by Alex Walters
She’d been afraid the uniforms would have made a big deal of securing the crime scene, envisaging the bar draped in police tape and surrounded by flashing blues. The last thing they wanted, though she didn’t fool herself word wouldn’t already be getting round in a small town like this.
In fact, they’d handled it discreetly enough. The marked car was tucked around the corner and they’d obviously done nothing more than lock the main bar doors and shut the wooden gates to the delivery yard.
After a moment, the bar door opened a crack and a face peered out. ‘Aye?’
She was about to brandish her warrant card when the door opened further. ‘I know you. Alec McKay’s gopher.’
‘DS Horton to you,’ she said. ‘Or Ginny to my friends. You were at the Clootie Well.’ Murray something, she recalled.
‘Aye, come in,’ he said. ‘Make yourselves at home.’
The two uniforms—Murray and another she didn’t recognise—had been sitting by the doorway waiting for someone to turn up. It looked as if they’d been smart enough to minimise their impact on the crime scene, if that was what it turned out to be. The bar looked even more dreary and lifeless than when she’d visited with McKay, as if its last spark of hospitality had finally been snuffed out.
‘We OK to bugger off now?’ Murray was already gathering up his possessions. ‘Shift finished the best part of an hour ago.’
‘Anything else useful you can tell us?’
‘Not really. You’ll have seen what we reported. The pool of blood’s in the yard out back. I didn’t know what to do about that or the shoe. Didn’t want to disturb it if it was evidence, but didn’t want this bloody downpour to remove anything that might be helpful. In the end, we found a sheet of plastic in the back and laid that over them to keep the rain off. That’s the only thing we touched. Even kept our hands off the beer. Not that it was much of a temptation in this place.’
‘You did right,’ she agreed. ‘Though the examiners will whinge whatever we do.’
‘Aye, tell me about it,’ Murray said.
‘OK, push off then,’ Horton said. ‘But make sure you’re both contactable if there’s anything we need to check with you.’
She and Graham settled themselves in the corner vacated by Murray and his colleague to await the arrival of the crime scene examiner. He was, they’d been assured, on his way. No doubt at his own speed, Horton thought. In the meantime, there wasn’t a lot they could do. Murray and his colleague had already checked the adjacent properties and learned that all but one—an elderly woman who’d seen and heard nothing of interest—were unoccupied during the day, their owners at work. There was little point setting any more hares running until they’d a better idea of what had happened here.
‘Can’t even help ourselves to a bag of crisps,’ Graham said, morosely. ‘I’m starving.’
‘More than your job’s worth,’ Horton agreed.
‘Aye, and they’re probably stale in this place anyway.’
She was about to respond when her mobile buzzed on the table. McKay. ‘Alec?’
‘Aye, I’m heading in your direction. Another bit of news.’ She could hear he was on the hands-free now, voice raised against the white noise of the car engine, the repetitive brush of the screen-wipers. ‘I told you we put out a bulletin on Robbins’s car. No response to that yet, but it was tracked by the ANPR heading up to the Isle this morning. Then one of the FCR operators spotted the same reg in a call she took earlier. Some old bugger from Rosemarkie. One of those houses on the seafront. Phoning up to complain that some inconsiderate bastard had left a bloody great 4x4 parked outside his house all afternoon. Operator pointed out it wasn’t actually illegal to park on an unmarked public street, but the old bugger kept blethering on about how they’d taken his parking spot so he’d had to get wet on his way back from the supermarket. And they’d just left it there blocking his view of the sea. Like there’s anything to look at on a day like this—’
Horton reflected, not for the first time, that it was fortunate that McKay wasn’t expected to take 111 calls from the general public. ‘You’re saying this was Robbins?’
‘Aye. The old bugger had taken the number. When the bulletin came in, it rang a bell with the operator, so she checked back and—bingo.’
‘Do we know if it’s still there?’
‘No idea. The operator fobbed the old bugger off with a promise we’d check it out, and then promptly stuck it at the bottom of the priority list. There were no further calls, so maybe it’s moved on. Old bugger reckoned there was no sign of the driver and he couldn’t see into the back as the thing’s got tinted windows.’
‘Want me to go and check it out? I can leave Mary here to hold the fort.’
There was a pause, filled only by the incessant background noise on the line. ‘Aye, I suppose you can go and have a look. But I’m only fifteen-twenty minutes away. Don’t take any risks, Ginny. If there’s any sign of Robbins, get the hell out and call for back-up.’
‘I’m not an idiot, Alec.’
‘Aye, but you’re a police officer, Ginny. We’re all daft bastards when it comes to that sort of stuff. OK. Call me and let me know what you find, if anything.’
***
She left Graham to watch the bar and stepped back outside. There was no sign of the rain lessening, and its force was increased by the chill wind blowing off the sea. The street was deserted, except for the occasional passing car, and the lights of the bars and restaurants along the road looked welcoming but forlorn. On nights like this Horton sometimes wondered why she’d ever left the Home Counties. But then she knew the answer to that well enough.
She took the road through the town out towards Rosemarkie. In the short open stretch between the two adjoining villages, you could normally make out the open firth but tonight there was nothing but a haze of cloud and rain. She came down the hill into Rosemarkie and took the right turn down to the seafront. McKay had given her details of where the vehicle had been parked, down at the far end, just before the parking for the beach.
As she’d expected, there was no sign of it now. The few cars parked along that end of the front were standard saloons, with nothing resembling the large 4x4 she was seeking.
She parked up in one of the parallel spaces intended for visitors to the beach and dialled McKay’s number. He was either on the phone himself or in a dead spot, and the call went immediately to voicemail. She left a brief message saying she’d found nothing, and then prepared to turn back.
She hesitated for a moment, her attention caught by something in her peripheral vision. She had parked facing the sea and whatever she’d seen, or thought she’d seen, was off to her left, further along the shore, somewhere in the area by the beach cafe.
Probably just her imagination. Curious, though, she leaned over into the passenger seat and lowered the side window, peering into the rainy gloom.
At first, she could see nothing but the sheets of endlessly falling rain. Beyond the short row of houses to her left, the path to the beach cafe disappeared into the grey mist. The cafe itself would have closed hours ago and was visible only as a darker silhouette. The other smaller shapes would be the wooden benches that dotted the grassed area above the beach.
Then, as her eyes adjusted to the mist-shrouded twilight, she spotted it again. A flickering movement of light. The play of a torch beam on the empty beach.
Horton pulled her hood back over her head and climbed out into the rain. The wind buffeted her coldly, drumming the water into her face. Who would be out there on an evening like this? She peered over the railing. The tide was rapidly coming in, the beach disappearing under the relentless encroachment of the wind-whipped waves. Even the most ardent dog-walkers would have left the beach.
She’d taken McKay’s warning to heart and had no intention of advancing further if she saw any signs of Robbins. She glanced back along the empty seafront, confident that she could outrun him if he should appear ahead of her. She took another few steps f
orward and stopped.
A figure had appeared along the shore, rising white and ghost-like above the beach. It took Horton a breathless moment to realise that the figure was making its way up the steps from the sand to the grassy bank in front of the cafe. The flashlight flickered in the figure’s hand, scattering a diffused glow through the rain.
Her first thought was that it must be Robbins. Almost immediately, she realised the figure was too slight. McKay had described him as well-built and muscular, someone who looked as if he worked out. This figure was shorter and slimmer than McKay himself.
As Horton watched, the figure walked slowly and steadily across the grass, coming to a halt at one of the heavy carved benches in front of the cafe. In the teeming rain, the figure remained motionless, staring out to sea, the flashlight beam pointing vainly into the gloom.
There was no other sign of life or movement. Horton walked cautiously forward, half-expecting some other figure to step out of the shadows ahead. But there was nothing except the slim, pale figure on the bench.
As Horton drew closer, she saw the figure was a young woman, blonde hair plastered across her gaunt white face. Horton had expected the pale clothing to be some kind of waterproof, but the woman was wearing nothing more than a sodden white blouse and a pair of pale-coloured jeans. She was soaked to the bone, but her posture suggested an indifference to the rain and cold.
Horton had assumed she was still out of the woman’s sight, lost in the copse of trees that lined the path. But the woman suddenly called: ‘Hello.’
Horton froze, unsure whether the woman was addressing her or someone else. Then she realised the woman was staring directly at her.
‘Hello,’ the woman said again. Her voice was clear and loud enough to carry above the roaring of the wind and the incoming tide. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone else here.’
Horton glanced back, fearful that someone was behind her. The pathway and the street beyond were deserted, stained orange by the glow of the streetlights on the rain-washed surface. ‘Are you all right?’
The woman nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m fine now,’ she said.
‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘Not really.’
Horton walked cautiously towards the woman. ‘Do you want to borrow my coat?’
‘I’m fine now,’ the woman said again.
‘I’ve an umbrella back in the car. Help keep you dry?’ It sounded absurd.
‘No, I’m really fine.’ The tone was a little sharper.
‘Can I take you anywhere?’
‘No, I really am fine.’ The woman gestured behind her. ‘Anyway, I can drive myself.’
Horton’s gaze followed the gesture. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a vehicle parked in the shadow of the cafe building, twenty or so metres from where they were standing. A large vehicle.
She turned and looked more closely. It was what she had thought. A substantial 4x4. A Mitsubishi Shogun.
Robbins’s car.
***
McKay banged heavily on the bar door, irritated at being left standing in the rain. After a moment, he heard the sound of the lock being unfastened inside and the door was pulled open.
‘Oh,’ Mary Graham said. ‘It’s you. Sir.’
‘You sound disappointed. What were you expecting, a visit from the chief constable?’
‘We’re still waiting for the examiners to arrive.’
‘Ah. Even more exalted company. If it’s Jock Henderson, he won’t be hurrying on a night like this.’ He followed Graham into the bar. ‘Where’s Ginny?’
‘She’s still out.’ Graham’s expression suggested that even facing the weather outside was preferable to being stuck in the Caledonian Bar.
‘Out?’
‘After your call. She went to check out this car up in Rosemarkie.’
McKay looked at his watch. It had taken him longer than he’d expected to get here, his passage slowed by wet roads and low visibility after he’d left the A9. He’d picked up Horton’s message confirming that there was no sign of Robbins’s car, and had assumed she’d have returned by now.
He thumbed her number. The number rang for a minute or so and then cut to voicemail. ‘How long’s she been gone?’
‘She left straight after you called,’ Graham said.
‘Best part of half an hour then?’
‘Something like that.’
It was maybe five minutes to Rosemarkie, even in weather like this. McKay called Horton’s number again, but the call again rang out to voicemail.
‘Shit,’ McKay said. ‘OK, Mary. You hold the fort here. I’m going looking for her.’
‘If you say so, sir,’ Graham said, but only once the door had closed behind McKay’s disappearing back. ‘If you fucking say so.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘Is that yours then?’ Horton said, gesturing towards the Shogun parked in the shadows. ‘Your car?’
She had sat herself on the heavy wooden bench next to the woman. The edges of the bench were carved with a Biblical quotation and the name and dates of a local boy who’d died before reaching adulthood. In the dim light, it resembled nothing so much as a wooden tomb.
‘Sort of,’ the woman said. ‘It was my father’s.’
Horton’s eyes were fixed on the young woman’s face. ‘Your father’s?’
‘Yes, it was his.’
‘John Robbins?’
The woman turned towards Horton, surprise in her eyes. ‘You know him? Aye, I suppose you would. He always liked your type.’ A small smile played round her lips. ‘My type.’
‘What’s our type?’ Horton asked.
‘You’re troubled, aren’t you?’
‘Troubled?’
‘You don’t need to pretend, you know? We’re all in the same position. We’re all victims.’
Horton felt as if her blood had frozen in her veins. She had told no-one of her own troubles, her own past. Not even Isla. Not properly. She’d shared some of it on one or two half-drunken nights when they’d downed too much wine. But not the whole story. Isla didn’t need that. She had plenty enough troubles in her own past. That was why they’d come up here. To put all that—or as much of it as they could—behind them.
‘Are you a victim too, Elizabeth?’
‘You know my name?’ Elizabeth Hamilton said. ‘Did he tell it you?’
‘No, Elizabeth. It’s a long story.’
‘It always is,’ Hamilton said. ‘You can call me Lizzie if you like. We can be friends. I want friends.’
‘We all do. Why are you sitting here, Lizzie?’
‘I’m just waiting.’
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I’ve been waiting all day. For the tide. I was too late this morning.’
‘Why are you waiting for the tide?’
‘I like watching the tide. Waiting for it to come in and go out.’
Horton followed Lizzie Hamilton’s gaze. It was scarcely possible to see anything through the thick twilight and heavily falling rain.
‘Why are you here, Lizzie?’
‘Watching the tide, that’s all.’
There was something in the way she spoke that Horton found unnerving. Something inexplicable even in this absurd situation. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked again.
‘I needed to stop him. I should have done it before. Long ago. It was my fault. It was always my fault.’
‘What was your fault, Lizzie?’
‘Everything was my fault. It was my fault that my mother died. It was my fault we were alone. It was my fault he couldn’t help himself.’
‘You don’t believe that, do you, Lizzie? You don’t believe it was your fault?’
She shook her head, not entirely a gesture of denial. ‘I don’t know. Some of it was my fault. I could have stopped him before.’ The rain was dripping from the angles of her cheeks. ‘I should have stopped him before.’
‘He’s responsible for what he does, Lizzie. Not you.’
‘I don’t know. I’m like him. I’m too like him.’ She was staring out across the beach, eyes fixed on the almost invisible sea. The roar of the waves was drawing closer, crashing below them.
‘Why don’t you come with me, Lizzie? I can take you somewhere warm and dry, where you’ll be safe. Then we can talk properly.’ Horton looked over her shoulder, conscious how vulnerable they were in this semi-dark. There was no movement other than the constant pounding of the wind and rain.
‘I have to wait,’ Hamilton said.
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I’m waiting for the tide.’
Horton felt the same chill she’d experienced moments earlier. Nothing to do with the cold, wet night. ‘Where’s your father, Lizzie?’
Hamilton turned to face her. ‘I’m safe now,’ she said. ‘We’re all safe now. You. Me. All the victims.’
‘Where is he, Lizzie?’ Horton had half-risen, peering over the grassy bank towards the beach and the encroaching sea. It was impossible to make out anything from here.
‘He was right,’ Hamilton said. ‘He was always right. After the first one, it becomes easier. It becomes part of who you are.’ Her gaze had shifted. She was no longer looking out to sea, but staring down across the beach. Horton walked cautiously over to where a short flight of steps led down to the path at the top of the beach. The tide was nearly in now, only a short strip of beach left exposed.
Then she saw it, twenty yards away along the shore, where the rising sea hit what remained of the beach. Something long and dark, and another shape beyond it.
Not stopping to think, Horton ran along the beach path and, reaching its end, jumped over the low wall on to the wet sand and shingle. She sprinted the last few metres, the ground sinking beneath her weight, the lash of the spray on her face.
