by Caro Ramsay
Claire had her back towards the water, looking over Helena’s head.
‘Is that right?’ she asked quietly.
Helena took her time to approach; it was rough underfoot. Every footfall jarred her back as she crossed the shore grass to the little bay.
Claire shouted something but the noise got confused in Helena’s head. She looked at the shingle footmarks, at her own feet and then Claire’s. There was another set, going into the trees. She turned and called out, no answer.
It was all very quiet here, just the popping and snapping of something coming their way through the trees.
‘Claire? We need to find your dad. Come here,’ Helena called out, watching as the draught of warm air, black specked, lifted the girl’s long hair. She leaned against a tree catching her breath, still looking at the footmarks. She could hear the slap-slop of water. Somebody was swimming in the loch. There was somebody in the woods behind. The world was darkening, rumbling. She couldn’t trust her senses any more. There was noise all around her. She started walking slowly across the rocks to Claire, telling her in a low voice to come back. Claire turned round to look at her. ‘What’s up?’
‘We need to leave here, Claire. We need to go now.’ She had to breathe the words in the air.
There was a loud bang, like an explosion. The smoke got thicker, drifting across them, keeping them hidden. Helena’s eyes began to smart, then the smoke cleared.
Claire was talking to her. Helena could see her mouth moving but she was hearing another noise. A rustling in the woods. Something or somebody was in the trees. She was ten yards away from Claire. She moved with her arms out, making herself wider, opening the arms of her jacket. She tried to move quicker, holding her breath, ignoring the pain in her chest. Then Claire’s eyes drifted from her face and focussed on the trees behind her, somewhere over her left shoulder. Her face drained of all emotion, her eyes open, her mouth almost a perfect O. Helena thought she might be screaming. She thought that she herself might be screaming. She turned round, looking through into the green, looking behind the curtain of lush, verdant leaves, focussing on where she heard the sound.
Helena saw the point of the arrow as it rose and retreated into the bushes. She knew what was coming next and took a step to the side.
Costello covered her mouth as the screaming went on and on and on – the howling of a fatally wounded animal that was taking a long time to die. Then the screaming lengthened into one word. ‘Daaaaaaad.’
Costello set off with Anderson close behind. They ran down the path to the Roonbay, towards the smoke and the ever-increasing noise of the flames. The misty grey smoke now had an orange heart. The horizon was lost.
Claire came running out from the smoke. She didn’t stop, and ran right into her dad. Costello kept going, keeping to the side of the path to get some cover from the bushes, her jumper pulled up to cover her mouth. She was thumped in the stomach. She kicked and screamed, a hand clasped over her face and she was dragged backwards into the trees.
‘Stop screaming, you dozy cow, it’s us.’ She didn’t recognize the voice, but she identified the scent as Batten’s patchouli oil. She opened her eyes and saw Wyngate putting his fingers to his lips. He was pointing to a figure lying on the breach. A cloud of smoke drifted past; black soot motes danced their way to the water’s edge. Costello walked forward, seeing the dark hair spiking on the ground and a slow river of blood running over the shingle. A single arrow stuck in the chest pointing at the sky. She shrugged Batten away and dashed out, muttering to herself, ‘Don’t let it be, please don’t let it be.’
Helena was lying, eyes open, staring upwards. Costello felt for the carotid artery. Nothing. Costello pulled the phone from her pocket, struggling to get the words out. ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’ But Helena looked at her straight in the face. There was a slight movement in her eyes. Costello leaned forward, smiled at her and lifted Helena’s head a little to fold her hood under her hair. She was comforted by the look of peace in the other woman’s face.
‘She’s OK, Claire’s OK,’ said Costello, hoping it was true. ‘She’s with Colin. Helena? Helena? Did you see who fired at you?’ The eyes closed over, shutters coming down. Long eyelashes wavered. The eyelids slivered open a little. ‘You’ll be OK. The ambulance will be here soon.’ A slight smile touched the blue lips. Her eyes rolled up and looked at the sky. Costello turned to look, the smoke cloud moved on. The dark clouds parted and the moon came into sight, bathing light on the top of the Ben.
‘Beautiful,’ Helena’s eyes flickered, then closed.
Costello looked behind her. Anderson was hugging his daughter, pressing her head to his chest and muttering something to calm her. Claire’s eyes were burning into the body on the ground. Costello took her jacket off and placed it over Helena, then she took a picture of the top of the Ben with her phone before the clouds covered them over again.
Batten and Wyngate had followed her out, moving slowly on to the coarser sand. Wyngate kept his eyes on the water, Batten watched the shore.
The enemy was out there.
Then Costello heard, they all heard, somebody running fast through the copse of trees, fast and clumsy.
‘Roonbay,’ said Costello, feeling a faint brush of wind, or the heat from the blaze, kiss the skin of her face. Daisy’s words fired into her head: The loch will give up its dead tonight. ‘Colin, get Claire back to the lodge. Now.’
But Anderson had his eyes closed, holding on to his daughter as if she was the most precious thing in the world.
‘Colin!’ screamed Costello.
Anderson lifted his head and nodded slightly as Claire looked at the body on the ground and made a whooping noise: half sob, half scream. She put her fist in her mouth but held on to her dad, allowing herself to be pulled through the smoke, slipping and sliding in darkness.
Costello, Batten and Wyngate all moved back into the treeline. The smoke was a choking, dense blanket now. Costello leaned against a tree and listened to the wash of the small waves, the chatter of the wind in the trees and the crackle and spit of the fire. She was listening for footsteps on the shingle but she couldn’t hear. She moved on, behind another tree, a smaller one this time. She should be close to the Roonbay by now. She closed her eyes as a thick bank of smoke enveloped her.
Then she heard one word.
‘Hello.’
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ called Ruth.
She was sitting cross-legged on the Rocking Stone. Her face was grey, black smears of soot, her eyes bright and vibrant.
Costello stepped out, slowly walking forward to get clear of the trees.
‘What the hell is she doing?’ asked Wyngate from his position behind a large Scots pine.
‘Suicide?’ said Batten, searching for something to cover his face with. ‘If that mad bitch moves, you run for her.’
‘Which mad bitch do you mean?’ whispered Wyngate, aware that his feet were sticking to the ground. The warm ground.
Costello saw Ruth had something lying across her lap, something like a small harp. Fewer strings but more deadly.
Batten hushed Wyngate and listened to the conversation, watching the two women in their deadly stand-off from behind his own tree. The background of the flames fizzled and rustled, edging ever closer.
‘Don’t come any closer. I can kill you from here very easily.’
‘Yes, I know.’
The wind seemed to push the flames a little nearer. Costello could see them now. She could hear the deep waves slap and break against the stone, as if trying to get to Ruth, but not quite reaching.
Costello looked out across the loch.
‘Smoke on the water,’ said Ruth. ‘The most famous guitar riff ever.’
‘I prefer “Black Night”. It’s a long way from home. And so are you, Ruth.’
‘That’s good, keep it personal,’ whispered Batten.
‘I’m not; this is where my boy died. And where I will die. Just wondering how many of you I w
ill take. You and your two pals, hiding behind the trees. They can either burn there or be shot by an arrow.’
Wyngate and Batten exchanged a glance, both aware how hot it was getting. Wyngate pulled the neck of his sweatshirt over his nose and mouth. Batten held his own arm up, breathing into his elbow.
Costello kept her eyes on the water. She was less than twenty feet away from Ruth but edging closer.
Batten watched, muttering, ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t.’
‘Oh, this? You’re looking at this?’ Ruth lifted the bow.
Batten winced and pulled his head back behind the tree.
‘It was the one question you never asked. The one fact you did not release to the press. If you had said how Patricia died then Isobel would have told you. Fergus, Daisy, any of them. They could have told you how good I am with this, how accurate.’
‘True,’ said Costello.
Batten could see Ruth face on, but only the back of Costello, who had now stopped walking. But was not retreating.
‘Eoin wouldn’t have told us, though.’
‘No, not Eoin.’ Ruth laughed, the bow lifted slightly.
Costello winced as she heard the Tinkerbell chime of Sammy’s charm bracelet, hanging from Ruth’s wrist.
‘Sammy, Bernie. All that was revenge?’
Don’t be confrontational, thought Batten, debating whether to step out and join the chat. But two against one might make Ruth feel more threatened and that would be dangerous. This way they still had the advantage of surprise.
‘Not revenge. Grief. Let them live without the ones they love. Let DCI Anderson get on without his Helena, without his Claire. You have no idea how much I wanted my boy. My boy. Only to have him taken.’
‘But by who? Not by his dad, his real dad, I mean. He was innocent. Or was he guilty of becoming what you were scared of – Callum’s real dad?’
‘He was mine,’ hissed Ruth.
‘But not Fergus’s?’
‘He was not Warren’s to take,’ Ruth’s eyes narrowed.
The smoke passed again, Costello took a step forward. ‘Warren was not yours to kill.’
‘He so was, it was the will of the Gods. We got all of them except Lexy.’
‘Give her her moment, Costello,’ Batten whispered, the words choking his burning throat. ‘Let her talk about her grief, her pain. Empathize.’
‘You’re so full of shit, Ruth.’
Batten cursed.
‘It wasn’t Warren. Eoin played you and your grief. It was Jimmy who killed your precious boy. He hated Robbie. Eoin should never have had Robbie. Jimmy preferred to be an only child. Have one. That one is not good enough, so Eoin went shopping for another. That sucks.’
Wyngate looked at Batten. ‘What the fuck is she talking about?’
Batten placed a finger over his lips.
‘So you were blessed by Callum, but cursed by Robbie.’
‘Careful, Costello,’ muttered Batten as the bow moved.
‘And Bella was a mistake.’
‘It still hurt, though,’ Ruth insisted. ‘Hurt Elizabeth, knowing her friend died instead of her. And that gave us more hope. Kill those close to our victims. Make them suffer. Like I am suffering.’
‘So not grief, then. It is revenge.’
‘Careful,’ warned Batten.
‘Got you, though, didn’t I?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m not done.’
‘Oh, you are,’ Costello’s voice was deadly.
Batten rolled his eyes heavenward.
‘But you are in front of my arrow.’
‘So?’
Batten heard the confidence in Costello’s voice, Ruth heard it too.
Then Wyngate nudged him, ‘Look.’ Batten looked out but saw nothing except Costello and Ruth in silent stand-off, smoke blowing between them, sparks flying. He stifled a cough.
‘So do you want us to say how clever you have been, Ruth?’
‘Cleverer than you, obviously.’
‘You won’t get out of here.’
‘I never intended to.’
Batten closed his eyes, both in prayer and because the smoke was burning. Ruth was playing her end game and that made her dangerous. He was about to step out and start to negotiate when Wyngate stopped him. The constable shook his head. ‘Look.’
The wind was moving the trees now. Ruth lifted the bow slightly; it looked very comfortable in her hands.
Batten heard the crack in Costello’s voice, each nerve twanging. ‘Do you feel that wind? Do you feel it, Ruth? Do you know what that means?’
Ruth was confused as well, the bow lifted, the arrow came up.
Costello started quoting Daisy. ‘The tears of angels. Can you feel it?’
‘It’s the fire.’
‘No, it’s all over the water.’
‘You won’t get me to turn round.’
‘Don’t. But the loch will give up its dead tonight. And you put Warren in the water.’
‘It’s not raining.’
‘Warren will come after you.’
Ruth went quiet, something like fear flickered across her face.
‘What the fuck is she going on about?’ Then Batten saw something rise from the darkness behind Ruth. He saw the shimmer of dark wet hair, ebony eyes shining in the night, the flash of green, the white of a necrotized flesh. Two arms rose from the black water beyond the Rocking Stone, white water splashed as two strong arms closed round Ruth and pulled her backwards into the dark water. There was a silence, then white bleached bones danced in the surface as the waves closed over, rippling to stillness.
Sunday, 22 June
Vik looked out the window at the devastation around him. The weather was glorious again. He felt shell-shocked. Inchgarten Bay looked like London after the Blitz. The lodge had remained untouched, thank God. He had spent two hours that morning in his initial debrief. A DCI Turner was taking charge, going over Anderson’s mistakes, Bernie’s mistakes and no doubt coming out squeaky clean himself. From the tone of the meeting, Colin was number one fall guy. He had believed Eoin, he had empathised with him. That was his big mistake. It was nothing to do with Colin, the way Helena and Claire had appeared at the scene, but it didn’t look good for him.
Still, there was Helena.
Colin had bigger things to worry about.
Vik looked round. It was still better than home. Roonbay was in full view now that the trees had been razed to the ground, a stark, grey, smouldering landscape. It looked post-nuclear. The remains of the boatshed were still smoking, burnt out, stinking. CSIs this way, photographers that way. Elvie and Daisy at the end of the jetty. They could have been sitting in the sun on holiday, the scenery behind them, Inchgarten Island, chocolate box perfect. Daisy had been very upset that the big apple tree had been charred. But had been consoled it had survived for a hundred years, and would survive a hundred more.
So beautiful out there.
And evil all around. He reread the email conversation, the last thing on Elvie’s laptop.
Hello
Hi, Amy Lee. How are you? How is the project going?
I’m not Amy Lee. My name is John Wark, RCMP. Amy Lee seems to have disappeared. We are going through her contact box to see if anybody knows what has happened to her. Can I ask you what your relationship was, when you last saw her?
I have never met her. I was helping her with the Scottish part of her ancestry. Where is ‘Grandpappy’?
Why do you ask? He was the last one to see her alive this morning. Who are you?
My name is Elvie McCulloch. I work for Parnell Fox Investigations, Glasgow, Scotland. I was researching her family history for her.
OK, Elvie. I think I have some bad news for you.
Mulholland read on, kicking himself as he did so. He had been a detective for fifteen years and shit like this still passed him by. Wee Amy Lee had been found strangled.
Just like Angela eighty years ago, when Robert’s childlike hands had been mistaken for
those of his mother. Amy Lee had been killed by those same hands. Was he another psychopath, like Jimmy, unable to bear the birth of the younger child? In Robert’s case, the mother was willing to hang so her child could go free. Eoin’s actions had been little different. Did either of them realize the monster they were setting loose? What would Jimmy have matured into? Didn’t bear thinking about, but they didn’t have to think about it; James Dewar was incarcerated and receiving treatment. He wouldn’t get the chance to grow into a Robert Cohoon.
Elvie was gunning to fly out there. Vik had insisted on using more official channels but he didn’t know who to go to. He was content to know that whatever luck had kept Robert Cohoon at liberty for all these years, it was over now.
He watched Daisy flinging stones into the water, and wondered what conversation was going on out there. The CSIs were clustered far beyond the Boathouse, where Eoin had been found with his throat cut, and around the Roonbay, where Helena McAlpine had had her life cut short, if only by a few months.
A policewoman sweating in her uniform came into view of the lodge window, Costello walking behind her. Trousers and a blouse, an official visit then. Who was escorting who? The uniform tried to guide Costello up to the Boathouse where they had eaten and where Turner now had his office. But Costello went down the jetty, waving the uniform away. Words were said. There was an argument. The uniform didn’t win.
He wondered what Costello was in for. A medal for bravery? Or was the whole epic failure going to be her fault? Knowing Police Scotland, it could be both.
Vik picked up his crutch. He needed to be in on this conversation.
‘How’s Colin?’ he asked, clonking his way along the wooden jetty. Elvie trotted off and returned with a plastic crate for him to sit on.
‘How do you expect?’ said Costello. She had black bags under her bloodshot eyes. ‘He’s not good. Claire’s not good. Helena knew she was very ill, but to witness somebody sacrificing themselves to save you, that’s some burden for young shoulders to carry.’
‘Her decision. A very sensible one, if she was terminal,’ said Elvie, looking out to the islands.
