by Susan Hill
‘You know about me.’
‘I think I’m beginning to.’
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘it may not come off. There’s a long way to go … lots of hurdles for Luke to jump. He’s a doer though
… he makes things happen, he always did.’
‘Good.’ Kieron finished his coffee, and as he did so, his phone vibrated in Cat’s pocket. Now she gave in.
‘Talking of a job being sustainable,’ Cat said.
But he was already on his feet. ‘There’s another,’ he said.
Sixteen
‘Listen,’ Iain said, ‘Sandy Murdoch …’ He went quiet for a moment as if trying to work out how to explain. ‘She’s great … I’ve nothing against her, you understand, not a thing. But she’s just maybe … a wee bit strange.’ ‘I’d never say anything bad about her, she’s a good woman, a decent woman, ready to help anyone and she’s fitted in, which isn’t easy. She’s not pushed herself but she’s – aye, fitted in. And yet …’ He was anxious to defend Sandy, that was clear, but against whom? What had people said? Which people?
Simon pushed his glass over for a second pint. ‘Where did she come from?’
Iain shrugged.
‘Some said Glasgow,’ Tommy McDermid muttered into his whisky. ‘Some said London. Some will say anything when they ken nothing. She’s never told – not to my knowledge. She just arrived one March – what, three years back? Has to be. She’d rented out that house from an advert. Didn’t bring much stuff of her own. Couple of packing cases came over.’
‘Has she disappeared before?’
‘That’s a strong way of saying she just hasn’t been around for a day or so,’ Iain said.
‘What would you call it then?’
‘She wouldn’t have to tell everyone her business, that’s all. She’s been away a couple of times but there could have been others and why not?’
‘No reason at all.’
‘You’re a cop. You can’t help it.’
‘Once she said she was away to a funeral in Greenock.’
‘She did.’ Iain turned to serve the postman, in for a pint at the end of his round.
‘Gordon – you haven’t seen anything of Sandy?’ Simon asked.
‘Took a letter and her magazine up there this morning. She wasn’t in. No surprise. She goes walking along the shore for miles, she goes over the hill … I see Sandy all over the island.’
‘But she always goes back home.’
‘I wouldnae know what she does.’
‘Was her jeep there?’
‘It was.’
Serrailler got up. There was only one way Sandy could have left the island and returned to it.
It was an hour before the next ferry left and there was no one on board except Alec, checking things in the cabin.
‘You going over? Like a fish pond today.’
‘I’m not. I’m looking for Sandy.’
‘Ah, I saw her what, last Sunday? She was just there, where you’re standing, watching.’
‘Watching.’
‘We’d a full boat – quite a few for the field centre, quite a few walkers. You know how it is, fine weather. I thought Sandy was maybe waiting for someone, had a visitor, but she just watched the last off and she was away.’
‘Has she been over this week?’
‘Not with me. Donald was on Monday and Tuesday, with John. I know it was pretty slack. You could ask him.’
‘I will.’
‘She in trouble then?’
‘I hope not but her jeep’s parked outside and the house is empty. No one’s seen her, she wasn’t at the ceilidh.’
‘Och, don’t worry about Sandy, she’s done this before – she holes up by herself somewhere, over the other side. Maybe she watches for the birds, maybe she just likes to live in a cave for a wee while. Wouldn’t suit me.’
‘A cave?’
‘Under the cliff – bit wild out there but it’s all right until maybe end of October … you wouldn’t want to be on your own after that. Nothing much frightens Sandy, but even so.’
Sam drove. He was competent and pretty safe, Simon thought, though still a bit driving-school correct, and he had too tight a grip on the wheel. He’d learn and this sort of trip across the island was invaluable. He had to think fast, read the track ahead. The 4x4 was rock solid but there had been rain, and as they descended on the far side, the road turned to mud. They saw no one, though the minibus was outside the field centre and there were bikes against the wall.
After that, there were no more houses, just some of the old, tumbledown stone crofts and sheep sheds, open to the elements, and an ancient rusting barn. The stunted trees were bent by the prevailing wind.
‘No one’s been along here recently,’ Simon said.
‘No tyre tracks?’
‘No wheel marks on the side where there’s been pulling in to pass.’
‘So she comes and lives like a Bronze Age cave-dweller. Or a hermit. Maybe she’s religious. Anchorites – is it?’
They were almost on the headland. The sea was navy blue and swollen to a boil, churning about within itself. When they got out, the air was heavy but still. Simon pointed to the mouth of a path that led downwards and they set off, sweeping left, then straight, then left again. It was steep and they had to slither and take hold of tussocks of rough grass here and there to save themselves.
‘Don’t rush,’ Simon said, ‘steady … one step at a time.’
‘No one’s been down here. It’s not been disturbed at all.’
It took a while to reach first the rocky outcrop and then the beach. They looked up. ‘There might be another way back,’ Sam said.
‘Hmm.’ Simon was walking in the lee of the cliff. Sam followed. The tide was out. There were no other footsteps or disturbances in the sand.
There were two caves, a shallow one which they came to first, and which had large weed-covered rocks almost covering the entrance. Simon shook his head. The second was under the steepest area of cliff, and had a sandy entrance. The light showed them the way in for a few yards and then Sam switched on the torch.
‘Jesus, the last time I had to investigate a cave …’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. But it wasn’t good. This doesn’t actually go very far back.’
The walls of rock were gleaming with water, and vivid green weed. And there were no signs that anybody or anything had been here except the tides, ebbing and flowing.
‘Nothing.’
‘She hasn’t been here. And honestly, I wonder if she ever has. You can’t see anything, and the tide fills it right up, likely as not. Alec was wrong.’
Sam was in charge of supper that night. Simon stacked logs. It was colder. The cave haunted him, the smell of the wet rock, the seaweed, the sand. The echo. It made him feel unsettled. Uneasy. But he was sure of the reason and he tried not to dwell on his memory of those other caves, set far back into the North Yorkshire cliffs. The stone ledges which the strong torch beams had picked up. The small still figures.
He did not think Sandy had spent any time in the caves here. Why would she? She liked walking, liked climbing over the top and looking out to sea, blown about by the wind. Or going along the beach, peering down to see what the tides might have brought in. Sandy was not a person to hide herself away under the cliffs. He had no reason to be so sure of it but he was sure and he had always followed his hunches, his gut feelings, as a cop and in the rest of his life. He wouldn’t change now.
‘Any idea how long you’re staying?’
Sam gave him a long look. Simon helped himself to the last of the spaghetti Bolognese.
‘Maybe another few days?’
‘Sure. Then what?’
Sam shrugged. And then he was silent for several minutes, cutting bread, getting out a fresh pack of butter. Simon finished eating. He had lit the fire and it was crackling nicely, not yet giving off much heat. But it wouldn’t take long. They would need to have the lamps on soon.
/> Who does he remind me of? Not his mother. His father then? Yes. Chris had been quiet, thoughtful, occasionally explosive. Clear-minded. Stubborn. Rarely changing his mind. A bit of his father then. Who else?
Simon smiled to himself. Yes, he thought. Like me in some ways. Some of the time.
‘Thing is,’ Sam said now, ‘it’s not that easy to get my head round stuff at home. I think Mum sees me as the same age as Felix still and she asks about everything … oh, you know. I’m just trying to get it all clear.’
‘Sure. Kick me if I start probing.’
‘You won’t. You don’t.’
‘Thanks. But if you do want to run something past me, you can.’
‘I know that. I don’t remember Granny too well now. Was she like that?’
‘She was like a mother, if that’s what you mean. But no – there were three of us, remember, all the same age. She didn’t have time, and she went back to work at the hospital when we were a year old. She was an achiever, our mother. She believed in letting us get on with it, so we did.’
‘Was Grandpa the same?’
‘Oh God yes. More so. But he was different. He let us think we could do what we wanted and then when we did, he kicked off.’
‘He’s never like that to me.’
‘No. He isn’t. I suppose people aren’t so tough on grandchildren.’
‘I might go and see him actually.’
‘What, in France?’
‘Why not?’
‘Not sure he’d be all that happy if you just turned up.’
‘Why?’
Too many ‘whys’, Simon thought. Like a much younger boy. Robbie. Yes. Because Richard wouldn’t be happy if Sam did? Because I would never do that? Because … All he had was a hunch, but where his father was concerned, hunches had never been reliable.
‘If you want to go I’d email him first – check it out.’
Sam did not reply, just got up and started to clear the table.
Simon went to the back door. The sky was clear and thick with stars. There was no light pollution up here. Any cloudless night was a starry one. It never failed to please him and make him feel an odd sense of rightness. Belonging. No, he didn’t belong here. He never would. He could come as often as he liked, it would make no difference.
How had Sandy appeared from nowhere and become part of the island so quickly? She might have lived here all her life. What had Sandy done, or not done, to be so accepted, and how?
It was as still a night as ever it would be. There was always the slight stirring of the grass, the movement of the air; the wind never lay down and slept.
He went out to shut the side gate. If it blew up from nowhere the gate would slam hard, and go on slamming.
When he returned to the house, Sam had gone upstairs.
Seventeen
By six o’clock the tide was going out from the small bay below the field centre, but it was not until after seven that four intrepid swimmers were on their way down to the water, all wearing wetsuits – they had been warned how cold the sea would be. The first two raced ahead and plunged in, following a wave to launch themselves, the next was not far behind, but then Laura Roberts felt her foot come up against a concealed rock and fell sprawling on the hard sand. She lay until it was clear that she had done herself little harm, though she would probably have bruised toes the next day. The others were shouting with laughter, their voices faint against the drag of the waves.
She rolled over and looked along the flat sand, and as she looked, she saw it. She had read about it. The mistakes people made. A big fish. A log. A seal. Part of a boat. She got up and went slowly along the few yards of beach. Slowed as she got nearer. She made herself look. Took a few steps. The tide was going out but a few foam-edged waves were washing over it. Gentle waves. Washing it clean.
She did not remember passing out, only that she came to with Chloë and Angus leaning over her and Ade standing peering down at the woman’s body.
Eighteen
Douglas stopped off on his way to pick up a roll of barbed wire that was due in on the morning boat. Simon met him at the gate.
‘How long before local police get here?’
He shrugged. ‘She’s dead so they’ll no be in any hurry. Doctor will be first. He’s only twenty minutes away in his own boat and it’s flat calm. He can get right into the bay. You’d best go over there.’
‘I’m not Police Scotland.’
‘You’re still police, aren’t you? There’d best be someone taking charge till ours get here.’
‘I’ll call them.’
Sam was still asleep when he got through. ‘We use the normal services to get over to Taransay unless it’s a real emergency. Money’s not easy to find for a special chartered boat. Washed-up bodies, no. What exactly are you doing on the island, Chief Superintendent?’
‘Rehab after an operation. I’m fighting fit now and I know Taransay.’
‘Let me ring you back.’
Ten minutes later, he was speaking to his equivalent ranking officer in the Highlands and Islands CID.
‘I’m even more short of folk than usual, there’s been a drug-smuggling op coming into the north and I’ve got no spare pairs of hands. Found-drowned missper goes to the bottom of the to-do list so you’re a godsend. Give me your number. I’m heading out in half an hour but keep me posted on this. Any thoughts before you see her?’
‘No, but I doubt if she was a suicide. Accident seems the most likely, though she knew every nook and cranny pretty well.’
‘Accidents still happen. People get careless, we see it all the time. Meet up with Doc Murray and get his certification and first opinion. He’ll bring the body over to the mortuary here.’
He had expected a crowd. There was always a crowd. People came out of nowhere, to hang about and stare and make ghoulish chat. But there were only a couple of young men, who were from the field centre and who were now guarding the body. They had covered it with a piece of plastic sheeting, weighted down with a few stones. They sat cross-legged on the wet and shining sand, like attendants at some primitive funeral.
‘Thanks for this. Not the best start to your day. I’m only filling in for the local police until they can get here, and the doctor’s on his way.’
‘Do you know who it is? There’s been someone missing, the local guy said.’
‘Yes. I’m just going to take a look. You didn’t move the body about?’
They were both standing now. ‘No. We didn’t touch it only it seemed wrong just to … you know, let her lie there like that.’
Simon knelt down and felt the water soak up into the knees of his trousers. He moved one of the lumps of rock and carefully slid the sheeting down a little way.
Sandy. And as he looked at her, he heard the engine of a motorboat coming in fast to the shore.
‘OK, guys, you don’t have to stay any longer. This is the doc. You might have to answer one or two formal questions later – how long are you at the field centre for?’
‘Three more days. You sure you don’t need us?’
‘You’ve done brilliantly, and thanks, but you go back now.’ The engine died and the motorboat ground to a halt in the sand.
‘Superintendent Serrailler? Ken Murray. Right. What have we?’
Brisk and to the point, efficient, clinical, but somehow also respectful of what was a fellow human being, not just a dead body. Like every pathologist Serrailler had ever met. The doctor got out his bag and unzipped his yellow waterproof and life jacket. He rolled the plastic sheet fully back. Behind them, the tide went out as calmly as it ever did on this coast.
He said nothing for many minutes, inspecting the body first entirely by eye, then with a light touch, disturbing as little as possible. Simon looked on. At Sandy’s hands. Face. Ankles. She was wearing a dark-coloured sweater. Jerkin with the collar zipped right up. Black jeans. One boot. The other was missing. Her hair was loose. She had no scarf or hat but those would have slipped off underwater. She was
recognisable, but only just. A body which has been submerged and battered about in the sea is not a pleasant sight once it is washed up onshore.
‘Dead,’ Murray said, straightening up. ‘That’s the easy part done. Familiar?’
‘Sandy Murdoch. She lives on the island.’
‘Family here?’
‘No, she lived on her own. I don’t know much about her. Not sure anyone else does.’
They stood in silence for a second. Murray shook his head. ‘It’s never right,’ he said.
‘Fine, I’m not doing anything else here. Help me get her into the body bag and I’ll be on my way.’
It was not easy and they had to be careful. The flesh was already loosening. The fingers and palms were wrinkled. But the doctor was expert, his movements assured, he guided Serrailler with only a few words, and the body was on board, strapped down and secured. ‘You all right to get back?’
Simon nodded and watched the small boat turn and head east, picking up speed. He saw it almost out of sight before he looked down at the sand, marked and indented slightly where she had been washed up and lain. There was no point in securing the site even if he had the means to do it. The tide would wash everything clean and clear again in a few hours. And it was probably not a crime scene in any case.
Nineteen
The cafe was still full, every table taken by people eating dinner, or just drinking coffee and half-carafes of rosé, smoke blowing up into the still warm night from right and left. Olivier was rushing between tables when Richard caught his sleeve.
‘Nous sommes complets mais si vous – ‘
‘Ou est Delphine?’
The young waiter pulled away and shook his head. ‘Pardon … je suis …’
The proprietor, Victor, was on tonight, tall, thin, with a builtin Gallic shrug and a surly manner which very occasionally lifted like a cloud away from the sun, to bestow charm, smiles, kisses, handshakes and lively conversation on some favoured customer – always a local. He came down the two steps and glanced over to Richard.
