The Loch

by Heather Atkinson

  Everyone watched warily as Mike stomped towards his desk, ignoring them all. Sloss didn’t even realise he was there until a shadow fell across him. He looked up at Mike and gave him one of his insufferable smiles.

  “Hello Mike. Come to give me an exclusive?”

  “No. I’m here because of the pile of crap you wrote about me in your rag of a newspaper.”

  He casually shrugged. “I merely report the facts.”

  “You wouldn’t know a fact if it hit you in the face you lying little weasel. I didn’t do anything to Isla, I couldn’t. I insist you print a retraction.”

  “Oh dear,” replied Sloss with mock regret. “I do apologise if anything I wrote is inaccurate. So are you not considered a suspect in Isla’s disappearance then?”

  “The police have never once said that I am.”

  “They’ve actually said they don’t think you’re anything to do with it?”

  Mike’s jaw tensed so hard it was difficult for him to get the words out. “Well, not exactly but…”

  “It’s well known in cases like this that the partner is the prime suspect.”

  “You make out like it’s done and dusted and they know what happened to her but they don’t have a clue,” he said, fighting to keep his voice low and even. “Have you any idea what this article is doing to me?”

  “My article is getting word out to the public about Isla’s disappearance, it’s getting people looking for her.”

  “They won’t be looking for her if they think I killed her and dumped her in the loch, dickhead,” he yelled. Scarlet streamed before his eyes. He forced himself to take in a few deep breaths to calm down. “You’re damaging the search for her. Unfortunately people believe the crap they read in the papers. You’ve got to print a retraction.”

  Sloss’s expression was cocky as he folded his arms across his chest. “No.”

  Mike saw red again but this time it wasn’t due to any sound. Before he’d realised what he was doing he’d grabbed Sloss by his tie and dragged him across the desk.

  A large rotund man with a bald head emerged from a side room.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he exclaimed. “Let him go.”

  “Not until he prints a retraction for the lies he’s written about me,” growled Mike, his gaze locked on Sloss’s face, which still looked insufferably smug.

  “You’re Mike Miller, aren’t you?”

  “Correct genius,” he positively snarled.

  “And you think this display is the best way to prove to everyone you’re not violent?”

  This made Mike pause. He looked around at the rest of the room. A couple of Sloss’s colleagues were sniggering behind their hands, clearly the little worm wasn’t liked but the rest simply looked scared.

  Mike released Sloss, who straightened up, adjusting his tie, his reptilian smile revealing neat white teeth.

  “That’s assault Mike,” he grinned. “I could press charges.”

  “Go right ahead. And when Isla comes home I’m gonna sue the ass off your shitty little paper as well as you personally.”

  “Aye, right. Let’s face it Mike, I only wrote what everyone’s thinking. It’s not like she went out for a walk and vanished. She was in an isolated area and the only other person there was you. It’s only a matter of time before you’re being bundled into the back of a police car in handcuffs.”

  Mike slammed both fists down on the desk, the sound so loud the red that shot before his eyes was framed in black. “I didn’t do anything to her,” he roared.

  Sloss’s pleased smile brought him to his senses. His behaviour was only adding fuel to the fire of his guilt.

  “You’ve said your piece Mr Miller,” said the large man Mike took to be the editor. “It’s time for you to leave. Don’t make us call the police.”

  Mike straightened up and looked around the room, accusation shining out of everyone’s eyes. What was the point of further protest? They were all convinced he was a killer.

  Mike drove back to the cottage. Neil hadn’t called so he assumed there’d been no updates. Before he got out of the car he called Phoebe and asked her to take over running the social media page, which she happily agreed to, glad to have a job to do. He warned her about the trolls but she told him not to worry, she’d deal with them. He had no doubt she would.

  He got out of the car and looked down the jetty to see the police divers were still hard at it, Stewart regarding them severely. Wheeler must still be in Dunoon because he wasn’t there. Hope reared its head inside him. Maybe he’d found trace of Isla?

  “Just me,” he called, stepping inside the cottage and closing the front door behind him.

  He wandered through the house but there was no sign of Neil. Peering through one of the upstairs windows he couldn’t see him on the jetty with his colleagues.

  Stewart’s narrow eyes spotted him standing at the window and he began to make his way down the jetty towards him. His expression was fixed and hard but it was difficult to tell if he was in trouble or not because Stewart always looked like that. Mike headed downstairs to greet him.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Stewart, stepping into the hallway. “Back from terrorising our local reporters I see.”

  Mike sighed. “You’ve heard?”

  “Too right I’ve heard. DS Wheeler is at the newspaper office interviewing Mr Sloss after he was assaulted. By you.”

  “I didn’t assault him.”

  “I’m informed you dragged him across his desk by his tie.”

  “He printed an article saying I killed Isla and dumped her in the loch.”

  “Because he’s a cockroach and that’s the sort of thing cockroaches do. You would have been much better off going to see your solicitor about it rather than confronting him. Now if you do try and sue him for libel all he has to do is bring up that incident, which six witnesses can attest to. You’re fortunate he isn’t pressing charges.”

  “He isn’t?”

  “No because he says you’re obviously under enough strain as it is and he doesn’t want to add to it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I agree. No doubt he’s going to publish the incident in the next edition of his precious little rag and there won’t be a thing you can do about it.”

  Mike realised how his rashness had made everything worse. Sloss would ensure everyone knew what had happened as it would confirm he was a violent individual, giving weight to his story.

  “I’ve checked out your background,” continued Stewart while Mike stared glumly at his boots. “The Lafayette police told me you’ve never even had a parking ticket. There is some history when you were young of a few barroom brawls but I was assured you weren’t the perpetrator. I’ve seen it myself during my work - the biggest man is usually targeted by morons wanting to prove how hard they are, so that is in your favour. But everyone is capable of snapping, no matter how placid they normally are.”

  “And there it is,” said Mike. “You think I’m guilty and you’re not looking at any other possibility. Well you have to because I didn’t hurt her and she’s out there, needing our help but you’re so fucking blinkered you can’t see it.”

  Stewart’s lips pursed. “I can assure you that’s not the case…”

  “Yes it is. You’re just as bad as all those narrow-minded idiots who think that everything they read in the papers is true. If anything happens to her it’s on your head.”

  Mike spun on his heel and stormed into the kitchen. Stewart let him go and returned to overseeing the divers. He’d only just started unpacking the shopping when Neil entered via the back door, his trousers spattered with mud.

  “Where have you been?” Mike asked him.

  “Searching the woods behind the house. I thought if anyone was sneaking in here at night and calling your name the woods would be a good place to hide to do it.”

  “Find anything?”

  “No and I fell over and ripped my trousers.”

  “Come in and sort yourself
out.”

  “Thanks,” replied Neil, limping inside after him.

  While Neil began sponging himself off in the bathroom, Mike returned to unpacking the shopping.

  He opened the cupboard to place the fresh jar of coffee inside and froze.

  “Neil,” he yelled when he’d recovered his voice, more red and black spiking before his eyes.

  His friend charged downstairs, his lower half encased only in some rather jazzy orange boxer shorts. “What is it?”

  Mike gestured to the cupboard, his mouth hanging open. Neil stood beside him and peered inside to see a damp, screwed-up item. “What’s that? Why’s the cupboard all wet?”

  “It’s one of Isla’s mittens,” breathed Mike. “She was wearing it when she disappeared.”

  “My God,” said Neil.

  There was a knock at the door followed by Stewart’s voice. “Can we come in?”

  The detective walked in anyway without waiting for permission, followed by Wheeler, their eyebrows shooting up when they saw Neil in his jazzy undies.

  “Sorry, I’ll just err…,” said Neil, attempting to cover himself up with his hands. “But you really need to look in that cupboard,” he added before charging upstairs, blushing.

  “What is it?” demanded Stewart, practically elbowing Wheeler out of the way in his haste to reach the cupboard.

  “One of Isla’s mittens,” Mike told him.

  “Was she wearing it when she disappeared?”

  He just nodded, gaze stuck on the glove. “I found it just now, when I went to put the coffee in the cupboard.”

  “It’s soaking wet,” said Wheeler. “As though it’s…”

  “Just come out of the water,” ended Mike. He finally turned his attention to the detectives and found they were both staring at him. “I didn’t put it there.”

  “We never said you did,” replied Stewart. “Perhaps Sergeant Hawkins can illuminate us? He’s been here all this time.”

  “Maybe not. He went for a walk in the woods.”

  “Why?”

  “He thought whoever was coming in here leaving wet boot prints and calling my name would use the woods at the back of the house for cover.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “No.”

  “Why was he in his underwear?” said Wheeler.

  “Because he ripped his trousers and got mud all over them. He was cleaning up when he heard me shouting and came straight downstairs.”

  “So someone took the opportunity while the cottage was empty to sneak in here and stick a wet mitten in this cupboard,” said Stewart. “Why?”

  “Whoever did it must have known I’d look in this cupboard,” said Mike. “I’m a coffee-holic and this is where I store it.”

  “But only you and Isla would know that,” said Wheeler.

  “Exactly,” he replied, eyes lighting up. “She’s sending me another sign.”

  “There must be other people who know about your coffee addiction and where you store it,” said Stewart. “Visitors to the house for instance? In small places like this you can’t keep anything secret.”

  “Maybe,” he murmured, hardly seeming to hear him.

  “We need to bag this as evidence. You haven’t touched it, have you?”

  “No.”

  “If you could check the rest of the house to see if anything else is out of place while I see to this? DS Wheeler will help you.”

  “Come on Mike,” said Wheeler gently. “Let’s start with the front room.”

  “Okay,” he replied, allowing himself to be led.

  It didn’t take long to search the sitting room, there was nowhere anything could be secreted, apart from under the couch, inside the window seat or on the bookcase. After checking the storage space inside the window seat, Mike carefully replaced the book Isla had been reading, making sure he kept it open at the last page she’d got to. The upstairs rooms yielded similar disappointing results.

  By the time they returned to the kitchen, Stewart had bagged the mitten and Mike could once again move freely about the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” sighed Wheeler after checking behind the washing machine in the adjoining utility room, the only place left.

  “But what does the mitten mean?” said Neil, who was once again properly attired, although there was a rip in the left lower leg of his trousers. “This seems to have gone beyond someone playing a prank.”

  “What I’d like to know,” said Stewart. “Is how someone managed to plant the mitten in here in the first place? You were supposed to stay in the house in Mike’s absence Sergeant.”

  “I went to investigate the woods.”

  “So I believe. Why would you put that on yourself rather than stick to the duty you’d been assigned?”

  Mike looked from one to the other, surprised by the suspicion in Stewart’s eyes as he regarded Neil. Maybe he was considering other possibilities after all?

  “I thought it would be a better use of my time than just hanging about here,” glowered Neil.

  “And what if the phone had rung? There would have been no one here to answer it.”

  “I didn’t go far. I left the sitting room window that overlooks the rear garden open so I would hear if it rang…” He trailed off, cheeks heating as he realised what he’d said.

  “Enabling someone to sneak into the house and plant that mitten,” ended Stewart.

  “Not necessarily,” he sniffed.

  “Me and Wheeler will be staying here tonight. Whoever’s doing this, we’ll catch them,” he said with a pointed look at Mike.

  Mike didn’t even bother to refute his guilt again. It seemed it was pointless.

  CHAPTER 5

  The two detectives had already come prepared for their vigil at the cottage, bags packed and ready in the boot of their car. To Mike’s surprise they asked him to join in. Or maybe they just wanted him where they could keep an eye on him.

  Mike sat on the couch watching the police officers set up their cameras around the interior and exterior of the house.

  “Take us to where you sat last night,” Stewart told him.

  He led them out into the trees and the three of them sat in a row on deck chairs, watching the house. Mike was back in his sleeping bag but the detectives chose to cover themselves in thick blankets, which they could quickly throw off if they needed to move in a hurry.

  “Whisky?” said Mike, proffering Stewart his silver hip flask.

  “Not while we’re on duty, thank you,” he primly replied, gaze fixed on the house.

  “It’ll keep out the cold.”

  “No thank you,” he said, voice as icy as the breeze that blew over them from the water.

  “Your loss,” said Mike, taking a swig.

  Wheeler pouted and shivered, diving deeper beneath his blanket.

  If the situation hadn’t been so dire Mike would have enjoyed watching the police officers getting colder and more miserable. Clearly they weren’t as used to the outdoors as he was. He saw Stewart’s eyes slip to the hip flask resting on the ground by his deck chair before filling with resolve and he took a sip from his flask of rapidly cooling coffee instead.

  By two o’clock Wheeler was quietly nodding in his chair, his head drooping onto his chest before snapping up. Once he actually snored and woke himself up, Stewart throwing him a disapproving look.

  Three o’clock came and went and Stewart sighed and got to his feet. “Right, enough is enough,” he announced. “If we stay out here for much longer we’re going to freeze to death. We’ll go inside and check the footage we’ve recorded, see if the cameras caught anything.”

  Mike was disappointed. He’d been made out to be a liar. Again.

  They walked inside clutching their blankets and deck chairs and Wheeler shivered. “Christ, it’s colder in here than it is outside.”

  Stewart and Mike looked at each other before charging upstairs, the detective leading the way. They came to a halt in the doorway of the spare bedroom, Stewart’s lips pu
rsing again when he saw the window was standing wide open.

  He peered outside, looking around. When he saw nothing he ducked back inside. Pulling the sleeve of his jumper over his hand to avoid spoiling any possible prints he slammed the window shut. He opened it again, frowning at the catch before closing it then opening it. He repeated this process several times before he was satisfied.

  “Well, it doesn’t appear to be loose. It couldn’t have unfastened itself,” he told Mike. “Wheeler,” he bellowed, making Mike blink rapidly as red danced across his vision. “Check the cameras at the rear of the house. We’ve had an intruder.”

  “You’re telling me,” was his cryptic reply.

  They hurried back downstairs to find Wheeler standing in the sitting room. He pointed at something heaped on the coffee table, water dripping from it onto the carpet.

  “It’s Isla’s coat,” said Mike, tears filling his eyes.

  Mike sat on the couch watching the scene examiners work on his home. The coat had been taken away for testing, leaving a puddle of water on the coffee table, which he was having a hard time taking his eyes off. Wheeler and Stewart were studying the footage recorded by the cameras along with a third detective who’d been drafted in to help. Every muscle in Mike’s body was rigid as he wondered if all her clothes were going to turn up and then what, when there were no more? Were pieces of her going to be left around their home?

  He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head against the terrifying thought, tears spilling down his face. Why the fuck was this happening? Where was Isla? Was she trapped somewhere cold and alone, her clothes being forcibly taken from her one by one?

  “We’ve got something,” he heard Wheeler say excitedly.

  Mike tore into the kitchen where they had two monitors set up on the small table. “What have you found?” he demanded.

  “Look,” said Wheeler, pointing to the screen on the left.

  He watched a dark shadow move through the woods at the rear of the cottage before vanishing off screen again.

  “What the hell?” murmured Mike.

  “The strange thing is,” said Wheeler. “It doesn’t turn up again on any of the other exterior cameras.”