“That’s Isla’s,” breathed Mike. “She was wearing it the last time I saw her on the boat.”
The divers’ cool curious gazes regarded him through their masks and he fought the urge to kick every one of the bastards back into the water.
Another sleepless night lying alone in bed listening to the water gently lapping outside. Mike had drunk four generous shots of whisky, hoping it would knock him out but it had failed. Now he was staring at the ceiling, all those horrible scenarios running through his head again. Her hat had been in the water. Did that mean the rest of her was too? The lapping of the water outside became the cruel taunt of a great big beast that had swallowed the woman he loved. Was she lost within its vast belly?
“No,” he said to himself. He refused to give up on her so quickly.
Instead he turned onto Isla’s side of the bed, inhaling her scent that still lay upon her pillow. A single strand of long red hair stood out on the white Egyptian cotton. Tears filled his eyes and he clung onto the pillow, despair rising in his chest. It wouldn’t be so bad if he could actually get out there and look for her, at least he’d feel like he was doing something. But Neil had insisted he stay home, he said it was vital in missing persons cases that a family member remained behind in case of any phone calls or if she turned up. The helplessness was ripping him apart. She needed him and he was doing nothing.
“Mike,” called a woman’s voice.
He sat bolt upright, heart thudding. It sounded just like the cry he’d heard from the boat.
“Isla,” he breathed, wondering if his exhausted, scared mind was playing tricks on him.
“Mike,” the voice called again.
“Isla,” he cried, flinging aside the duvet and leaping up.
He tore downstairs in his vest and pyjama bottoms, pausing to shove his bare feet into his boots and pull on his coat. He yanked open the door and raced into the darkness to be greeted by a gust of cold wind. As the day had worn on the breeze had steadily whipped up and now it howled with fury.
Putting his head down against it he ran down the jetty, which creaked and groaned as the agitated water battered it. The only light was from the open cottage door behind him, as well as the light that marked the end of the jetty ahead of him, casting a glow onto the boat that bobbed up and down on the water.
As he neared the boat the wind increased in ferocity, it seemed in an attempt to push him away. Another scream echoed towards him, louder, closer, scattering red across his vision.
“Isla,” he yelled, stumbling towards the boat, gripping onto the guard rail and hauling himself over the side when it was pushed away from the jetty by the violence of the water.
He managed to clamber onto the deck, which was empty. Getting down the narrow steps to the cabin below wasn’t easy as the boat was moving so much and he practically fell down them, landing on his hands and knees.
But she wasn’t there.
It would be easy to explain away the sounds as his imagination but he’d seen the colours, so he knew it had been real.
He climbed back up onto the deck, pausing to take one last look around, praying for a sign that she’d really been here but he could see nothing, the moon obscured by thick churning clouds and he wished he’d brought a torch.
When the movement of the boat became more intense, he jumped onto the jetty and trudged back to the house, dejected.
The front door of the cottage was still standing open, spilling light onto the path before him. Mike froze when he saw the wet boot prints leading up to the door. They were small and dainty, just like hers.
“Isla,” he cried, bursting into the house.
The boot prints were on the hall floor too, as was a small puddle of water, as though the wearer had paused to get their bearings. They didn’t go any further into the house.
He tore through the cottage bellowing her name.
Every room was empty.
Mike slunk back into the hall and stared at the prints. They were hers, he knew it. She’d been wearing her boots when she’d disappeared.
He took photos of the prints on his phone, placing a pair of her trainers beside them for scale. He’d seen the doubt in everyone’s eyes when he’d reported her missing and he didn’t want to see it again.
After taking the photos he stared out into the darkness through the front door, which still stood open. Those footprints hadn’t been there before he’d gone outside, of that he was certain, meaning someone else had put them there. Any idiot could see they were far too small to be his own. But if Isla had put them there why hadn’t she made herself known to him? She must know he was going out of his mind with worry.
Deciding on a course of action, he dragged the armchair out of the sitting room and placed it in the hallway, being careful not to disturb the prints. He then retrieved the duvet from the bed and wrapped himself up in it, sitting in the armchair to begin his vigil, gazing through the open front door into the darkness. Mike pulled the duvet tighter around himself when the wind howled harder.
CHAPTER 2
“Mike,” called a voice. “Mike.”
He jumped awake, wincing at the pain in his back. His skin felt hot and his head thumped.
“Have you been here all night?”
Mike squinted up at the two figures standing over him. Once his vision had cleared he saw it was his friends Jake and Phoebe Harper from the village.
“What are you guys doing here?” he said, stretching out his legs, wincing when his muscles screamed in protest after being stuck in an awkward position all night.
“We thought we’d pop by to see how you are,” replied Jake. “Why on earth are you sat in the hallway with the front door open?”
Mike’s eyes widened when he saw the door had been closed. “No, don’t do that,” he cried, staggering to his feet to pull it open.
“You need to keep that closed,” said Phoebe, pushing it shut. “It’s like a freezer in here.”
“If it’s closed I might miss Isla,” he murmured, pressing a hand to his forehead. If it was as cold in here as Phoebe said then why did he feel so damn hot?
“Isla?” she said. “Do you know where she is?”
He looked down and saw they’d tracked in water off their wet boots, erasing Isla’s prints. “No, you’ve ruined them.”
“Ruined what?” said Jake.
“Isla’s boot prints. They were here.”
Phoebe went up on tiptoes to press her hand to his forehead. “You’ve got a fever. Small wonder if you’ve been sat in front of an open door all night.”
“I didn’t imagine it, they were here,” he said, taking out his phone and bringing up the photos.
They both peered at the images.
“Looks like puddles of water to me,” said Phoebe.
“But they’re not,” he retorted.
“I can see a boot print,” said Jake.
“And it’s small too,” said Mike eagerly. “The same size as Isla’s. That’s her trainer right next to it, it’s exactly the same size.”
“Are you saying she was here?”
“Yes, last night.” Mike was aware he must look a wild eyed mess and his frantic babbling made him sound slightly manic but he couldn’t help himself. “I heard her calling my name down on the jetty. I went to look for her but she wasn’t there. When I came back to the cottage there were wet boot prints. Her boot prints.”
He ended this statement with an excited exhalation, eyes tick-tocking from one to the other, disappointed when they didn’t share his enthusiasm.
“The wind was fierce last night,” commented Jake. “It’s still a bit wild. It can play tricks on you, make you hear things that aren’t there.”
“I didn’t imagine this. You can see the boot print,” said Mike, jabbing his finger at his phone.
“Let’s discuss this later,” said Phoebe, urging Mike to the stairs. “Your skin is like ice and you’re shivering.”
“I’m fine. Actually I’m too hot.”
&nbs
p; “You’ve made yourself ill sitting at the door all night. Now what use are you going to be to Isla if you end up in hospital?”
The thought of being taken to hospital away from home filled him with terror, so he let her lead him upstairs.
“Jake, get the duvet out of the spare room, will you?” she asked her husband.
“Will do,” he replied.
“Now sit down,” Phoebe told Mike with such authority he obeyed but she had been a hospital nurse for fifteen years, so she was used to dealing with unhinged sick people.
“You don’t need to do that,” he told her when she removed his boots and socks.
“Yes I do because your clothes are wet and they’ll only make you worse. Don’t worry, Jake can undress the rest of you. You need to get into bed and get warm.”
“I’m too warm,” he mumbled.
She pressed her hand to his forehead again. “Hmm, perhaps not a fever but it will be if you don’t get warm. Pneumonia is nasty you know.”
All the energy had drained out of him and he didn’t have the stamina for an argument. “You do believe me, don’t you?” he said. “About the boot prints?”
“Of course I do Mike but if you really want to help Isla the best thing you can do is look after your health. She wouldn’t want you getting ill.”
He noted she neatly evaded his question but he thought it pointless to push it. “What do you think happened to her?” he said instead.
Tears filled Phoebe’s eyes and she turned her head away, hiding her face with her short black glossy hair. She’d been friends with Isla since girlhood.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” he hastened to add.
She patted his hand. “I don’t think for a minute that you did, I know how much she means to you. I think she had an accident, maybe slipped on the deck and fell overboard. She’s never been a strong swimmer and this time of year the water is so cold.”
“You think she’s dead, don’t you?” he rasped.
“I…I don’t know, really Mike. It’s all conjecture. Finally,” she added, relieved when Jake ambled into the room, a duvet piled up in his arms. “What took you so long?”
“I had to close the window in the spare room,” he replied.
“Window?” said Mike, his head snapping up. “It was open?”
“Wide open. I’ve put the heating on.”
“I never opened that window. Isla opens it now and then to let some air in.”
“Maybe she left it open before she disappeared?” said Phoebe.
“No way, not with the weather. Maybe that’s how she got in last night and left the boot prints?” he said, heart thudding with hope.
“But I thought you said the boot prints led up from the jetty?” replied Jake.
“Well, yeah. They did.”
“So how could she have come through the window?” said Phoebe. “If indeed it was Isla who left those prints.”
“Course it was her. I mean, who else could it have been?”
He longed for the same spark of excitement to fill their eyes but on the contrary, they just looked doubtful.
“You need to rest Mike,” said Phoebe. “You’re overwrought.”
“I’m not making this up.”
“Of course you’re not but you do need some rest,” she said in her firm professional tone that made protest impossible. “I’ll leave the room so Jake can help you change. Put him in something warm,” she told her husband before exiting.
Jake looked a little panicked about being left alone with the patient. He dumped the duvet on the bed and began rummaging around in the wardrobe. “Will a jumper and jogging bottoms do you?”
“You don’t need to do this,” said Mike flatly. “I can undress myself.”
“It’s Phoebe’s orders and trust me, you don’t want to disobey.”
“Do you think she’s still alive Jake?”
“I hope so,” was the only reply he was willing to give.
Mike sighed. Annoyed, he flung off the damp clothes, pulled on the dry ones, turned over on his side away from Jake and pulled the duvet up to his chin in dismissal.
“We’ll just be downstairs,” Jake told him. “The divers are coming back today so we’ll be here if they need anything.”
Mike didn’t reply, willing him to leave and he did, the soft click of the door closing announcing his departure. When he’d gone Mike snatched up his phone, which he’d left on the bedside cabinet and brought up the photos of the boot prints to remind himself that they were indeed real and he hadn’t imagined them. He thought of the open window in the spare room. That had been shut, he was positive.
What the hell was going on?
Miraculously Mike managed to drift off for a couple of hours, sheer exhaustion taking over as he’d barely slept over the last two days. He woke with a start to the sound of voices drifting up to the cottage from the jetty.
Throwing aside the duvet he leapt up, the feverish feeling and sense of impending sickness having lifted. He padded downstairs to find the cottage toasty warm but empty. Peering through the window he saw the divers had returned and were already in the water. Phoebe and Jake stood on the jetty, talking with Neil and two men who were obviously plain clothes detectives. He dragged on his outdoor gear and stepped outside. The wind was calmer, which could only aid the search of the water but the sky was dark and threatening, the clouds hanging like a pall over the loch, putting Mike in mind of a shroud and he shivered.
Phoebe was the first to spot him and smiled the strained smile of someone desperately trying to pretend everything was okay when it wasn’t.
“There you are Mike,” she said. “Feeling better?”
“A little,” he replied.
The two detectives turned and craned their necks to look into his face, clearly not pleased by their inferior stature. One was quite tall and skinny with a face that resembled a vicious rodent ready to bite, the other was equally tall but stockier, younger and fresh-faced. Despite their height, Mike still dwarfed them both.
“Mike Miller?” said the rat-faced one.
“Yes Sir,” he replied, shaking his extended hand.
“I’m DI Stewart and this is DS Wheeler. We’re here to investigate your girlfriend’s disappearance.”
“Fiancée,” corrected Mike. “She said yes.”
“So you say.”
“I’m not lying,” he snapped.
“I didn’t say you were Sir but we only have your word for that.”
Mike regarded the skinny ferret-faced dick with disdain. “It’s true.”
“Of course it is,” he said in a patronising tone.
Seeing his superior officer’s tone was antagonising the giant, Wheeler hastily intervened. “The divers say visibility’s improved today. If there’s anything to find down there then they’ll find it.”
“Like her body?” said Mike coldly.
“I never said that Mike. Can I call you Mike? Thanks,” he added without waiting for a reply. “I mean a clue to her whereabouts. Mr and Mrs Harper here were telling us about the boot prints you found,” he said, gesturing from Jake to Phoebe.
“Yeah,” he said, eagerly taking out his phone and bringing up the images. “They’re Isla’s prints, I’m sure of it.”
Wheeler took the phone from him and he and Stewart studied the images, Neil peering over their shoulders.
“What size shoe does she take?” said Stewart.
“Four. She has really small, dainty feet and those prints are small and dainty.”
“So you’re alleging Ms Campbell walked up the jetty and into the hallway of the house last night without alerting you to her presence before vanishing again?”
“Well, yeah. She must have done.”
“Why would she do that? Surely she’d want you to know she was there, she must know how worried you are.”
“I don’t know but she’ll have a good reason. Isla isn’t cruel. She must know I’m going out of my mind with worry, that’s why she left the prints,
to reassure me.”
Stewart’s look said he thought he was already well out of his mind. “So where did she go?”
“No idea but this means she needs our help. We have to find her.”
“If she needs help then why didn’t she just approach you and ask for it? Why leave some boot prints?”
“I don’t know but she’ll have her reasons.”
“That’s a very distinctive print. Was she wearing those boots when she disappeared?”
“Yes.” Mike’s jaw tensed when Stewart’s suspicious eyes studied him.
“There’s another strange thing about these prints,” continued the detective. “They end in the hallway and don’t go any further into the house, nor do they turn around and leave. Now why would Ms Campbell remove her boots and head back out into the night in her stockinged feet?”
Mike snatched the phone out of Wheeler’s hands and studied the images. Why hadn’t he clicked on yesterday that those prints stopped dead in the middle of the hallway and didn’t go anywhere? “I…I don’t know,” he stammered.
“The window in the spare room of the cottage was open too,” said Jake in an attempt to draw the detectives’ attention away from his friend. “Mike swears neither he nor Isla opened it.”
“It’s easy to do something and then forget you’ve done it,” said Wheeler, not without sympathy. “Especially when you’re under a lot of stress.”
Jake didn’t reply, his thoughts tallying with Wheeler’s.
“We need to talk to you Mike,” said Stewart. “In private.”
“But…,” he began, looking to the divers.
“We’ll let you know if they find anything,” said Phoebe.
“Do you mind if I sit in?” said Neil.
Stewart regarded him through narrowed eyes, as though his presence was of no more importance or use than an annoying fly. “Fine,” was his curt reply.
Mike headed back into the cottage, leading the detectives and Neil into the sitting room. Jake had returned the damp armchair to its rightful place. Mike purposefully took the couch and Neil sat beside him, leaving the detectives with the two armchairs. Wheeler drew the short straw and sat in the one that had got damp during Mike’s vigil at the front door, going rigid as he wondered why it was wet. Mike didn’t bother to set him straight, neither did he offer them any refreshment. Isla wouldn’t have approved, she prided herself on being a good hostess and making all guests feel comfortable, whether she liked them or not.
The Loch Page 2
