by Peter May
He took her upstairs to an interview room at the back of the building. A computer with an external disk drive attached, a keyboard and a mouse sat on a plain white table with a single chair drawn up to it.
“It’s quite simple, Ma’am.” And the duty officer showed her how to scroll back and forth through the CCTV video using the time-code as her guide. “I’ll leave you to it.”
For all her training, Braque had never been comfortable with computers. Her girls were more adept with a keyboard and a touch screen. It took her a while to master the scrolling process, and then she found herself absorbed by the images. The familiar frontage of the library, and Bayhead stretching away beyond it. People passing below, oblivious of the eye in the sky watching them from the corner. Stopping, chatting. In and out of shops. In and out of the library. The images were poor if the weather was bad, amazingly sharp in sunshine.
She went first to the earlier date, when the emails had been sent to Niamh and Georgy Vetrov. Then scrolled as quickly through the hours as she could until the time, mid-afternoon, when they had been fired off into the ether from computer terminal three in the library. User unknown. A guest. How far back, she wondered, should she go before the time of their sending? But it was possible the sender could have spent some time at the computer first. She could waste an hour or more if she wound back too far watching for someone going in. So she set the time code to the exact hour and minute, and started the video running at normal speed, banking on the sender leaving immediately after they had finished.
It was a bright, blustery day. She saw coats flapping in the wind. People hanging on to their hats. But bright sunlight slanted down across the street, and although shadows were deep, detail was sharp. Traffic in and out of the library was light. A clutch of giggling schoolgirls in uniform pushing inside. Two elderly ladies emerging with books under their arms, then standing talking for what seemed like an eternity. A young man stopping to exchange a few words with them before hurrying on. And then a familiar figure pushing between them to exit the library and turn right towards the harbour.
Braque nearly jumped out of her seat. She fumbled with clumsy fingers to stop the video. Then rewound it to the point of exit, and managed finally to slow it right down. She had only caught the merest glimpse of the face, but now she held it in a still shot, and had no doubt who it was.
She spooled backwards, then, at speed, knowing who she was looking for, watching carefully as Charlie Chaplin figures retraced their footsteps at a ridiculous tempo up and down the street. Then, suddenly, there it was again, and Braque slowed right down to get a much clearer shot of that familiar face as it came down the street. Past Argos and the Fast Food Chinese Takeaway, to turn into the library and disappear from view.
She sat back breathing hard, sweating now and uncomfortable in her wet clothes. This was not, she knew, proof of anything. That would only come if she could tie the same person to the same time and place for the sending of the second email. The one received by Ruairidh on the RER on the day of his murder. See you in hell.
She entered date and time into the computer, advancing the video nearly three weeks to the afternoon of the previous Thursday, and then scrolling through to the exact moment that the email had left computer terminal twelve inside the library. Hardly daring to breathe, she set the video running and watched as again people came and went up and down the street. In and out of the library and Argos next door, and the Baltic Bookshop opposite. The weather was less good, but it was at least dry.
And then there it was. The face she had seen before. She hit the pause key, then manipulating the arrow keys, managed to zoom in on it, frozen in time as the killer exited the library and turned towards the CCTV camera. Not a single doubt remained.
Braque shook her head in disbelief and sat back again in her chair. What to do? She took out her phone and called Gunn. But it went straight to voicemail and she hung up. He had warned her that he would likely be out of signal for some time. She thought quickly, her mind and her pulse racing, then called his number again. When the beep came to leave her message she said, “Detective Gunn, I think I know who our killer is. I’m leaving first thing tomorrow, so I don’t have much time. I’m going to drive up to the Macfarlane house to speak to Niamh tonight. Look at the video when you get back and tell me if I’m right. I’ve left a note of the time-code.”
She closed her eyes and tried to remember where she had parked her hire car. She had barely driven it since her arrival. And then she remembered leaving it next to Gunn’s in the harbour car park the night she arrived. She would, she realized, have to drive it very gingerly on the road out to Taigh ’an Fiosaich, or she would rip the sump from its underside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Amhuinnsuidhe Castle was to be found precisely in the middle of nowhere. Miles along a single-track road whose dips and curves and swerves and hollows made speed impossible. Past occasional croft houses clinging to hillsides in splendid isolation. An incongruously sited all-weather tennis court set just below the road, within sight of nothing at all. A tiny primary school perched on a bend of the road offering pupils an unrestricted view of island wilderness.
The castle itself came out of the blue. Through stone gates, and hidden beyond a bank of unlikely rhododendrons, it appeared around a bend in the road as if out of nowhere. Scottish baronial in style, with turrets and gables and steeply canted slate roofs, it looked out beyond a crenellated wall with black-painted cannons to the comparative shelter of a sea loch and an almost completely enclosed bay.
Through an archway beyond the castle, the road continued on for several miles to the tiny settlement of Hushinish, where it ended in drifts of silver sand and a handful of crofts. And, of course, the Atlantic ocean.
Lee Blunt and his party had taken it for two nights. Niamh, against her better judgement, drove down to Harris after spending a difficult afternoon at the Macfarlane croft. Family and neighbours had gathered there to eat the cold meats and sandwiches and cakes that Mrs. Macfarlane had prepared. The men sipped at single malts with an unusual lack of relish, making them last until they could take their leave without presenting the appearance of undue haste. No one wanted to linger.
Niamh’s own parents, and Uilleam, had disappeared immediately after the funeral. But Seonag was there with her family. She and Niamh did not speak, and barely exchanged glances. Donald sat her down in the porch, with condensation forming on all the windows, and tried to dissuade her from going to Harris for Lee Blunt’s party. She should go home, he said, and lock herself in. Or better yet, stay overnight here. There was a spare bed, still, in the old croft down the hill that they used now as offices.
His odd insistence was making her increasingly uneasy, and she used the excuse of helping Mrs. Macfarlane with the dishes as a means of escaping him.
Only after most of the visitors had gone, did she herself finally leave, the pale concern on Donald’s face staying with her as she turned south on to the bridge at the foot of the hill, setting a course for Harris and Amhuinnsuidhe.
The drive, turning right at Tarsaval, past the old whaling station, was the stuff of nightmares. The storm had bled almost all light from the sky. Wind buffeted the high side of her Jeep, driving rain on to a windscreen that her wipers, even at double speed, had trouble clearing. She guessed, more than drove, the length of that road, and several times thought of turning back. Until suddenly, rounding the bend beyond the gateposts, the lights of the castle shone out in the darkness.
Niamh was not sure whether to feel relieved or depressed. A party was the last thing she felt like, and yet Lee had made it seem as if refusal would give offence. He and everyone else had, after all, flown up to the island at great expense to be there for Ruairidh’s funeral. And where else was she going to go? Back to Taigh ’an Fiosaich, and the pain of all the memories that lay waiting for her there? Power to the house was always erratic, but in a storm like this she could expect to spend most of the night in darkness. And with the memory of th
e attempt to kill her the previous evening still in the forefront of her mind, a night spent in the dark, miles from the nearest neighbour, seemed less than appealing.
There were several cars drawn in on the gravel around the front of the castle, and as soon as she stepped from her Jeep she heard, above the wind, the sound of loud music pounding from somewhere deep inside the building. She heard, too, whoops and shrieks of laughter tumbling down the stairs as she went through the entrance lobby. Past furled flags leaning up against the wall, the Stars and Stripes, a Union Jack. A stag’s head. A sculpture of dolphins leaping from water.
The polished wooden staircase curved around a half-landing, red flock wallpaper lurid in the light that spilled down from the first floor. The ground floor, by contrast, simmered in semi-darkness. The only light Niamh could see was along a corridor, beyond those rooms where fishermen gathered before and after sorties, and the boot room where they hung their wet waterproofs. She wondered where all the staff were. This was not the kind of clientele they would be used to.
As she climbed the stairs, she heard someone playing a piano. A mad, drunken ragtime, only faintly and incongruously discernible above the monotonously hypnotic voice of a rapper that rose above an endlessly repeating electronic refrain. Through an open doorway along a panelled hall she saw people with cues moving like shadows around a snooker table.
At the top of the stairs, beautiful people lay about on the sofas and armchairs of a TV room off to the right, the volume on a BBC-24 news bulletin turned up to an absurd level that almost hurt the ears. To the left an honour bar had been mercilessly assaulted. Bottles stood open next to a broken glass, spilled spirits stripping varnish from antique furniture. In a vast lounge, with two enormous fireplaces, a solitary figure played the grand piano. A beautifully tall, shaven-headed black model, chiffon gown barely concealing her bony ebony curves, emerged from the dining room. She had a bottle in one hand, and in the other a glass filled with some vividly coloured green drink. “There you are, darling,” she said, as if they were old friends, and thrust the glass into Niamh’s hand. “Drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”
Niamh looked at the drink. There were slices of orange and lime floating in it along with the ice. “What is it?” She sniffed and took a sip. It was both sweet and sour.
“St. Patrick’s Day Punch.”
Niamh almost laughed. “It’s not St. Patrick’s Day.”
“No, darling it’s the six-month anniversary.” And she threw her head back and laughed as if she had said something uproariously funny. “You’ll love it! Green apple pucker and lemon-lime soda. It’s Lee’s favourite. Ever since he discovered a little Irish somewhere in his ancestry.”
“I’ve got a long drive ahead of me. I shouldn’t drink.”
The model laughed again. “Darling, do you think I keep a figure like this by drinking alcohol? Lee’s been looking for you everywhere.”
Niamh took a long pull at the glass and welcomed the chill sweetness of this unexpectedly non-alcoholic punch. It had an odd flavour.
The model put her arm around Niamh’s shoulders, steering her into a sitting room at the front of the castle from which most of the noise was coming. The sound of music struck her like something physical. This was an elegant salon, hung with large oil paintings and a crystal chandelier. Bodies sprawled in various stages of undress across antique furniture, and Niamh felt as if she had wandered accidentally into the tableau of some Hieronymus Bosch representation of hell. The air was thick with smoke that hung in subdued lighting, acrid and heady.
Jacob Steiner emerged from the smoke, his habitual cigar in one hand, his favourite whisky soda in the other. From the flush of his cheeks, Niamh figured that it wasn’t his first. “Jees, honey,” he said. “Where you been? Lee’s been getting all agitated, thinking you stood him up.”
“I had to go back to Ruairidh’s parents’ house after the funeral. I came as soon as I could.”
“You got some catching up to do, then, girl,” he said. And as she took a sip of her drink he nudged it up with his own glass and she nearly choked on it. “Another glass for our widow,” he shouted out. And she was shocked. Both to hear herself called a widow, when she had never even considered that that’s what she was, and at Jacob Steiner’s insensitivity in addressing her like that.
Someone took the empty glass from her hand and thrust another into it.
And then like a punch in the gut she heard the first familiar strains of the song that had meant so much to her and Ruairidh. That haunting, repeating piano refrain, a counter-melody played on the harp. And then the painfully sad falsetto of the singer who promised to keep her safe. Just like Ruairidh. How could anyone possibly know the significance of that song and those words? She realized, of course, that no one could. It was just one of life’s sick little ironies, designed to turn the knife in an open wound. As if God was not yet finished with her and wanted to inflict yet more pain.
“There you are!”
She turned to find herself confronted by a wild-eyed Lee Blunt. Eyes glazed and dilated at the funeral were now filled with fire. He had to raise his voice and shout to be heard above all the promises of safety, oblivious to the tears that the music had brought to Niamh’s eyes. She took a stiff pull at her drink. It seemed less sweet and more sour than the last one.
“Don’t know what you ever saw in that fucker!” He had lowered his face so that his words were shouted directly into hers. She smelled something rank on his breath, recoiling from the smell of it, as well as from his words.
“What?”
“Leave it, Lee.” She heard Jacob Steiner’s voice, only barely aware of him trying to pull Lee away. Blunt shrugged him off. They had been partying all afternoon and into the evening. Smoking, drinking, snorting, and God only knew what else. Niamh had seen him like this just once before, that afternoon in the pub in Shoreditch when he and Ruairidh had ended up on the floor, punching and kicking each other.
His face was inches from hers, and she seemed unable to back away as others crowded in around them, sensing conflict and drama above the blare of the music. “I’m glad he’s dead. Arrogant, shitty little fucker!”
Niamh stared at him in disbelief. “And all that sympathy in Paris? If that’s how you felt, what was all that about?”
“It was about revelling in your grief. Seeing your tears first hand. Laughing behind mine. You can’t begin to know how much pleasure I took from your unhappiness, my little Niamh. Encouraging it. Stoking the fires of your loss so the embers would burn just a little hotter a little longer. Just so you’d know how it felt to have your life totally fucked up.”
“It was your fault for not paying us. Ruairidh never did you any harm that you didn’t do to yourself,” she shouted at him.
“He lost me Givenchy!” He screamed it in her face. “Givenchy! It should have been the pinnacle of my career. My life. And his little rant in the press took that away from me.”
Niamh’s breathing was so rapid she was close to hyperventilating. “You told me yourself that your own company would never have done so well if you’d gone to Givenchy.”
But he just shook his head vigorously. “Not the same. Not the same at all. Nothing was ever the same again after that. Never.” And then a strange, sick smile spread across his face. “And as for Ranish . . . All that shit I told you in Paris about doing another collection.” He pushed his face even closer. “I lied. I’ve got a deal with a company to supply me with the real McCoy. Real Harris Tweed. Not that soft, phoney, silky shit that you and Ruairidh made.”
Anger and hurt fuelled the power that Niamh found in the backward swing of her hand, directed then with full force across Blunt’s puce and contorted face. He staggered back with the weight of it, caught completely by surprise. He blinked in momentary disorientation, before hurling himself at her, spittle flying all around his mouth. Her glass was knocked from her hand, foaming green liquid spraying everywhere. And hands grabbed at Blunt from every side, restraining
him from hitting her right back.
Steiner was there, somehow inveigling his way between them, but he seemed small and insignificant in the turbulence of this sea of anger. “Stop it, stop it!” he was shouting.
Blunt shook himself free of restraining hands and stood panting and staring his hatred at Niamh. “I’m glad he’s dead! I’m fucking glad he’s dead!” he shouted, and he strode from the room, crashing into the door jamb as he went. Several of his acolytes went chasing after him.
Steiner stood shaking his head in distress. “I’m so sorry, honey.” And he turned to hurry out after the self-proclaimed king of British fashion.
Amidst all the angst and angry words the music had stopped. Nothing replaced it except for a silence that seemed even louder. People moved away from Niamh, like rings of water from the point where a stone has entered it. Her legs felt weak, and she clutched the arm of a settee to lower herself on to the edge of the seat, shaking like a leaf. It was several moments before the black girl sat beside her, placing an arm around her shoulder and another drink in her hand. “Here, darling, take this. It’ll make you feel better.” Niamh gazed into its green intensity before taking a long pull at the glass, to feel the ice-cold liquid salve the burning in her throat. “Anyway, pay no attention to Lee. He’s out of his head. You know what he’s like.”
Niamh had no idea how much longer it was before a despondent Jacob Steiner came back into the room. “He’s gone off in one of the cars,” he said. “Couldn’t stop him. He’s going to kill himself in that state.” And the storm outside bowed the rain-streaked windows all along the front face of the castle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
In the dark, Braque got hopelessly lost. She missed the turn-off to Skigersta at Cross, and carried on until the road descended gently into Port of Ness, with its row of bungalows and its white villa standing in solitary defiance on the clifftop overlooking the harbour. The storm drove the sea with relentless violence into an already shattered harbour wall, breaking fifty or sixty feet into the air, spray joining rain to lash the village. Somewhere away off to her left she saw the intermittent beam of a lighthouse rake the dark, but somehow instinct told her that was not the way.
