“Probably and they’re staying over tonight. Whoever’s coming in here at night - whether it be Isla or someone else - they’ll find them.”
“God I hope so, I don’t know how much longer I can take this. They told me to stay here but I need to get the security cameras.”
“They’ll bring their own, don’t worry about that.”
“I have to get out of this house for a bit, I’m going stir crazy.”
“Tell you what, I’ll stay here while you go for a walk, blow the cobwebs out.” The corner of his mouth crooked into a smile when Mike looked puzzled. “I mean stretch your legs.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll head into Strachur, I need some supplies. I’ll take my phone with me in case there’s any news.”
“Don’t worry. If there is I’ll let you know the second I find out.”
Mike nodded. “Thanks.”
He pulled on his coat, gloves and boots and stepped outside. He’d only just closed the front door behind him when Stewart bustled up to him.
“Off somewhere?” he said, eyes narrowing.
“I thought you’d gone to Dunoon?”
“Wheeler’s gone to check out the lead. I need to stay here in case the divers find anything. So, where are you off to?”
“Just into Strachur. I’m getting low on food.”
“You need to be here in case there’s any calls.”
“Neil’s manning the phone while I go out.” It struck Mike hard that he was the prime suspect in a woman’s disappearance and there was a good chance he could be arrested. For a police officer Stewart didn’t have a very good poker face, in fact suspicion radiated off him. Was it any surprise he was a suspect though? There had only been himself and Isla here when she went missing and his build went against him because he could easily overpower someone as small and dainty as her. All his claims that she’d accepted his marriage proposal were greeted with scepticism too. He was sure everyone thought she’d turned him down, he’d flipped out, attacked her and thrown her over the side, it was why the divers kept coming back and why Stewart and Wheeler were focusing their attentions here rather than elsewhere. If Stewart thought there was a good chance Isla was in Dunoon he would have gone with Wheeler, the divers certainly hadn’t needed him overseeing them before. He was here because he was convinced she was in the water.
An image filled his head of Isla at the bottom of the loch, her pale dead face and sightless eyes tilted towards the surface, hair floating about her like seaweed. A shiver ran through him so violently his whole body shuddered.
“Something wrong?” said Stewart, arching a suspicious eyebrow.
“Just…cold. I haven’t been able to get warm since she vanished.”
“Hmmm,” he replied, in his mind that statement only increasing his guilt. “Well I won’t keep you. Just don’t be too long, it’s vital a family member is at home.”
Mike wanted to tell him that he was innocent, that he was incapable of hurting a hair on that beautiful woman’s head but instead he turned away and trudged up the drive. Protestations would only make him sound even guiltier.
He climbed into his silver Land Rover, Isla’s small metallic blue Suzuki Ignis parked beside it. They’d often joked how their cars were like them - little and large.
It felt good to get away from the cottage. As his vehicle bumped and jolted its way down the rough road that linked to the main one that would take him to Strachur, he wound down the window to breathe in the fresh, crisp autumnal air. Despite how much he loved the cottage it was good to escape its confines. To his right lay the loch, its waters looking benign in the sunlight, which danced off its surface. The jetty and the boat were visible, little black shapes moving around them marking out the divers. However he couldn’t escape his pain. He and Isla had walked this road together so many times, hand in hand, Isla educating him about the local flora and fauna, pointing out trees, birds and flowers. She was a true child of nature with a deep love of the natural world that was becoming increasingly rare in this age of technology ruling as king. It was thanks to her that he could name every tree and bird he passed by.
Tears bubbled up from that dark pit where he’d crammed all his emotion for the last few days, wanting to remain strong and not break down in front of Neil and the others. Now it poured out of him.
It became so overwhelming, his vision blinded by tears, that he was forced to pull into a small passing place. He got out of the car and ducked into a copse of trees where he would be hidden from view from any passing cars or hikers, although not many came this way. He sank to the ground, his back against a tall sturdy pine tree and sobbed into his hands.
Eventually the tears ebbed away and he rested his head back against the tree as he recovered, catching his breath. The knot in his chest had eased a little and he felt like he could breathe again. He hadn’t realised until that moment just how hard it had been for him to take a breath.
When he felt recovered he dragged himself to his feet, got back in his vehicle and set off. The car left the rough road and joined the main one, which was smooth and tarmaced, leaving the loch behind.
CHAPTER 4
Strachur was a small village perched on the east side of Loch Fyne. The only shop sat right on the edge of the water. Mike parked outside the combined village store and sub-post office, got out of the car and smiled at the mother and father playing with their young child on the shingle beach. He recognised them as locals who lived in the village, although he didn’t know their names.
“Morning,” he called when they caught him watching.
They didn’t reply, urging their child on further down the beach, casting suspicious glances at him back over his shoulder.
“Charming,” he muttered to himself.
He could have gone into Dunoon, the nearest town, which had more shops but he couldn’t face all those people. At least here it would be quiet. Plus the village made him feel closer to Isla, who had been born and raised here.
It felt almost alien to be in the village after spending the last few days in the confines of the cottage, as though he was a visitor from another world. A large truck rumbled past, sending puffs of grey clouds rolling before his eyes and he winced and blinked rapidly. Old Mr Collins passed by with a carrier bag full of shopping and gave him an odd look before hurrying on, dragging his little dachshund along with him.
Mike headed into the shop, feeling like a zombie as he picked up a basket and roamed the half dozen aisles, picking up random items and placing them in his basket. It was only when he was halfway around the shop that he realised he’d picked up Isla’s favourite bottle of wine and a loaf of the artisan bread she loved but he refused to put them back, she would want them when she came home. His hand gripped the handle of the basket tighter as that voice in the back of his head taunted him - what if she never comes home?
“Mike, are you alright?” called a voice, scattering dark pink across his vision.
He snapped himself out of it and looked over his shoulder at Joyce, the middle-aged woman who’d worked behind the till for the last ten years. She was flanked by two of her friends, the village’s gossip whores as Isla liked to call the three of them. Sometimes she referred to them as Macbeth’s witches.
“Err, yeah. Fine,” he replied in a soft, faraway voice, feeling as though he were waking from a dream.
“You’ve been standing in front of the flour for almost five minutes now. Do you need any help?”
“No thanks,” he replied in that lost voice that didn’t sound his own, staring at the contents of his basket. Apart from Isla’s wine and bread he’d selected a box of eggs, cheese, coffee, milk, apples, a couple of tins of soup and a box of cereal. Was that all he needed? He had no idea. It would have been smart to look in the kitchen before coming here. Deciding that would have to do for now, he walked to the checkout and put his basket down before Joyce.
All three women regarded him strangely, studying his every movement.
“You okay Mike?” said Vic
ky, standing on Joyce’s right, her sharp blue eyes eagerly flicking across his face, taking everything in. “You look so pale.”
“I’ve not been sleeping very well,” he mumbled.
“Hardly surprising. Any word on Isla?”
“No. The divers are still searching the loch.”
“They’re sure she’s in there then?”
“They don’t know,” he mumbled to the floor, wishing she’d shut up. It was a relief when Joyce began ringing through his purchases.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” said Emily, the woman on the left.
“Just keep an eye out for her. Have you seen or heard anything from her?”
All three women shook their head.
“What do you think happened?” said Vicky.
Mike didn’t like her tone, it was more prying than concerned. She probably couldn’t wait to spread what he told her all around the village. “No idea. I wish I did,” he replied, misery crushing him.
“She’ll turn up. Sometimes women need a bit of space.”
Mike glowered at her from under his eyebrows, wanting to tell the nosy old bitch to shut her stupid mouth.
Clearly Vicky had hoped this comment would get a reaction from him but his gaze settled on Joyce, who had finished ringing through his purchases and was placing them in a carrier bag.
“That’ll be seventeen eighty three please Mike,” she said.
He shoved his card into the machine, feeling the women’s eyes burning into him, as though they could see the secret of what had happened to Isla ingrained in his flesh. The machine seemed to take longer than normal and when it flashed up please remove card he yanked it out so hard the machine nearly fell off the counter.
“You sure you’re okay?” said Emily. “You do seem wound up tight.”
“Of course I’m wound up,” he replied, the words coming out hard and staccato, pale grey orbs flashing before his eyes. “My fiancée’s missing.”
“So she did agree to marry you then?” pressed Vicky. “The rumour has been going around the village.”
“Yeah, she did,” he replied, stuffing his wallet back into his coat pocket and picking up his bag of purchases.
“Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm.
When the three women continued to stare at him in silence he hurriedly left, head bowed. That trio got battier every day.
Mike couldn’t face returning to the cottage just yet, so he decided to go to the village café for a coffee, which was right next door to the shop. That would have been his and Isla’s routine had she been with him and breaking it would feel like admitting defeat and that she wasn’t coming home.
He was the first customer of the day and after his odd experience in the shop it was a relief that the café was empty. The sound of the bell chiming when he opened the door drew the owner from the interior of the kitchen - a big dark haired man with a bushy black beard.
“Hi Billy,” said Mike, placing his bag of purchases on the comfortable chocolate-coloured couch that sat beneath one of the windows.
“Mike,” he replied, cautiously approaching. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I had to get out of the house for a bit and I needed supplies,” he said, indicating the carrier bag.
“I see,” said Billy in that odd way everyone seemed to be talking to him these days, as though they didn’t quite understand what he was saying. “Any news about Isla?”
“No,” he sighed, slumping onto the couch. “The divers are back searching the loch.”
“I hope they find her soon.”
“Thanks,” he rasped.
“The search party left from here again at seven o’clock this morning. They’re checking the south end of the loch. There were almost seventy people today.”
“That’s great,” said Mike, touched.
“Isla was born and raised in this village, so everyone’s going all out to find her. There were some people from Dunoon too who don’t know her but want to help. Do you want your usual?”
“Please.”
“Coming right up.”
Billy vanished back into the kitchen and Mike turned to the window, shocked when he saw a group of ten people milling around outside staring in at him, although they were trying to pretend they were looking up and down the street. None of them were people he knew but he recognised all their faces as local to the village. Joyce must have got on the phone the second he’d left the shop to tell everyone he was in the village. Well fuck her. In future he was getting his shopping delivered by a supermarket.
With a sigh he took out his phone and tilted himself away from his audience, so he was facing the wall. He brought up the page he’d set up on social media about Isla’s disappearance, shocked when he saw there were over five hundred notifications.
“What the hell?” he murmured, scrolling through them.
The first few comments were pleasant enough, people saying how sorry they were that she’d gone missing and they hoped she was found soon but the ones after that made him feel sick. They started off making disgusting sexual comments about Isla or simply insulting her altogether, especially the fact that she had red hair. Some then went on to accuse him of killing her and dumping her body in the loch, heaping abuse on him, their language revolting and offensive.
“Mike, you okay?” said Billy.
He hadn’t even realised he was standing over him until he’d spoken.
“I…I…,” stammered Mike, unable to express the shock and revulsion he was feeling. Instead he held the phone out to him.
Billy put down on the table the mug of coffee and the plate holding the slice of carrot cake and took the phone from him.
“Sick bastards,” frowned Billy, scrolling through the comments. “There’s some seriously disturbed people in this world.” He handed the phone back to Mike, who dumped it screen-down on the table. “Don’t pay them any attention.”
“She’s missing,” he rasped. “Why would someone do that?”
“Because they’re inadequate losers. They’re not even worth thinking about.”
“What they said about her…Jesus,” he breathed, burying his face in his hands.
Billy started to panic when he thought Mike was going to cry. “Do you want me to get someone?”
Mike cleared his throat and picked up the mug, wrapping his hands around it in an attempt to drive the chill from his bones. “No thanks, I’m okay.”
“You should let someone else sort out that page. Phoebe would be a good choice, she’s a great organiser.”
“Yeah, thanks. I might just do that. Oh Christ,” he sighed when the door opened and everyone who had been milling around outside flooded in, taking up all the empty tables, glancing his way as they took their seats.
“Just ignore them,” Billy told him. “Enjoy your coffee.”
“The best in Scotland,” said Mike, picking up his mug. Billy didn’t return to chat, he couldn’t because he was kept so busy with the sudden influx of customers. So Mike took out his phone again, studiously avoiding social media and brought up the local news. He received the second shock of the day when he stumbled across an article written by the slimy reporter who Phoebe had pushed into the water. There was a glowering photo of himself, taken yesterday at the cottage, above which was the headline, Boyfriend prime suspect in disappearance of local woman.
“Son of a bitch,” he breathed.
The article stated that an anonymous police source had told him it was believed Isla was dead and that he’d killed her during an argument and thrown her body into the loch.
Mike’s breath came out in short sharp gasps and his head swam. Looking around he saw nothing but cold pitiless eyes, bright with accusation. The locals had seen this load of crap and taken it as gospel. They thought he’d murdered that beautiful radiant woman who had brought nothing but joy to his life.
They all looked wary when he shot to his feet, brain scrambling for the r
ight words to convince them all that he was innocent, that he could never hurt her but they wouldn’t come, his mouth impotently opening and closing.
“You okay?” said Billy, frowning at him.
The walls felt to be closing in. After grabbing his bag of purchases he stumbled outside. He hurried up the street, car keys already in hand, keeping his head bowed as passers-by stared at him.
The newspaper office was in Dunoon half an hour’s drive away. By the time he arrived he was boiling with rage. Mike wasn’t usually prone to violent emotions. At heart he was a gentle soul who abhorred violence but his stature meant he’d had to learn how to handle himself. Rather than put people off from challenging him, his build was an encouragement, particularly to drunken idiots in bars wanting to prove themselves by taking down the biggest man there and he was usually the biggest man in any room, certainly the tallest anyway. He’d been beaten up a few times in barroom brawls before he’d decided enough was enough and finally started fighting back. But he very rarely became angry, so he was finding it hard to handle the pure rage coursing through his veins.
He leapt out of the car and slammed the door shut, shaking his head to clear the dark grey spots that danced before his eyes as he stormed into the newspaper office.
“Hello, can I help you?” the receptionist smiled up at him. When she realised who he was her smile dropped.
“Where’s Daniel Sloss?” he demanded.
“I’m afraid he’s not in.”
“Bullshit,” he said, striding past her, heading deeper into the office.
“I’m sorry, you can’t go in there,” she called after him, although she remained where she was, unwilling to tackle a man who could be a murderer.
Mike stormed through the doors into the newspaper office to find five people sat at desks that had been placed haphazardly around the room, either yawning into the phone or idly tapping at their keyboards, a contrast to the busy news office he’d expected.
Sloss’s desk had been placed beneath the large window, pride of place for the star reporter. He was the only one with any dynamism about him, engrossed in his work as he pounded away at his computer.
The Loch Page 5
