Night Falls, Still Missing

by Helen Callaghan

  It was obvious that whatever had been happening on the island, it was over for the night. If so much as a torch had been shining out there, she would have seen it.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Fiona nearly missed Langmire House, which would, in daylight, have been difficult to do, as at first glance it seemed to be the only dwelling for miles around. It was a small white house set in a neat square enclosure of drystone walling, closed off with an ornate cast-iron gate.

  It rested at the foot of a big sloping hill, strewn with massy boulders, separated from it by the asphalt strip of the road. Up on the hillside itself she could see twinkling yellow lights and big shadowy buildings – a farm of some sort, with a pale narrow track leading up to it, glistening with ice.

  But on the other side lay the cold, murmuring sea, which she was starting to realise was never far away from her here. The rutted driveway ran off the road, past the cottage and out towards what she could see was a small quay, with a single moored boat swaying restlessly on the moving waters.

  At some other time, she might have been charmed by it all.

  Fiona pulled up on to a rectangle of gravel before the gate and got out, this time prepared for the bite of the freezing wind with the addition of her scarf.

  A bottomless anger and anxiety was growing within her.

  There was clearly nobody home.

  All of the lights in the cottage were out. The windows were pools of darkness. As she opened the little gate and let herself through, following the icy flagstones to the front door, there was not even a porch light on.

  Stepping up, she pressed the doorbell, the only illuminated thing, and stood back.

  Within the house there was an upbeat double-chime, but no answer.

  Her gloved hands balling into fists against the cold, she moved to the window, peered in. The curtains were open, which was strange at this time of night, but then she supposed privacy wasn’t a problem for people around here. She leaned close, squinting into the darkness. She could make nothing much out – a sofa that might be leather, the silver rim of a flatscreen TV, the vague shadow of an open door into another room.

  Ringing the bell again achieved nothing. Neither did calling Madison herself several times more once she’d retreated to the comfort of her car.

  Am at Langmire House – where are you?

  She debated for a moment whether she should add her signature kiss, decided against it. No. Let her see how annoyed you are.

  Because that was it. Madison was being feckless again. It wasn’t that anything had happened to her, Fiona told herself, despite feeling a kind of dull nausea, like seasickness, only composed of worry.

  But somehow this sick feeling didn’t stop her just closing her eyes, resting her head against the car window, using her bunched coat as a pillow of sorts, as the stereo played gently and the chugging engine warmed the interior.

  The sea journey had taken it out of her, and she was simply exhausted. The patch for her travel sickness sometimes made her drowsy, and despite the lonely location, the darkness and her own uncertainty, her eyelids were beginning to flutter.

  Don’t fall asleep, Fiona told herself. If she calls, you’ll miss it.

  But somehow, within minutes, the muffled thump of the wind, the roar of the sea and the hot breath of the car had combined to pull her under.

  3

  Grangeholm, Orkney, January 2020

  The next thing Fiona knew, she was shocked awake.

  She didn’t know what did it – it felt as though someone had passed close to the car window and she wondered for a moment whether it was Madison – though as she came to, drowsy and disoriented and her neck stiff and one foot gone to sleep, she wondered if it had just been the wind, which had gotten high and angsty. She could feel the car judder beneath her with each blow.

  Her phone said it was now 1:54 a.m.

  There had been no messages from Madison. No missed calls.

  She sat there, stunned, trying to make sense of this.

  Fiona glanced out of the window, peering at the house. All was still darkness. There was no sign of another car.

  What the hell?

  For a second she paused, considering, then thought sod it, and switched on the flashlight on her smartphone.

  It was time to take a look.

  Once again she forgot to fasten her coat up before she got out of the car and was nearly blown over, and swore as she tried to gather the stray ends together, to get the zip to align, the scent and sound of the sea everywhere.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Madison,’ she hissed as her hair lashed into her eyes. In the darkness, waves crashed and the fittings on the boat jingled like ringing bells. ‘Where are you?’

  She approached the house, opening the gate against the wind, and shone the phone into the front window, and while she saw everything a little more clearly, there was no more detail. It was a sparsely but pleasantly furnished rented house, tidy (hard to believe with Mads staying in it, but still) and possibly cosy if anyone had been about to let her in, or even switch on a light.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ she swore aloud.

  Walking around the house, she found herself squinting into a spotless kitchen with an empty drying rack and an open dishwasher, likewise empty, and with a feeling of increasing unease passed on to the back, and once again shone the light in.

  It was the bedroom.

  This was when she realised.

  The bed was completely stripped and the wardrobe door hung open, showing only a collection of hangers.

  The heating dial, an electronic panel on the wall near the door, had been switched to OFF.

  Fiona blinked, trying to make sense of all this, fighting to find a different conclusion to the obvious one. Madison would absolutely not tolerate the heating to be off in the middle of winter. On Orkney.

  No matter how Fiona looked at it, there was absolutely no doubt.

  Madison didn’t live here any more.

  In fact, nobody lived here.

  She circled the house again, her mind trying to deny the evidence of her eyes, but no matter where she looked, the conclusion was inescapable. The bins, in their shed at the back, were empty. The curtains were pulled wide – there was nobody within whose privacy required protection.

  She was trying to hold on to her annoyance, to the sense that this was Madison being typically Madison, but it was deserting her, stealing away in pieces to be replaced by fear. Something was badly wrong.

  Once again she was in the car. She fired the engine up into a low purr and turned up the heating to full blast, rubbing her frozen hands together.

  She lifted the phone, called Madison’s mobile. It was a hopeless gesture, she realised – it was no more likely to be answered than any of the other times, but she was gratified to see that there was signal.

  Again, no answer.

  Madison had pulled some real tricks in her time, it was true – but nothing like this. Nothing like urging her to come up to visit her at the edge of the world, in her most pleading and anxious tones and despite Fiona’s obvious, palpable reluctance, and then vanishing before Fiona had arrived.

  She wanted to be angry, because that was much more comfortable than being frightened, but nevertheless a creeping chill hung around her throat and the back of her neck that the blasting car heater could do nothing to allay.

  She was remembering that tweet: YOU CAN GRUB IN THE DIRT TILL THE ENDS OF THE EARTH BUT I WILL FIND YOU …

  The clock in the car read 2:05.

  Taking out her little Moleskine, she scribbled a quick note in a shaking hand.

  MADISON

  I WAS HERE UNTIL 2 A.M. AND NOBODY WAS HOME – WHERE ARE YOU?! I AM GOING BACK TO THE PORT TO LOOK FOR YOU. IF I DON’T FIND YOU SOON I AM CALLING THE POLICE!

  PLEASE RING ME – I AM VERY WORRIED!

  FEE XXX

  She got out of the car once more, made for the front door. She tucked the paper into the letterbox, its crumpled, desperate capitals visible even from
the path. Though the wind shook it ferociously, the bite of the letterbox held firm.

  She was just turning to go when, on an impulse, she tried the door handle.

  With a click, it went down, and the door opened.

  4

  Grangeholm, Orkney, January 2020

  ‘Hello?’ Fiona called out.

  She stood in a windowless porch, with a thick welcome rug and the walls lined with hooks for coats. There was no sign of any coats, nor any of Madison’s prodigious collection of shoes, though the carpet was dusty, crusted with bits of dried mud that showed that somebody’s boots had been here recently.

  Her breath steamed before her, like a ghost.

  She pushed open the glass door into the darkness of the house proper. It was chilly, but at least it was out of that biting wind.

  She switched on the light.

  ‘Madison?’ she called out, more for form’s sake than any other reason.

  The kitchen was big, tiled, with a dining table and chairs under the window facing out to the sea. The fridge freezer was completely empty except for half a bag of ice cubes.

  Her mind groped for logical, prosaic explanations. There was some mistake in communications, perhaps. Was this the right Langmire? Was she even on the right island in Orkney?

  Don’t be stupid. Of course you’re on the right island. And this is where the satnav led you, isn’t it?

  Call that silly cow again, she told herself crossly. And if she answers, give her hell for mucking you about and … and …

  Scaring you like this.

  She picked up the phone, swiped Madison’s number again.

  There were a few seconds of delay before the ringing started. Then a few more.

  Then a single long beep, and the message Call Failed.

  She decided to phone Adi instead, realised that it was late – too late. He was in Zurich now, anyway, probably still socialising with his firm’s clients if previous form was anything to go by.

  So what? This is an emergency. You are stuck on an island in the middle of the night. You have no idea what has happened to Madison …

  What has happened to Madison …

  She glanced uneasily over her shoulder, towards the other rooms.

  You should have a closer look, she told herself.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The bed was stripped, as she had seen from the window, the bedding lying in a pile on the far side. All the drawers were empty, the mirrored wardrobe doors shut.

  But something was wrong.

  One of the mirrored doors was cracked, as though something had hit it hard.

  The bedroom lighting was dim, ambient, so she pulled out her phone and turned the flashlight on again, leaned in close to the crack.

  In one of the jagged seams was a tiny smear of blood.

  She gasped, her heart missing a beat.

  And then suddenly it was pounding, as though to catch up, and Fiona knew she would not stay here for a second longer.

  She had to get out. She had to get out …

  She dropped her phone into her pocket and was just turning to go when she heard the front door swing open.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was a man’s voice, with the low music of an Orcadian accent.

  Fiona froze.

  ‘Hello, is anybody here? I saw your car …’

  And suddenly they were both there, framed in the bedroom doorway, blinking at her. It was a tiny house – Fiona would have been easy to find.

  They appeared an unlikely pair of malefactors, hardly sinister: a middle-aged couple, the woman with vast brown eyes and mid-length dark hair secured in a ponytail, and a broad barrel of a man, bald, with a ginger moustache and neat beard. Both wore puffer jackets and wellington boots, and looked, if it were possible, as frightened of her as she was of them, drawing together anxiously; a tiny, telling moment.

  ‘Oh … hello … sorry, I’m looking for Madison. Madison Kowalczyk.’

  There was no response. They simply stared at her.

  ‘Um, I … sorry. She’s supposed to be staying here. I caught the ferry over and waited and nobody came and she wasn’t answering her phone. So I drove over and then I waited some more … And, well, I must have fallen asleep and then when I woke up she still wasn’t here … I was going to leave a note, and then when I pushed it in the door it opened and I thought I’d look for her and … and … and …’

  Fiona could hear the rising hysteria in her voice.

  ‘It’s all right,’ rumbled the man, who could doubtless also hear that hysteria. ‘We saw the lights on in here. We found your note.’ He lifted up her scrap of paper in one meaty hand. ‘Is this you, then? Are you Fee?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s … I’m Fiona Grey … sorry,’ she said, moving towards them, and trying not to notice that they recoiled, just slightly. ‘Look, I’m so sorry about this. I’m not a burglar, usually.’ She pulled her phone out. ‘See, this is the email from my friend Madison. She said to come to this house – this is Langmire, isn’t it?’

  The man exchanged a significant look with the woman. ‘It is,’ he said slowly.

  ‘And do you know what’s happened to her? This is very unlike her. She’s stopped answering her phone …’

  ‘Madison moved out,’ said the woman, stealing a glance at the man, as though looking for confirmation. ‘She moved out Wednesday night.’

  ‘She did a flit,’ said the man.

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, Douggie,’ said the woman, trying to be charitable, but without much enthusiasm.

  ‘No, she did,’ he remonstrated mildly. ‘There isnae any point denying it, Maggie.’

  Fiona blinked at them. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, a “flit”?’

  ‘She left,’ said the woman. ‘She moved out – in the middle of the night, too. First we knew of it, I got up out of bed to go to the loo and the lights were all on and the car idling outside. I thought, this is late even for her …’

  Fiona caught a sudden whiff of disapproval and realised that Maggie and Douggie were having a much easier time believing this of Madison than she was.

  They didn’t like her, for some reason.

  ‘You saw her leaving?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Well, it was her car.’ Maggie must have caught Fiona’s confused look. ‘Oh, sorry, we’re the owners. We rent the cottage out. Normally folk only come in the summer, but they’re doing this archaeological dig …’

  ‘Helly Holm,’ Fiona said instantly.

  ‘That’s right!’ Maggie said, warming up a couple of degrees. ‘Are you one of them, the archaeologists?’

  ‘I am an archaeologist – well, an archaeological scientist,’ Fiona said. ‘But I’m not with the dig. I’m Madison’s friend. She asked me to visit her out here. She wanted …’ Fiona paused, wondering how much she should share with these people. She didn’t know them, after all. ‘She wanted some company.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Maggie, raising an eyebrow at her. ‘She never seemed short of company to me.’

  ‘Now, now, Maggie,’ said her husband, his mouth compressing in displeasure.’

  Fiona was too impatient to pursue this for the moment. ‘Are you saying she just got up and left? The night before last? With no word?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Douggie said. ‘We got an email from her, yesterday morning, saying she had to go back home. Her mother was sick.’

  ‘Judy was sick?’ asked Fiona, stunned. If something had happened to Judy, who was chronically ill, things made a little more sense, but still – why would Madison text her all day yesterday and today as though she was still on Orkney?

  ‘Aye, she said so. She’d packed everything up, and if she owed us any money, we were to write and tell her and she’d pay it. So we were like, ah well, that’s a shame and explains the lack of notice – though where she thought she’d get to at that hour on Wednesday I’ve no idea. There’d be no ferries or planes off the island till dawn.’

  Fiona blinked.

  ‘But anyway,’ he conti
nued, ‘Maggie here went down to check the place out yesterday morning.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said his wife, recognising her cue, ‘and while I was here, Madison’s mother rang on the landline, looking for her.’ She shrugged. ‘Her mother knew nothing about it. Said she was in excellent health, considering – I think she’s got heart problems, has she no?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Anyway, I felt a peedie bit guilty afterwards. I think I worried her when I told her, and she seemed like a nice lady.’

  ‘So Madison lied to you?’ Everything suddenly felt very unreal. ‘About the reason she was leaving?’

  Maggie wrung her anxious hands together. ‘Did she say nothing to you?’

  ‘No.’ Fiona shook her head.

  And now her exhaustion, her anxiety, could no longer be controlled. This was some nightmare. Madison had left in the middle of Wednesday night. It was now the early hours of Saturday morning.

  All the while she’d been driving up from Cambridge, while she’d been in that hotel room in Inverness, while she’d been on the ferry, Madison had already vanished from here.

  Her horror must have been obvious to the owners.

  ‘And you came up today?’ Maggie asked, sounding almost as bewildered as Fiona felt.

  ‘I … I came up from Inverness today.’ She blinked at them. ‘I drove up from Cambridge yesterday morning …’

  Douggie waggled his eyebrows at her. ‘Have you naewhere to stay, then?’

  ‘I … I was supposed to be staying here.’ Fiona looked around, at a loss. Why hadn’t Madison mentioned any of this in her messages? What was she playing at?

  Had it even been her? No, it must have been. She was talking about the dig …

  Meanwhile, the couple exchanged another look.

  ‘Oh, you can’t stay here,’ said Maggie. ‘There’s no heating on … you can stay with us up at the house tonight, and tomorrow morning Douggie’ll run you back down to Helly Holm. Maybe they know more about what’s going on with your friend at the dig.’

  Douggie grunted in assent.

  Fiona flushed in embarrassment. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly. I’m sure I could find a hotel …’