fascinated, as Iris went on to describe its construction.
It was an interesting enough video, she supposed – but why had Madison thought of sending it to her?
‘Fiona! Are you in there? Give us a hand!’ shouted Iris from outside, her voice more shrill and urgent than the velvety narration she’d been delivering in the video.
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