‘I haven’t been planning it,’ he said placidly. ‘I just thought I’d see what they were offering. And it’s good. It’s really good, babe.’
I drank some of my herbal detox tea. It was disgusting. ‘A job?’
‘More than a job. My dream job. Environmental impact study. The company are harvesting seaweed, extracting minerals, and they don’t want to hurt the seabird population out there. There’s puffins! You love puffins.’
Yes, I’d loved them on our trip to Iceland, peeping out from rock faces while I sat safely on a boat, but that didn’t mean I wanted to live with them. Matt went on, ‘So they want me to head that up. Protect the wildlife. And there’s a relocation package, and a housing allowance, and they’ll even give us a boat! Our own boat, babe!’
‘What about me? I can’t do nothing on an island while you crawl about looking at bird nests all day.’
Matt smiled. He wasn’t a guileful man. He just got happy about things. ‘They said their old doctor died last year. Since then they just have someone visit once a week, and it gets tough in winter when they’re cut off. So . . . how would you fancy being the island doctor?’
The island doctor. Sounded like an HBO miniseries. I pictured myself in the cold, clean air, steering a boat around some rocks, clutching my medical bag as people looked to me for salvation. ‘I don’t know if I’m even allowed to work in Ireland,’ I tried.
‘Babe, of course you are. They need doctors everywhere. And what could possibly come up on an island that you haven’t seen in central London?’ (It almost kills me, remembering that. But we couldn’t have known, at that point.) ‘You know, it might even be good for you, get away from . . . everything.’
He didn’t say it. He never reproached me for it, for Anika and what happened after, even though we’d lost our house and had to move to this crappy rental and I was making so much less money now; even though he’d been interviewed by the police; even though we’d had the stones and graffiti and one time, the lit firework through our letterbox. He never said a word. But it was always there between us, like a pebble in a shoe, the sharp edges of it pushing us apart.
I said I would think about it. Usually that meant no. But Matt had to leave early the next day, for a survey of the Highland otter population. This was the way jobs worked when you were a London-based ecologist. He went, and I stayed, and I tried to ignore the feeling between us, that he was always pulling away from me, kicking to the surface while I was weighed down. I took the bus to work in Stepney – I’d given up cycling when I’d been knocked off my bike by a bin lorry the month before. I wasn’t hurt beyond a sprained wrist and all the skin scraped off one palm, but the lorry hadn’t even stopped. That day I saw thirty-six patients. Thirty-seven if you counted the baby in Ruma Suntharalingham’s stomach. Her eighth. Ruma is thirty-five and nearly died having the last one, pre-eclampsia, and I tried to tell her all this again, through the nurse that speaks Bengali, that she needed to use contraception in future, and it didn’t matter what her husband said, that if she didn’t she would die and leave her children motherless, that she might not even survive this one, and she just looked at me with her hand on her belly until I sent her off with her ultrasound appointment and vitamins. If it hadn’t been for the Anika mess I’d have put her on the pill anyway as soon as she had the baby. She’d never think to check what the brand name meant. I didn’t think she could even read, and it could have saved her life. I wonder what happened to her, sometimes.
When I finally got time for a loo visit, four hours later, I passed Sharon Cole and her daughter Meegan waiting in the corridor. Sharon was twenty. Meegan was four and I’d referred her to social services three times for strange bruises and once a broken arm. Not enough evidence. Must keep familial bonds where possible. And when Meegan gets killed one day by Sharon’s latest boyfriend, the media will ask why didn’t the doctor see? Why didn’t the social worker stop it? Never, why did the mother let this happen? Why do some people have children so quickly and so easily, and others can’t? Others who would be good parents, and make organic food and get vaccinations and who know how to do the Heimlich manoeuvre – why can they not?
In the loo I did what I do every week (because you never know), peed on a stick, set my phone alarm for two minutes (people tried the door four times but tough, they could wait). Negative. I knew it would be negative – we’d not found time to have sex in three weeks, of course it would be negative – but all the same I felt another alternative future die inside me. The one where I’d already planned my maternity cover and thought about moving out of London, even had a quick look on Rightmove. It wouldn’t happen, now.
Later, home alone with an M&S ready meal, watching as people on TV made elaborate cakes in competition with each other, then going to bed with the sirens and street lights outside, I suddenly sat up and googled Bone Island. It was just as Matt said. The beaches were like sugar, the water so green and clear. Population – 276, I read. And I thought – if it was just me and Matt out there, and 276 people, well, surely that was giving this whole baby thing the best possible shot?
When I went to sleep the traffic noises melted into the sound of lapping waves, and I woke with a smile on my face, which didn’t fade despite the hour-long bus ride in the traffic without a seat, and Dr Khan who threatened to report me for even daring to hint that someone with seven kids might consider an abortion, and the way London smelled of old fried onions and armpits.
So that’s how it happened. How Matt and I somehow went from being one of those couples who talk all the time about jacking in their jobs and having adventures, to actually doing it. Enviracorp were true to their word, arranging a house – a lighthouse! – flights, shipping, and even a job for me in the tiny island surgery. I’d see patients three mornings a week, and the rest of my time was my own. Time! I hardly knew what I’d do with time. Back then, when I barely had a moment all week to phone my mother or wash my hair, time seemed like the greatest luxury of all. Of course, a wiser person might have pointed out the old Irish proverb – idle hands are the devil’s playground.
Chapter Six
There were traces everywhere. A dab on the shabby-chic green cupboards, a streak on the stone-tiled floor, even a small drop on the ceiling. Anne had sprayed Luminol and closed the blinds, so the splashes of blood glowed white, like phosphorescence under the waves.
‘That’s a fair bit,’ said Fiacra, in his calm way.
Anne nodded. Her voice was muffled inside her white suit. ‘You’d need a spatter expert over to be sure – could be a false positive – but it’s a fairly serious injury, I’d say. More than a knick when you’re chopping vegetables.’
‘Life-threatening?’
‘Maybe. We can try to get scrapings for blood type, but it’s been washed off, as you can see. Though they never get all of it. I don’t know why they even try, to be honest.’
Over the years Paula had learned how impossible blood was to clean, working its way into every small groove and crevice, lurking like the truth. Somebody had bled in this kitchen, and somebody had tried to clean it up. That told her this wasn’t a simple tragic accident, a drowning in the storm, a fall. She could almost smell it, with that instinct you picked up after thousands of missper cases. Which ones were your standard domestic – a teenage row, an absconding husband, a wandering grandma – and which were something else. The ones that when you plunged into them just kept going, deep and dark as the sea. And despite the weather, despite all the talk of accidents, she was almost sure this case was one of those. ‘I guess you’ll be a while here, Anne. In the meantime, can we see outside?’
It wasn’t much, the island. No more than three miles along, most of the shoreline grey jagged cliffs, with the odd beach of that pure white sand. The waves were picking up as she and Rory peered over the cliff. It was a sheer drop down to the water, boiling restlessly, and the ground around it was all sharp stones
and exposed rock face. Paula had to shout over the wind. ‘Are those puffins?’ Down below she caught flashes of white against the grey. Little black eyes.
‘Yep,’ shouted Rory. ‘Matt was over here to monitor them.’
‘For Enviracorp, you said? Can you tell me more about them?’
‘Dunno. They do something with seaweed – taking minerals out of it or some such.’
‘And do the locals mind?’
‘There was a bit of bad feeling about the land sales – some people were canny and got theirs offloaded fast, other people missed the boat – but apart from that, they’ve been OK. There aren’t many jobs out here, as you can imagine, so it brings in money, which we could be doing with.’
‘They employ locals?’
‘Some. Admin and manual labour, mostly – lifting the seaweed, transporting it. Also they have some foreign labourers brought in, that caused a bit of a stir. Unusual round these parts, you know.’
Paula moved back from the cliff, feeling the fierce push of the wind. She could easily imagine it was strong enough to blow her right over. ‘Can you tell me who else is on the island? There’s not that many, right – we could get a list of everyone?’
Rory had his hands in the pocket of his black raincoat, his face hidden by the tightened hood. ‘Aye, I can try. There’s just the locals, really, some execs at the plant, and the odd foreign worker like I said. But they usually come in shifts, sleep at the Enviracorp base, then go off again. They don’t mix much.’
‘And Matt and Fiona.’
He turned his face away. ‘Aye. Matt and Fiona.’
‘Any shops or businesses, anything like that?’
‘At the harbour you’ve a few cafes, my station – though it’s basically one room in the tourist office – a B&B in the summer, the pub, and the Spar. And the church and community centre, of course, and the primary school is there too. And Fi’s surgery.’
‘I’d like to speak to anyone who knew Matt and Fiona well. What else did they do?’
He shrugged. ‘What is there to do out here? In winter, you go to the pub, or you hunker down and read books, watch films. Wait for spring.’
It seemed a startlingly small life, nothing but the two of you and the wind and sea. They were at the door of the lighthouse again now, and Paula was looking forward to some shelter. She’d already lost all feeling in her ears and hands. But as she reached for the broken handle, she heard the sound of a car approaching. Another Land Rover, like Rory’s, was pulling up in such a hurry the wheels threw up gravel. The man driving was about fifty, craggy face, grey hair, Barbour jacket.
He rolled his window down, his eyes skipping over Paula. ‘They’re over from the mainland then?’ Addressed to Rory.
Paula opened her mouth to answer but at that point Fiacra tore open the door of the lighthouse. His fair hair was pushed back by the goggles he’d put on to help Anne. ‘Was that a car? Oh, hello.’
Rory did brief introductions. ‘Seamas Fairlinn. Detective Sergeant Quinn and Dr Maguire.’
Paula tried to fit him into the picture she was putting together of the island. Owned Dunorlan’s. Also one of the men who’d helped Rory break down the door of the lighthouse. ‘You better come to the village,’ Seamas said grimly. ‘One of the search parties pulled someone out of the sea.’
Paula registered Rory behind her, a sudden freezing of his limbs, a brief stilling. Of course, he had known these people, they’d even been friends. She had to remember everything was much more personal out here. ‘Man or woman?’ she asked.
‘Man.’
‘Matt?’ Rory asked quietly. Paula was thinking hard. If it was Matt, he’d surely be dead by now, assuming he’d gone into the sea sometime on Monday night.
Seamas started his car again. ‘Whoever it is, he isn’t dead. Follow me.’
Chapter Seven
Rory turned his own jeep sideways onto the paved surface of the harbour. ‘They’ll have taken him into the pub. It’s the warmest place on the island. Come on.’
She could see why as they entered, Fiacra behind, and felt the heat of the huge turf fire. The place was gloomy and beer-soaked as only an Irish pub could be. On the ground, with a middle-aged woman leaning over him while two other men looked on, was a slumped figure who was very definitely not Matt Andrews. The older man with him – weather-beaten, fiftyish, in salt-stiffened overalls and reeking of fish – said something incomprehensible. Irish? English? Paula couldn’t tell.
Seamas, who was standing back near the door, said, ‘That’s Paddy, one of the lobster fishers. Says he pulled this fella out of the sea over by the east beach. He was out searching – thought it was Matt or Fiona at first.’
‘We think he came off a fishing boat,’ said the woman from where she knelt, taking the man’s pulse. ‘South American, I’d say.’ The man was in a sorry state. He wore waterlogged overalls and a thick jumper, but his brown, gnarled feet were striped with cuts and sores, as were his hands. Older cuts, and shiny scar tissue, which hadn’t come from this recent dip in the sea. His eyes were shut but he was breathing, shallow and wet. The woman – large old-fashioned glasses, bobbly pink jumper – stood and sized up Paula and Fiacra. ‘Oona Mulvaney. I run the Spar. You’d be from the mainland?’
‘Yes, hello.’ Paula stared at the man. ‘Is he all right?’
The other person standing there was a young lad with a beer towel tucked into the waistband of his jeans, wearing a Kerry football jersey. His handsome face was pale with shock. ‘Is he dead, like?’
Seamas tutted. ‘Don’t be daft, Colm, you can see the man’s breathing. But we’ll need to get him to hospital.’
Rory stirred. ‘I’ll ring over. Is your phone working?’
Colm, who must be the barman, pointed vaguely to the back. ‘You’re sure he’s not gonna die, cos you know after last time . . .’
‘He’s not going to die,’ said Oona briskly. ‘He’s just had a shock, poor man. I’m sure this isn’t what they sign up for when they come over to work.’
‘They know what they’re doing,’ said Paddy, in sing-song English, his voice thick as turf smoke. ‘Shouldn’t take the jobs if they don’t want the consequences. What do you expect if you’ll work for fifty pee so?’
‘Now, now, Paddy,’ called Rory from the phone. ‘Air ambulance won’t come out in this wind. We’ve to put him on the ferry and they’ll meet us at the dock.’
Paula was struggling to follow this, and felt very much out of place. She could see from Fiacra’s face he did too, and didn’t much like it. He leaned over the half-drowned man and cleared his throat; self-consciously said something in Spanish. He caught Paula’s look. ‘What? Had a Colombian girlfriend for a while there is all.’
The man gave a low moan, and his dark eyes flickered open. Paula moved back slightly – the last thing he needed was all of them gawping at him as he came round.
She spoke to Oona, who had also drawn back, her hands working at each other in anxiety. ‘You said you run the Spar, yes? You saw Fiona Watts in there on Monday night?’
‘That’s right. She bought some veg and bits and pieces. I thought it was strange, now, to see her in there. Normally she doesn’t show her face much and—’
Rory cut across, moving them aside. ‘Give him some space there. Colm, go and get the stretcher, will you?’
Then there was the noise of a car sloshing through puddles outside, and the door was thrown open. Everyone but Paula and Fiacra seemed to react as another woman came in; moving back, letting her take over. Seamas and she exchanged a look. She was also around fifty, Paula thought; tall with long, greying hair. Her clothes marked her as an islander – muddy boots, waterproof trousers, and a thick jumper with a raincoat on top – but when she spoke it was with an American accent. ‘What have we here then?’
The others seemed r
elieved to see her, Oona almost giving her a hug (in Ireland this passed for breaking down in tears in someone’s arms). ‘Came off the boats, we reckon. One of yours, maybe?’
‘Not that I know of, no.’
Without taking off her coat, she bent down to the man and pressed a large, capable hand to his neck. ‘Tachycardic.’ She glanced at Fiacra. ‘What’s he been saying?’
‘I can’t get much sense out of him, I don’t really speak—’
The man fluttered his eyelids again and all of a sudden tried to sit up with one big salty roar. Seawater spluttered down his front. Paula jumped – so did the young barman – but the newly arrived woman took it in her stride, patting his back as if he was a colicky baby. ‘There, there. We’ll look after you now.’ She looked up and frowned. ‘Where’s Seamas?’
Paula looked round, realising he was gone, the door swinging. Strange. Colm said, ‘Away home, maybe, to check on wee Sammy. Grainne’s sick today, like.’
The woman nodded. ‘Well, we have to get this man off as soon as possible. I’ve asked our captain to bring the company boat around, with our on-site nurse too. We’ll get him over to hospital.’
Fiacra looked cross. ‘Ma’am, we’ve already arranged to take him on the ferry. I’m Detective Sergeant Quinn and I—’
‘Looking for Matt and Fiona, yes? Good, good. Everyone wants them found, soon as possible. We’ve sent as many staff as we can to the search effort.’
‘And you are . . . ?’
She blinked for a moment, as if she’d expected him to know already, then clasped his hand in a firm grip. ‘Dr Monroe. Head of Operations at Enviracorp.’ She glanced at Paula. ‘This must be your colleague.’ Paula waved quickly, hoping to avoid a bone-crushing handshake. ‘We’re glad you’ve come. If we can find Matt and Fiona before the worst of the storm hits, there’s a chance it might not be too late.’
Blood Tide (Paula Maguire 5) Page 5
