by Matt Hilton
THE GIRL ON SHATTERED ROCK
By
MATT HILTON
Matt Hilton worked for twenty-two years in private security and the police force. He is a 4th Dan blackbelt in Ju-Jitsu. He lives in Cumbria with his wife and two dogs.
www.matthiltonbooks.com
Praise for Matt Hilton’s JOE HUNTER thrillers
“Matt Hilton delivers a thrill a minute. Awesome!”
Chris Ryan
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Peter James
“Check the edge of your seat – it’s where you are going to spend most of the time when in the company of Joe Hunter.”
www.thrillers4u.com
“Roars along at a ferocious pace.”
Observer
“Action-packed from start to finish.”
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Daily Mail
Joe Hunter thrillers
Dead Men’s Dust
Judgement and Wrath
Slash and Burn
Cut and Run
Blood and Ashes
Dead Men’s Harvest
No Going Back
Rules of Honour
The Lawless Kind
The Devil’s Anvil
No Safe Place
Marked For Death
—eBook only short stories—
Six of the Best
Dead Fall
Red Stripes
Hot Property
Instant Justice
Tess Grey and Po Villere thrillers
Blood Tracks
Painted Skins
Raw Wounds
Worst Fear
Novels
Preternatural
The Shadows Call
Dominion
Darkest Hour
Darke
The Girl on Shattered Rock
The girl on shattered rock
MATT HILTON
First published In Great Britain by Sempre Vigile Press 2019
Copyright © Matt Hilton 2018
Cover images used under license from Pexels.com
The right of Matt Hilton to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and, except where mentioned in a historical context, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales are entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
Thanks
PROLOGUE
The scream was as unnerving as the bubbles that boiled around her, more terrifying because the dulled wail erupted from her open throat, filtered by the murky water that invaded her mouth. She was drowning. She’d heard that of all the unnatural ways to die, drowning was one of the kindest. That wasn’t true in her experience. This was horrifying. Panic had a grip on her, squeezing her heart and lungs, forcing pressurized blood into her skull to a point it felt ready to burst. She clawed frantically, reaching for the surface, grabbing handfuls and pulling down, but she was as well trying to grab at the sky to climb to the moon.
The bubbles were from her last gasps at life. They churned, and the water turned murkier as sand kicked up, the air bubbles phosphorous against the darker wash covering her. She had no sense of up or down, the bubbles were darting, swarming, and breaking apart into foam as she thrashed her hands through them.
The water was barely two feet deep. Why couldn’t she break the surface, pull herself up? Because a figure straddled her, knees either side of her chest, and hands forced her down, one at her throat, the other entwined in her hair, crushing her skull into the gritty sand and pebbles while the surf crashed over her. She slapped at the arms holding her down, then dug her nails into the flesh of both wrists. The force bearing down on her was relentless, the grip immovable. Her heels dug trenches in the sea floor. Strength failed her and her arms drifted loose, spread to each side, and her hair wafted like strings of seaweed past her face. No more bubbles. There was no air left in her lungs to escape. Water invaded the void of her throat.
There was a moment of peace, tranquility. Perhaps drowning was a kindness after all.
Above her, the figure stood, and the pressure went from her body. She now drifted, rolling slightly on the tide; her open eyes were only inches from the surface. She didn’t blink. She thought she was dead already, and this was the last firing of her optic nerves, the last thing she’d ever see before her vision dimmed to eternal black. The surface rippled, first reflective like the darkling of a mirror, and she was positive she caught a fleeting image of her own dead face. But in the next roll of the current, the water was as clear as glass, and it wasn’t a reflection she looked up at, but the face of her murderer. She knew that face.
The face was that of Leah Dean.
The face was hers.
Recognition was a lance of electricity that pierced her chest.
Leah bolted up, gasping for air…
1
‘You dunnae look at home on the water.’
Leah Dean glanced up at the stockily built man at the controls, trying not to grimace. The boat rose and fell on the agitated swells, but Mr McBride was a natural sailor, his legs bending at the knees, riding each wave with ease. She was scrunched on an uncomfortable wooden bench behind the open cabin, her backside rasping along the planks, upper body swaying in the opposite direction. She was glad she hadn’t eaten anything substantial or she might have been hanging over the side of the boat instead, purging her nausea into the sea. She was as close to the water as she ever intended to be.
‘Dunnae concentrate on the motion,’ McBride advised in a soft Scottish burr. ‘Look out to the horizon and fix your gaze on a point out there. You willnae feel as sick.’
‘It’s not so much the motion, it’s the sea itself,’ Leah confessed. ‘I’m not too keen on open water.’
‘You’re feart you might drown?’
Leah avoided looking out at the surging waves. ‘Who wouldn’t be afraid out here?’
‘Dunnae worry about that, lass. The life vest’ll keep you afloat if we go down. Willnae be drowning that’ll get you; it’ll be the cold. A few minutes in thon water and hypothermia will set in.’
‘Thanks for the reassurance,’ Leah said, and elicited a laugh from him.
‘This boat willnae go down,’ he said, patting the instrument panel of the old cabin cruiser, ‘this old lassie is unsinkable.’
‘If it’s all the same with you, I’ll reserve judgement until we’re back on dry land.’
McBride shook his head. ‘And you chose to holiday on an island? Didnae you realise you’d have to make a sea c
rossing?’
‘I thought it was just going to be a short trip,’ Leah said, ‘and on a ferry.’
‘There’s not much call for a ferry,’ he said. ‘Very few people visit the island. Isnae that why you chose it; for it’s seclusion?’
Leah pressed the back of a wrist to her mouth, nodding at his wisdom. She saw the livid purple bruise as her sleeve hitched up and she quickly dropped her hand, folding it under its opposite in her lap before he noticed. ‘How long will it be until we arrive?’
McBride nodded through the salt-encrusted window. ‘You can see her now the mist has lifted a bit. Another ten minutes and I’ll have you back on terra firma.’
She daren’t stand to take a look through the cabin window. Instead she craned out a little, peering along the side of the hull towards the prow. Cold spray struck her face in a fine mist, and she squinted against it as a shiver of revulsion swept through her. Hazy shadows marked a landmass directly ahead. To her left the coastline of western Scotland was more vivid, forests growing precariously against the precipices of steep cliffs. There was no hint of civilisation that she could tell, but for the contrails of aircraft in the surprisingly clear sky. She had chosen to come to the island for its seclusion, but not for its remoteness.
‘It didn’t look as far from land when I checked on Google Earth,’ she said.
McBride glanced back at her.
‘As the crow flies the island’s only about a mile off shore, but it’s a good ten miles back to the nearest port at Tayinloan,’ he said.
Leah breathed deeply. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll get Internet reception out there?’
He laughed. ‘Nah, there’s no mobile reception either. There’s a shortwave radio in the cabin if you need to call for help. Not that I imagine you’ll need to if you’re careful.’ He pointed out the island with a flap of a hand. ‘I’ll look in on you mid-week, but if you need me afore then just call and I can be over in an hour or two. That’s weather dependent of course. If a storm comes in you’ll be on your own til it blows over.’
‘The cabin does have electricity, right?’ She smiled to show she was joking, but really she was hopeful. She was tempted to tell him to turn round the boat and head back to shore.
‘All mod-cons,’ he reassured her. ‘As long as you think the 1970s are modern. The electricity runs off a diesel generator. There’s a boiler for hot water, but the heating runs off the multi-fuel stove. Plenty of logs have been cut, but if you need more, well, there are plenty of trees to choose from.’
‘You certainly know how to sell its exclusivity, Mr McBride,’ she said, offering a flat smile.
‘The website promises a retreat: that’s exactly what you get for your money.’ He turned and looked at her. ‘It’s none of my business, but why’d a young woman like you want to come all the way out here alone?’
A young woman like her? He meant one used to the comforts and conveniences of living in a major city, somebody he probably thought of as soft and pampered. Instead of a young professional like Leah, usual visitors to the island were probably outdoorsy-types, and he likely assumed from her spanking new clothes and styling that she was more at home in a wine bar or spa hotel than roughing it in a log cabin.
‘I’m an author,’ she said, as if that should explain the strange juxtaposition of her colliding lifestyles.
‘An author, eh? That’s why you brought your laptop. So you write books, do you?’
How many times had she been asked that same inane question? It didn’t really require an answer. She simply raised her eyebrows.
‘You’re not JK Rowling in disguise?’
‘I wish.’ Leah was in fact a debut author, having only had her first book published to date. It had been massively successful to be fair, but she was a long way from claiming fame anywhere near to someone of Rowling’s calibre. McBride had returned his attention to steering the boat, but she could tell she’d piqued his interest.
‘Remind me of your surname again,’ he said.
‘Dean. But you wouldn’t recognise it. I write under a pen name.’
‘So I might have read your book?’
‘Only if you enjoy romantic Chick-Lit.’ Even as she said it, Leah frowned. She hated that her book was termed that way, but she had no say over her publisher’s marketing strategy, and her book had been shoved into that category. At least it wasn’t described as a “Bonk Buster” as she’d originally feared.
‘Ah, so you write all that lovey-dovey stuff, eh? So when a ruggedly handsome sea captain shows up in your next book I’ll ken who it’s based on, will I?’
‘Sorry, Mr McBride, but there won’t be any sea captains in my next book, handsome or otherwise.’
‘So this isnae some kind of research trip, then?’
‘No. I just need some undisturbed time to get my book finished.’ Actually, she needed a lot of time and space just to get her next work started, but he didn’t need to know she was struggling against a deadline.
‘Well you’ve certainly come to the right place. There she is…Shattered Rock.’ He indicated the island that had suddenly loomed out of the sea spray. It was a bulwark of jagged pinnacles, crowned by heavy forestation, with a massive crag to its southern end, terrain you didn’t usually find in the Western Isles. A thrill went through Leah as she peered up at the impregnable rock face that was cracked and splintered by fissures. She couldn’t quite decide if the sensation was one of excitement or anxiety though. Briefly she looked back towards the mainland. Was it too late to change her mind?
Before she could come to a decision, McBride was chattering again, explaining there were few places to make landfall, but how he’d have her at the dock in no time. Most of what he said was unclear because of the roar and splutter of the engine as he guided the boat over the rough waves, heading, Leah thought, directly for the tall rocks at the island’s northern tip. But as the hull traversed sideways, and then McBride gave it a tad more power, the boat pushed past a towering column of stone and she watched the vista open before her as a shallow bay protected on both sides by the tall cliffs. A natural valley had been formed between the cliffs, as if a giant had taken a chunk out of the island with a massive axe. A path led up from a pebble beach, wending its way via a series of steps to the low point of the valley. Shrubs and smaller trees clung to the valley walls, while further inland the trees were taller, much older growth.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. And Shattered Rock was beautiful, but in a way that shot a sense of foreboding through her. Sometimes beauty hid danger, the way a rose hides it thorns behind petals begging to be caressed. Leah wondered if she had bitten off more than she could chew with this rugged and wild place. She was more inclined to wine bars and spa hotels than she’d admit.
2
McBride expertly manoeuvred the boat around the nearest column of rock, heading for a wooden jetty in its sheltered lea. The jetty clung to the edge of the cliff, and ended where waves foamed on the shingle. The tide was high, and getting wet feet was unavoidable, but thankfully Leah had dressed for the conditions. Her boots were brand new, as were her padded anorak and windproof trousers, all snap purchases from an outfitters shop in Lochgilphead yesterday afternoon. More outdoor clothing was packed in the case she’d lugged here, alongside other sundry equipment she thought might come in handy. Another bag held her laptop, another her toiletries. When she’d carted them on the boat earlier, McBride had asked if she planned on staying a month. Her tenure on Shattered Rock was for a week, but having never made a trip like this before she wasn’t sure what she’d need, so had probably overcompensated.
Once he’d roped the boat up to the jetty, McBride hoisted her largest bag ashore, setting it above the tideline. ‘Like me to help carry your stuff to the cabin?’ he asked. ‘It’s a fair ol’ walk from here.’
Leah shook her head. If she was going to go along with her plan for total seclusion then it was best she rely on herself now. ‘It’s okay, I’m sure I’ll manage.’
�
��Suit yourself, but you might think differently by the time you make it up thon steps. Not going to be easy lugging this case up there.’
The steps were mostly cut from the side of the rock face, and she thought she’d easily pull the wheeled case up them, but there were deeper steps of timber and soil once she approached the valley, and expecting to manhandle the case, her bags and herself up them might be pushing it. ‘You could help carry it to the trail for me…if it’s no trouble?’
McBride winked. ‘I wouldnae have offered if it was.’
He set off, leaving Leah to follow once she had her bags slung over her shoulders. They were weighty enough, so accepting McBride’s help had been the right decision after all. As she ascended the roughly hewn steps her calf muscles ached and pulled, and within a minute she had a sore spot on her right shoulder where the strap of her laptop bag chafed, but the pain was preferable to still being out on the waves. She scowled back at the sea, already regretting that in only seven days she’d be on that bloody boat again enduring the return trip.
She was breathless by the time she reached the top step. McBride had sat against a rock with her suitcase propped alongside him, while he lit a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked on the way over, and she was surprised he’d held out until now. He took a few puffs, then leaned back, allowing the smoke to escape from between his teeth. ‘Want one?’ He offered the pack.
‘No thanks. I gave up. If I have one now I’d only get started again and I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ She glanced into the dappled shade of the trail. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anywhere to buy ciggies around here?’
Now it was her question that didn’t deserve an answer. McBride indicated the trail. ‘Go that way and dunnae leave the trail. The forest thins out and you’ll see a clearing. Cabin’s to the left; you cannae miss it. There’s a list of instructions on the back of the door, and the larder has been stocked. Beer and UHT milk in the fridge, but the fridge won’t actually work until you get the generator running. You sure you dunnae want me to see you in, make certain everything’s up and running?’
