‘And you wanted to do the right thing,’ said Fiona slowly. ‘I bet you even thought she’d be grateful to escape public humiliation.’
‘Yeah.’ Madison’s face was bitter. ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ agreed Fiona, thinking. ‘It was a lovely idea but it would never have worked, Mads.’
‘But …’
Fiona shook her head. ‘If Iris had submitted, she would have been in your power.’
‘You think I’d blackmail her? I wouldn’t do that!’ Madison’s anger was awl-sharp, her head lifting.
‘It’s not about who you are,’ said Fiona, trying to find the words that would make Madison understand. And once again, that wrench was rising, about to fall, and … ‘It’s about who Iris is. And she’s the dominator. She rules Jack. She rules the dig. She rules you. You think that by offering her mercy she’ll reassess, seize the second chance, but nah, nah. She can’t be in your power or in your debt. And you know things about her now.’ Fiona tipped her head at Madison. ‘You had to go.’
Madison swallowed. ‘So it seems.’
‘What happened?’ asked Fiona gently.
Madison twitched at the little bag of sweets again. ‘I got a text from Jack. I mean, I thought it was Jack. Had he left his wallet on the boat? Could I look? So I went out there, I think – I can’t remember it. They say it’s the concussion and it might not come back. The next thing I knew I was on the boat with a chain around my ankles and she was … anyway.’ She wiped at her chin, the cuts on her knuckles standing proud. ‘The rest you know.’
‘Mads,’ Fiona shook her head. ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’
‘I’m alive because of you, babes.’ Madison’s face was deadly serious. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it.’
Fiona reached over, wordlessly squeezed her hand again.
The silence lay between them, growing in weight, in substance.
‘I …’ Fiona began. She swiped at her eyes, feeling she was sinking, sinking, and might never get up again. ‘I just stabbed that woman through the heart, you know?’ She looked at Madison, and her throat was clenching, full of tears – tears of horror – horror and unavoidable regret. ‘I don’t – I don’t really know how I feel about that.’
Madison looked back at her.
‘You did. But we’re both alive.’ Madison offered her a crooked smile. ‘So I know how I feel about it, Sword Lady.’
48
Grangeholm, Orkney, January 2020
It takes Madison about five minutes to pile on her outdoor clothes. When she turns off the cheerful noise of the television, the stillness is mournful, sinister somehow.
She is hopeful that perhaps the strange light over on Helly Holm will have vanished by the time she braves the fresh outdoors and darkness, and heads out of the cottage to her little gold rented Peugeot, but no such luck. The wind batters at her as she opens the car door, the sea murmuring nearby, as though telling secrets.
She can see the Helly Holm car park in the distance as she putters along the road in the Peugeot, her coat and hat and a heavy industrial torch thrown on the seat next to her. Normally there are at least a couple of cars or caravans parked here at night – when it’s clear, she’s told, there’s often a chance of seeing the Northern Lights.
But now there is only one vehicle – the white van the archaeologists use. Someone must have cocked up – dropped or forgotten something important, and she hopes it isn’t her.
Ah well. She should swing by, make sure they’re all right out there in the dark.
She’s braking, just before she turns off towards the car park, when she glimpses someone walking back from Helly Holm along the causeway.
In an instant, even at this distance, she recognises Iris – her long, lean figure, her rolling walk, the torchlight jiggling over the wet concrete path before her, and before she realises, consciously, what she’s doing, she’s driving on, past the turn-off for the car park, along the road, accelerating as fast as she dares.
What the hell did she just see?
She cannot account for her kneejerk reaction to this. Something about it, the oddness of it, set her off – Iris driving the van up here, and not in the plush embrace of her white Taurus in which she could be recognised; the lateness of the hour, her aloneness – she has a bevy of attendants she can send in her stead – why has she come alone, in so dark, so dangerous an hour?
And hot on the heels of all this, a thousand chance remarks, intercepted glances, and the whirling sparks of Madison’s own intuition. There’s something about all this gold – this brilliant, unlikely and constant outpouring of good fortune.
Fool’s gold.
Something not right.
Madison’s fingers tap on the steering wheel as she speeds along the winding road to Finstown under the ink-black sky. In the rear-view mirror, the van has appeared – far away now, but gaining in speed. Iris must be hammering the accelerator.
Madison turns down a farm lane shaded by boulders, waits.
Nothing about this is right.
You know what you think.
And they all think it. All of them. Everyone must think it. But nobody is saying it, at least not out loud.
So, go to Helly Holm and look. If you’re right, whatever it is will be in one of the trenches – C, probably, as that’s the one Iris was working in today. If you look now, the soil will be fresh, disturbed.
Go look. Now. While the tide is still out.
Tomorrow may be too late.
Even while she tells herself it’s too dark to see anything, she’s wasting her time, imagine what would happen if the tide goes out and she’s stuck there, what if Iris comes back? the white van is passing her hiding place now, and is it her imagination, but is the van slowing slightly, as though Iris is looking for her?
Madison sits absolutely still.
She waits for what feels like hours but is probably no more than ten minutes.
The van does not return.
She fires the car up, heading back the way she’d come, as though drawn by the white lantern of the lighthouse, blinking on and off, away out to sea.
And each time the light flashes alive, Madison briefly sees the rising bulge of Helly Holm, and the cloudy pale road cutting through the sea, leading to its foot.
When she climbs out of the car the sea is returning to the causeway – it glimmers briefly on the edge of her vision in the predictable shuttered pattern of the lighthouse lantern.
This is madness, she realises. She will be lucky to get up there, find what she’s looking for, unseen – if there even is anything to see – and get back in time without being stranded.
And if she is stranded, what will she tell the archaeologists? She cannot shake the sense that Iris spotted her speeding away tonight.
She stands at the foot of the causeway, her torch pointing at it. It shines slickly.
You could just go back to Langmire, you know. Go home and say nothing – see no evil, et cetera. Pretend to be delighted when whatever it is turns up tomorrow. If anything turns up tomorrow. Pose for the pictures. Smile for the local press. Look pleased.
Besides, what good would trying to stop it do? Madison knows she’s being sabotaged, undermined at the dig already, because of her relationship with Jack. It will be easy to paint her as a crazy person, unstable, difficult after the fact. She can see Iris mournfully explaining – ‘Poor Madison. She was under so much stress with her stalker. She’s imagining things.’
Iris is famous, celebrated, on her way to becoming a national treasure. The others will follow her lead.
You could just go with it, she thinks to herself, as the wind buffets her back.
It could be good for you. Good for your career.
Fiona would be impressed. It might finally put you on an even footing with her.
And something hardens within her.
No.
It’s a lie.
And if you roll with it, it will be a lie you�
��ll be living with all your life.
She understands that it will own her, utterly. She’ll forever be waiting for Iris’s fall, for it to take her down with her. This is what she sees in Jack’s gritted smile whenever he talks about her, in Callum’s fawning adoration.
And why am I even doing this, enduring this life – this freezing digging, these stupid politics, these thousand thankless tasks – if I am not even contributing truth?
It’s not what I signed up for.
She stands there, determined but intimidated by the vastness of what she is contemplating.
She wants to call Fiona suddenly. She wants to get her advice. But she already has the sense of what Fiona’s advice will be.
Sometimes it is simply time to act.
Before she realises it, she is already walking, stray strands of seaweed squelching between her boots and the concrete, as ahead of her, lit for a moment by the tower with its blazing electric lantern, Helly Holm looms like a dark mountain against the starless sky.
Acknowledgements
This novel, more than anything I’ve ever written, was helped enormously by the kindness of strangers.
I’d like to thank Julie Gibson, the County Archaeologist for Orkney, for taking valuable time out from her day to describe how rescue digging works on Orkney. It was she that observed early on that archaeological fraud would be a more compelling and likely motive than antiquities theft. The book is so much richer for her input – and as for the rest, any errors, exaggerations, dramatic licenses and outright inventions are all down to me.
Thanks are also due to the Cambridge Archaeological Unit, who let me dig alongside other volunteers at the Northstowe site as a refresher, and finally to Professor Marie-Louise Stig Sørenson, who taught me archaeology when I first came to Cambridge. It has remained a lifelong fascination.
I’ve been going to Orkney for years on a writing retreat, and I’ve long wanted to write a novel set there. I’d like to thank Ann and Alan Stevenson, the owners of Peedie Hoose, in Burness. A fictionalised version of this house appears as Langmire in the book, though Ann and Alan are far more congenial hosts than Douggie and Maggie, having nothing in common with them except for their friendliness, and I am extremely grateful to them.
It would be wrong to overlook other Orcadians that came to my aid during the writing of this book, including Robert Bruce at Drive Orkney Car Hire, who helped me with my missing hire car questions; the guides at the UNESCO World Heritage sites, who were unanimously friendly and well-informed; and Sarah Bailey, local writer and Novelry member, who invited me to lunch at Helgi’s and pointed out the merits of a mince roll to me.
I’d like to acknowledge my debt to Andrew Cowan, legal advisor, and PC Andy Kay of Greater Manchester Police, who both assisted with my questions around restraining orders. My biggest thanks must go to Julie Revell, court usher and homegirl, who not only set up my visit to Manchester Magistrates’ Court but who came to my rescue when I broke my arm on the morning I was supposed to be in the visitors’ gallery. Love you lots, babes.
I’m likewise grateful to Louise Dean of the Novelry for her helpful advice when I was stuck in the first draft.
Massive thanks must go to Joel Richardson, my editor at Michael Joseph, for his unfailing support and fantastic suggestions; as well as to Grace Long, Maxine Hitchcock, Tilda McDonald, Nick Lowndes and Sarah Bance.
As always, words can’t express all I owe to my fabulous agent Judith Murray, and to all the crew at Greene and Heaton.
I’ve been hugely lucky to have benefited from the friendship of other writers and their families. I’d like to thank Gordon Fraser, Melanie Garret (who also opened my eyes to the beauty of Orkney scallops, fresh out of the sea), KD Grace – mistress of fresh air and perspective, Lucia Graves, Sumit Paul-Choudhury, Dave Gullen and Gaie Sebold for their constant support and encouragement. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Finally, all my love always to my Mum and Dad, to John and Atsuko, to Joe, Darla, Aiden, Arcadia, Aiden, Arcadia, Finn, Rain, Remy and Oliver, and to Jackie and Lance. Sometimes it’s your family that is your family.
THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
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First published by Michael Joseph 2020
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Copyright © Helen Callaghan, 2020
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ISBN: 978-0-718-18941-9
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Night Falls, Still Missing Page 33