October Song

by Ru Pringle

  You stop the car and take off your Spex. Step outside and squeeze your key fob to lock the car. Walk along the road, looking inland until you see a break in the trees.

  You wander a few yards in the opposite direction down to the lochside.

  Which way? If you came to the loch here, which way would you go?

  You choose left on a whim. Left means south. The shore is rough, with thickets of brambles, knotweed and rhododendron concealing boulders and peaty soil that clogs the soles of your all-terrain boots. Even so, you’re fairly sure she wouldn’t have wanted to risk the road.

  Before long you find yourself in the grounds of a derelict house.

  You wander through the slightly surreal landscape of a garden being reclaimed by nature. There are burned-out cars on the drive, and signs of a battle. At the other side there’s a stream. You can see a bridge fifty or so metres further up, but you decide to push through the stream’s defending fringe of head-high knotweed and wade across.

  It’s not deep, but it’s cold.

  Feet squelching, you continue along the shore through more scrub to a little clearing. There are discarded possessions here, and the remains of a fire. A couple of days old, by the look of it. You can see the marks of something heavy having been dragged through the grass.

  It looks like someone packed up in a hurry.

  You pick your way down to the shore. Scan along the length of Loch Sween to the open sea for a minute or two. Peer down over the dark rocks along the shore. There’s nothing visible that you wouldn’t expect.

  You return to the camp and begin a closer inspection.

  You’re not exactly sure what you’re looking for. Even so, it doesn’t take you long to find it. A feeling brings you to a tussocky flattened area near a log that could have been used for sitting on.

  There’s something in the grass. Flies are crawling on it.

  You bend down, bracing elbows on your knees to examine it. The grass around whatever’s attracted the insects’ attention is dark, almost blackened. It glistens.

  Pulse quickening, you take out your biro. Hook it under the object.

  What you’re looking at is a clump of black human hair, perhaps four centimetres long. What’s holding the hair together is a piece of scalp about the size and shape of a guitar plectrum.

  You return hastily along the road to the car and use the satphone to call it in.

  CHAPTER 12

  ______________

  Whirlpool

  THE ARGOCAT BUMPS ALONG a severely potholed track leading up the little glen. Saplings are sprouting everywhere, even as the peat nurturing them sublimes invisibly back into atmosphere, revealing bone-white tree roots older than the Egyptian pyramids. A few butterflies are still around: colourful southern species, unfamiliar until the last few years. Overhead, a lone buzzard hangs its honeyed head towards the sea, near-motionless on the updraught beyond the sheltering ridge to the east. A survivor.

  ‘You’re ex-army,’ Coira tells Hedge Trimmer, eyes focused on the track ahead. It’s not exactly a question.

  He seems amused. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ In the rear seats, Rumpy and Pumpy are whispering. ‘An impression.’ She circles a finger round her chin. ‘Nice try at disguising it, though.’

  The beard in question stirs as though its wearer is chewing. Presently Hedge Trimmer says: ‘Afghanistan.’ He doesn’t elaborate.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Five tours.’

  She whistles quietly. ‘You must have been young.’ Though expressionless, his eyes become deeper somehow.

  ‘Young enough.’

  The view has opened out. They’re beginning a descent towards a rugged little wooded bay. Another house is visible beyond the water. In a more exposed position than Barnhill, it seems in a comparable state of repair.

  ‘Yours?’

  He nods. ‘Kinauchdrachd. We’ve three families. That’s where they stay.’

  She realises now what had been missing at Barnhill. ‘Not many children.’

  ‘You blame anyone? Who in their right mind wants kids now?’

  The ArgoCat enters the trees, the trailer jouncing along behind. ‘You realise,’ she says at length, ‘that if they come back, they might kill everyone here.’ She tells him of her grim discovery after her night sleeping rough with the kayak. Of her suspicion that it was officially sanctioned. A kind of smile takes over his face, but there’s little humour in it.

  ‘They can try,’ he says. ‘And who knows, maybe they’ll succeed. But we’re not defenceless.’

  ‘How many migrants are you prepared to take here?’

  His beard does a good impression of a curling hedgehog. ‘Well, that’s a difficult question. Probably a hundred at most.’

  ‘But more people are arriving all the time. What happens if more come than you can handle?’

  ‘We … persuade them to look elsewhere.’

  Her mouth opens. ‘By force?’

  He’s looking uncomfortable. ‘If necessary. You have to understand – this not a fertile island, and we have only limited resources. We get too many people here, and we all starve. There is no other way. Fortunately, we’ve not …’

  ‘Are you listening to yourself?’ For a moment Coira can only splutter. ‘You hypocrite! You’re just like everybody else, you with your “no borders” and all that shite. What is this, some little fiefdom you’ve made for yourself here? King Hedge Trimmer – is that it? What you just said could have been from the mouth of any politician from Westminster!’

  Hedge Trimmer looks pained. ‘It’s not the same. We would starve!’

  ‘And … how is that any different from what was happening to the fucking English after the migrations got going and Europe started imploding? Which, as you so succinctly pointed out, is how they got to justify invading us. What’s next? Massacres? Invading other farms that have what you want?’

  They are quiet after that. She can’t say why she’s so angry. She knows it makes no sense, but she feels let down. Betrayed, even. She half expects the ArgoCat to stop, and for her to be ordered out, but the vehicle crawls doggedly on, passing the two houses at Kinauchdrachd, where a diverse little crowd silently watches them pass. The track grows grassy as it climbs up the other side, dwindling amongst tussock grass and the season’s dying bracken. They jounce on over rough moorland, the ArgoCat’s eight-wheel drive unfazed by boulders, streams, peat hags, and anything else they encounter.

  The wind is rising again.

  Finally they crest a rise and below them is a broad, steel-grey channel glowered over by a barren skull of an island she assumes is Scarba.

  ‘We’ll drop down to the Bay of Pigs,’ Hedge Trimmer tells her, gesticulating at the rugged little sandy bay on the left. ‘It’s a bit further to paddle, but you’ll be more sheltered from prying eyes.’

  The four of them spill from the ArgoCat as the machine chugs to a stop on the beach. It’s a spot she would have loved to visit on her own in times before the world went crazy. She smells the air, looks around. Digs her battered shoes into the sand. Stares at them and sighs. As the others unlash the kayak, she pulls her footwear off and changes back into her oversize wetsuit. She’s overwhelmingly grateful to find they’ve dried it for her.

  She pulls her new oilskin jacket over the top.

  ‘Very fetching,’ says Hedge Trimmer, dragging the kayak towards her.

  He drops it at her feet. His manner has changed: though acting jovial, he seems wary. And something else, though she can’t work out what. She feels guilty for making her hosts unpack the kayak from the trailer back at the house, but it was worth it. With its soft disrupting patterns of black and grey, it should be the devil of a job now to spot from a distance. She no longer has fluorescent paddles to worry about either.

  ‘You’ve about an hour before the tide turns. You’d better get across ASAP. My suggestion is that you do your best to ma
ke the gap between Scarba and Lunga to the north before the tide comes against you. Should just be enough time, if you motor. After that you should get an easier ride, but I’d try and tuck in behind the island of Luing before the tide comes on full stream. If you’re going north, you might have to camp on Luing until the tide’s in your favour.’

  He points at the kayak.

  ‘Help you?’

  She nods, and they carry the kayak down to the beach. It weighs noticeably more than before, loaded with food from Barnhill and water in battered old pop bottles. They lay it down so that its bow is in the water.

  She looks around, tying her hair up in as tight a bun as she can manage with her scrunchie. ‘Hedge Trimmer … Who found me? That night?’

  He nods over his shoulder. ‘The terrible fornicating twins there. Someone’s usually on watch, with binoculars. Seems sensible. You know, with so much going on. Could hardly believe their eyes when they saw that kayak.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘They were straight in with the Rigid Inflatable. Was pretty rough. Pumpy jumped in after you, with a line. Must have taken all but three minutes from when you went in, but they were sure you’d be dead. Brave lad. No idea why they rescued the kayak.’ His beard below his mouth rises into spikes. ‘Must have liked the look of it.’

  Her tongue feels thick. ‘Please. Thank them for me.’

  He nods. Fishes in his pocket. Stretches a knitted brown hat over her head, and presses a pair of well-worn compact binoculars into her hand.

  ‘Might come in handy.’

  She holds his eyes again. They seem shrouded now. Unreadable. Impulsively, she leans up on tiptoe and plants a kiss in the small patch of skin visible by his eye.

  He gives his hand a kind of flick off his forehead – a casual salute – and walks up the beach in the direction of the ArgoCat.

  CHAPTER 13

  ______________

  Blunt Object

  ‘LOOKS LIKE SHE KILLED A KAYAKER.’

  It’s mid-afternoon and the team are already visibly weary. Starts have been punishingly early, and some were due to knock off soon. For the second time in as many days, the room falls so quiet that Sebastian can hear his own breathing.

  When the police found the abandoned car, the atmosphere was one of excited expectancy. This feels very different.

  ‘We sure this wis her?’

  The speaker is Derek Planter. He looks as shaken by the news as most of those gathered around the war table. Lorna looks like she’s seen a ghost.

  ‘No direct link yet,’ replies Carla Stout, who made the announcement. ‘Forensics won’t be back to us for … another hour?’ Looking very serious, with arms folded, James Fields nods confirmation. ‘So far there’s just circumstantial evidence linking the killing with Keir. The officer who called this in seems convinced, though.’

  Sebastian moistens his lips. ‘Okay, brief run-down of what we know, please.’

  Stout and Fields look at each other. For a moment it’s like watching a tug of war. In better resourced days, before privatisation, the roles of MI5 and the police had been clear-cut, with separate forensics teams. Now neither knows who has precedence: the MI5 tech handling the information, or the police superintendent technically in charge of the forensics team.

  Fields breaks the impasse with a tap at his keyboard. A collage of images featuring a particularly gruesome cadaver appears on the wall-screen above his head.

  ‘Head was struck with a blunt object. Probably a rock, although the murder weapon hasn’t been found. Whatever it was, it was enough to take the top of the victim’s skull completely off.’ Even some of the field agents look squeamish at this. ‘Brain almost entirely missing. Skull was found full of … a species of marine worm, along with some bizarre-looking crustaceans called’ – he licks his lips – ‘“Japanese skeleton shrimp”, and the examiner’s initial opinion’s that it was eaten by marine life. The victim’s clothes had been stuffed with rocks. He’d been dumped in a couple of metres of water. Oddly, the police also found a knife with traces of blood on it, near where police divers eventually found the body.’

  ‘Obvious question.’ Shegen Tomlin this time. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘No information yet.’

  ‘What, no card?’

  Fields shakes his head. ‘Not that we’ve found.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Nothing on the database. Yet.’

  Interesting. From his scowl, Tomlin is also grappling with this. ‘So, he’s an illegal?’

  ‘Can’t be ruled out.’

  ‘Taking a kayaking trip?’

  ‘Any knife wounds on the body?’ Sebastian asks.

  Another head-shake. ‘Few bruises. Otherwise clear.’

  ‘No wetsuit.’ Lorna Ainsworth this time, standing at the back with hands perched on her hips. ‘Or kayak. How are we sure it’s a kayaker?’

  ‘Drag marks of a kayak in the grass, traces of glass fibre resin on the rocks, neck rash consistent with the neck seal of a close-fitting neoprene suit along with post-mortem imprints of the seams on the victim’s skin … Looks like the perpetrator stripped him after splitting his head open. Also a waterproof valuables case at the crime scene containing keys to a nearby car. Fitted with a kayak rack and straps, and containing a spare paddle.’

  Lorna’s wry expression says: yes, that’s probably enough to be going on with.

  ‘This is strange. The car’s being traced, as you’d expect – but the system’s flagged up a potential problem with the registration.’

  Sebastian frowns at Fields. ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘An inconsistency. That’s all I have. I’ll get on it and keep you posted.’

  Sebastian fingers his lips. He’s getting an odd feeling about all this. ‘Ina – how does this fit with her profile?’

  ‘Um, I’m surprised she would have killed a man just for his kayak. And with a rock?’ The psychologist massages her eye sockets beneath her glasses, with uncharacteristic force. ‘Apart from the psychology, there’s practicalities to consider. This man was built … well, look at him. He could be a wrestler. She must be half his weight – and there’s no record I’ve seen of physical combat training beyond the usual police classes.’ She reseats the glasses using the same thumb and finger. ‘Nothing about this woman is consistent.’

  Sebastian squeezes his forehead with his palm. ‘I have a suspicion the blood on that knife will prove to be hers. This might be a long shot, but get the police going house to house in the local area asking if medical supplies are missing. Or if anyone has treated a strange woman for a knife wound. Just so we’re clear: there’s no sign of the kayak?’

  Fields shakes his head. Sebastian shows his teeth.

  ‘So, she’s in a sodding kayak!’ He bangs his fist on the desk. ‘Damn – it’s perfect! She’ll be small, relatively fast moving, able to hug the coast … If she moves at night, she’ll be near-invisible.’

  He gives a sharp sigh.

  ‘Okay, everyone. Put out the word: we’re looking for a lone woman, in a kayak. In the next hour – less if possible – I want to know who this kayaker was, and I want the make, model and colour scheme of the kayak, and what wetsuit he was wearing, down to its brand and size.

  ‘Sorry, people – call me clairvoyant, but I don’t think many of us will be getting much sleep tonight.’

  CHAPTER 14

  ______________

  Scarba

  SCARBA LOOKS utterly desolate and uninhabited. Even migrant ships seem to have spurned the island, so forbidding is its aspect. Particularly on a grey afternoon such as this.

  Coira hugs the rocky shore, completely exposed to the stiff westerly that has risen from the open ocean on her left. Earlier than expected, she’s also increasingly fighting the tide. Ahead, the mountains of Mull meet an ominous ceiling like a bruise stretched across the sky. Eastwards, over the mainland somewhere, unseen fast jets screech and rumble every few m
inutes on their way north.

  As she drags herself near the narrow, island-choked notch between Scarba and the smaller island of Lunga to the north, she’s confronted by a tidal race every bit as ferocious as she feared the Strait of Corryvreckan would be.

  HEDGE TRIMMER HAD BEEN RIGHT.

  The crossing to Scarba proved perfectly tranquil. Once she was past the islet guarding the entrance to the Bay of Pigs, the only sign of the whirlpool she was kayaking almost directly over had been a gentle current. If anything, it had helped propel her towards the island’s western edge.

  To think she had been so worried.

  After that, things had become surprisingly trickier. Confused swell near the island’s craggy shore had forced her much further out to sea than she had wanted to go. It felt dangerous, but she was anxious to avoid reflected waves like the ones that had so nearly done for her a couple of days ago.

  The coastline had seemed to pass at a crawl. Little sea traffic was visible today, though she was amazed to see a sailing boat heading north not far away. Its sails were camouflaged with disruptive patterns much like her kayak’s, making its size hard to guess. She had covered less than half the distance from the Bay of Pigs to the island of Lunga when she began to suspect the tide was already against her. As a result, it had taken two hours to cover what on the map was little more than four kilometres around the north side of the island.

  And now …

  She follows the shore as far as she can, but there comes a point where she’s paddling harder than she can sustain just to remain stationary. The air here smells like a waterfall. Eddies snatch at the boat, threatening to throw her in.

  Seeing what look like standing waves ahead she allows common sense to prevail, and beaches herself on a platform of rock that the waves have cut into the volcanic peninsula forming the south side of the strait.

  She collapses against a boulder to recover.

  The kayak is heavy. Still unsteady from fatigue and adrenaline she hauls it through boulder fields and bracken-choked scrub, stopping every couple of minutes to get her breath back. Her wound is throbbing and, despite two days’ sleep, she feels a shadow of her normal self. The material the kayak’s made of seems pretty rugged. She’s not unduly worried by the keening, scraping sounds it’s making against the rocks.