Night Falls, Still Missing

by Helen Callaghan

  ‘Well, I … I did wonder …’

  He offered her a small, decisive shake of his head. ‘It’s good to be interested in your neighbours. You need your neighbours out here.’

  Fiona didn’t know what to reply.

  ‘Whereas for me, well, sometimes you can be a little too interested in what folk around you are getting up to. In things that are nain of your business.’ He tilted his head at her. ‘And you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this, I suppose?’

  She had no idea but could take a guess, from the morning’s clues. ‘It’s about Madison, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’ They had reached Langmire now, and he pulled up next to her little car. ‘I wouldnae be telling you this if … if this strange thing hadnae happened. It was a little bit embarrassing. Embarrassing for Maggie, certainly.’

  Fiona waited, not understanding, but with a feeling more would soon become clear. This was why he’d insisted on driving her back here, she realised. It was so they could have this conversation alone.

  ‘So, Maggie gets quite friendly with your girl Madison. And she’d mentioned a boyfriend, some lad named …’

  ‘Caspar,’ Fiona supplied, wondering. Where was this going?

  ‘Caspar. Yeah, that sounds right. Anyway, we see that she’s started bringing a fellow to the house.’ He held up his hands. ‘All well and good, we think. He must have come up to visit her.’

  Fiona listened with growing astonishment. Madison hadn’t mentioned Caspar on the phone, and she’d certainly not told her he was coming to Orkney.

  ‘Douggie, are you sure about this? I mean, she had some legal problems with an ex-boyfriend … could it have been someone turning up and spying on her?’

  ‘Oh no.’ He waved this away. ‘She let him in. One morning, early it was, she stood at the door and saw him off in her dressing gown.’

  Madison has said nothing of this.

  ‘And then, it would have been …’ He paused, thinking, one beefy finger tapping on the wheel, ‘last Monday night … she calls and says, sorry, Douggie, I’ve broken the glass on your wardrobe door.

  ‘So I says, never mind, it’s not that big a deal, let me come and have a wee look at it. She says fair enough, so I tell Maggie and then Maggie says she’ll come and visit too. So down we come, and everything’s very friendly, and there’s the mirrored door broken – she says she’s done it in the night, tripped and fell, and I’m taking a note and a measure of it and we’re all having a peedie laugh about seven years’ bad luck, when this car pulls up and the doorbell rings.’

  ‘It was him,’ Fiona said, dazed at this revelation. ‘The guy.’

  ‘Exactly. So he comes in behind her and Maggie, bless her, she’s got as much tact as a sledgehammer, she says, “Oh, you must be Caspar, we’ve seen you about,” and … so, the temperature drops about ten degrees while they both go red and somehow I get my measurements and we get out of there and were glad to leave. I didnae care, but I think Maggie felt like she’d been taken in – d’you see what I mean? – and hasnae had it in her to forgive her.’

  Fiona didn’t know what to say to this. She felt poleaxed.

  There was a man. She shouldn’t be surprised, she realised. With Madison, there was always a man.

  But Madison had never mentioned him. Clearly there were huge parts of her story she was not sharing with Fiona.

  Had Mads run off with him? And hadn’t dared tell her?

  She felt a faint stirring of sympathy for Maggie. Madison had taken her in, too.

  For Madison to throw up her career and her boyfriend like this, and to not … to not even hint to Fiona what was going on, after luring her up here, was desperately cold and selfish.

  A little splinter of ice was working its way into the heart of her anxiety, her bewilderment, as she climbed out of the truck.

  Did Dominic Tate know about this man too? Was that what had brought him out of the woodwork now?

  ‘Did you ever find out his name?’ she asked Douggie.

  ‘His name? No. I just found out it wasnae Caspar.’ He looked about to laugh, but something about Fiona’s expression must have made an impression on him. ‘No, no name. Not that I remember.’

  ‘I …’ Fiona didn’t know what to say. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘I thought you ought to. Anyway,’ he said, ‘the car park for Helly Holm is just a few miles that way down the road. The tide’s out now so the causeway will be open. Make sure you dinnae get stuck there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Not just for this, but for everything – the bed for the night, breakfast – I mean, I …’

  He waved this away. ‘Listen now – Maggie meant for me to tell you – if you find you’re stuck and need somewhere to stay for a couple of days, you’re very welcome to use the cottage. It’s all paid for, after all. You just come up to our house and get the keys from Maggie. We’ll switch the heating on for you when I get back.’

  ‘Thank you, Douggie,’ she said, touched by this kindness.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get back to work,’ he said. ‘Good luck finding your friend. I hope it was all something and nothing in the end.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Fiona said with feeling. ‘Me too.’

  And with that, and a wave, he pulled out and was gone.

  6

  Helly Holm, Orkney, January 2020

  The road was different in daylight. The twinkling ice was gone and the tarmac was dry, the sky eggshell white, the sea on her left grey and frothy, breaking against pale sand and neat rows of washed up seaweed. The heating in her little car roared gamely away.

  The island of Helly Holm itself stood out against the luminous horizon, rising out of the sea like a pedestal, its edges crinkled with crumbling red sandstone columns. The tide was out, and in amongst the damp boulders and cracked slabs of rock, a single concrete track was visible – this must be the tidal causeway everyone had told her about. It led straight as an arrow out from the car park to the islet, a white road through the sea.

  On the island itself she could see the square and rectangular cuts of archaeological trenches, brown wounds in the vivid green slopes, and people in hi-vis jackets moving back and forth across them, like bright yellow ants.

  Fiona stood for a long moment, thinking. Then she pulled out her phone. There was a tiny signal – perhaps two bars – but it was enough.

  She dialled the number.

  It rang and rang and then Judy’s voice; clipped, formal (and fake, realised Fiona for a rebellious second, before ruthlessly quelling this train of thought): ‘I’m sorry I cannot reach the phone at the moment. Please leave a number and I will get back to you.’

  ‘Hi, Judy – it’s me, Fiona. It’s kind of urgent. Can you call me back, please?’ She rattled off her mobile number, twice, and then hung up, sighing.

  Trust Judy not to be in when you needed her. Still, despite her need, Fiona was faintly relieved not to have to speak to her.

  It was time to talk to the archaeologists instead. Maybe Madison was there.

  Maybe.

  The air was chill, stinging her cheeks, and laced with salt and sea wrack. Ahead of her, the white road to Helly Holm stretched out into the sea, and, thrusting her gloveless hands deep into the pockets of her inadequate coat, she set off towards it.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  At the top of the steps heading down to the beach was a yellow and white warning sign:

  BEWARE – HELLY HOLM IS A TIDAL ISLAND!

  This causeway is only exposed during low tide.

  CHECK tide tables for safe visiting hours to avoid being stranded!

  At high tide the island is surrounded by extremely strong currents and there have been numerous fatalities in previous years.

  DO NOT attempt access to the island out of low tide!

  Well, thought Fiona, miserable and lost, that just sounds perfectly lovely.

  The causeway was set concrete, too narrow for a vehicle of any kind. It was lined with grooves in places
to provide a grip, but nevertheless the stone was slimy with algae and in her thin fashion boots she nearly slipped a couple of times. Everywhere was the salty, fishy stink of the drying shore. On either side of the causeway, broken slabs of dark sandstone stuck out of the exposed seabed at strange angles, like shards of smashed glass. In the interstices between them, worn sea pebbles and white sand lined rock pools like tiny aquatic gardens.

  It would have been beautiful, she realised, striking, had she been in any other frame of mind.

  The sea had retreated into a liquid glimmer on the horizon, hissing and muttering quietly to itself in the distance. Ahead of her, Helly Holm rose towards the whey-coloured sky, its misty edges making it appear like a mirage, or a bad dream.

  The wind stung the tips of her ears, her face.

  Hopefully, she would not be here long enough to have to invest in a proper hat.

  Hopefully Madison was at the end of this long, straight road.

  She glanced at her phone. No messages and no signal. Madison hadn’t lied about that, she thought, then gritted her teeth. At least.

  On the island, she could see four people sitting and kneeling in the muddy trenches. None of them looked like Madison, but swathed in their hoods, hats and bulky jackets, it would have been hard to spot her anyway. Measuring poles in red and white had been driven into the soft loam and twitched in the sea wind. The causeway was rising, and with a sense of relief she realised that she was back on dry land.

  Encouraged, she quickened her pace, eager to get on with her mission, but the concrete was still green and slippy with seaweed, and suddenly her feet shot out from under her and she fell backwards, crashing into the pebbles, a searing pain lancing up through her buttock, her thigh, her left arm …

  ‘Whoa, whoa! Are you all right?’

  A man in a hi-vis jacket stood at the top of a flight of stone steps into the side of the island, his figure etched against the sky for a moment before he was scrambling down towards her.

  Fiona let out a groan, then rolled on to her side. Nothing was broken, she realised, but it had been a very lucky thing. And she was going to have spectacular bruises.

  ‘Here, do you need a hand?’

  ‘No, I’m fine …’ Her leg twinged. ‘Actually, you know what …’

  Without further prompting he reached down and bodily picked her up and righted her. She was astonished by his strength.

  ‘Are you all right?’ His accent was English, southern. He towered a good foot over her. ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said again, as though willing it to be true. She was mortified. She set her foot on the ground, tried tentatively to bear weight on it. It complained, all the way up to her back, but it would do. ‘Sorry. It’s the shock more than anything.’

  ‘Way to make an entrance.’ He smiled. ‘Ah well. So long as you’re all right.’

  He was bulky as well as tall, muscular rather than fat. Faint dark-blond stubble was apparent on his upper lip and chin, and above the three deeply scored lines on his forehead. His eyes were a striking cold blue. He wore a grey woollen hat and leather jacket and a gold ring in his ear, with a tiny axe dangling from it – but his hands were bare, crusted with brown dirt, jammed even beneath the fingernails, the knuckles prominent.

  ‘You’re Jack,’ she said. ‘Jack Bergmann. I recognise you. From the dig’s Twitter feed.’

  ‘Lucky me,’ he said, with a rakish grin. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s, well, it’s complicated. I’m looking for Madison Kowalczyk.’

  His face stilled. ‘Madison? You’re not the only one.’

  Fiona’s heart fell. Of course Madison wasn’t here.

  ‘Are you all right? You’re very pale. Sorry, you’re right, I’m Jack, the site supervisor. And you are?’

  ‘I’m Fiona. Fiona Grey.’

  ‘The Sword Lady!’ he said instantly, grinning. ‘Madison told us about you!’ His expression clouded. ‘She didn’t mention you were coming to the site this morning, though.’

  ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,’ said Fiona, because this was almost true. ‘I’m … well, I don’t know how to explain it, but Madison was supposed to meet me in Stromness last night, and she wasn’t there. And when I went to the house she was renting, it had all been cleared out.’

  His brow contracted dangerously. ‘What? Cleared out?’

  ‘Yeah, all her things were gone …’ She swallowed. ‘I was hoping you might know where she is. Well – really I was hoping I’d find her here, just caught up in the dig.’

  ‘She’s not here. We’ve not seen her since Wednesday night,’ he said. ‘She told us she had flu, but she’d be back this morning.’ He stared at her, as if amazed. ‘As far as we know, she’s at Langmire.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fiona. ‘I … well …’

  And it was only then, at that moment, that she realised how desperate she’d been to believe that this was a trick, a misunderstanding, that Madison was here. She felt nauseous suddenly, and gripped with icy panic.

  ‘You need to sit down somewhere,’ said Jack, with a firm hand under her arm. ‘You don’t look right. Can you make it up the steps? We’ve got a tent. You can tell us all about it.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  She was led upwards, grabbing Jack’s arm the better to stabilise herself as she was hauled up the rocky steps. Her leg and back hurt, but more than anything she was confused and frightened.

  Of course Madison wasn’t here. Why would she be?

  Somehow she found herself in a little polar fishing tent that had been set up on the grass, and urged on to a folding stool. She was vaguely glad to be out of the snapping wind. Faces surrounded her, and murmurings – seemingly a crowd, but there were only three of them.

  Jack had gone to fetch a Thermos of coffee and press a cup into her hand, and in the meantime news had spread.

  Everyone fell silent as a woman entered and eyed Fiona keenly. Her rich dark hair was bound in a wind-tousled French plait and covered under a blue headscarf, tied at the back of her neck, and her hands and wrists were encased in thick, dirty gardening gloves.

  Even without the trademark bright red lipstick she wore on television, Fiona recognised her instantly: Iris Barclay, now the face of Discovering the Past, finder of the Jesmond Hill torc.

  The only difference was that the Iris Barclay on television was always beautifully dressed and smiling. This version appeared considerably more dour and preoccupied.

  ‘I’m the Site Director,’ she said without preamble. ‘Jack tells me that there is a problem with Madison?’

  Fiona paused, her mouth open, her train of thought derailed.

  A problem with Madison.

  Yeah.

  Perhaps there had always been a problem with Madison.

  7

  Saxon Street, Cambridge, December 2018

  ‘Hiya!’

  Madison stood on the cobbled street outside, slightly unsteady, her eyes bright with drink, but she looked tired to Fiona – no, not so much tired as drained. Dominic stood next to her, one arm possessively threaded through her own.

  ‘Oh my God! You’re here! Come in, come in!’ Fiona hiked up her smile and stood back from the front door, trying to paper over her annoyance with an excess of brittle enthusiasm.

  She had been planning her Christmas/housewarming drinks for the past month and the details had obsessed her – cooking the food, choosing the right wine, inviting the guests. Her excitement fizzed like champagne. She had never been sole hostess of a party before. She had never even lived alone before.

  Madison was now three hours late, and furthermore, she’d promised she was coming alone.

  ‘Hi, Fee!’ Madison sang out, shaking herself free from Dominic’s hold in order to embrace her, enveloping her in the cold arms of her red swing coat, and her hug was sudden, quick, very hard, as though she was being rescued from a sinking ship rather than greeting a friend she’d seen less than ten days ago. She looked around the flat’s
hallway – ‘Oh, isn’t it cute?’

  ‘Thanks – I really love it.’ Fiona brushed off her sense of misgiving. ‘It’s college accommodation, usually for visiting academics. I was lucky to get it.’ She opened the bottle bag, smiled. ‘Ooh, fizz, thank you …’ She paused, aware that Dominic hadn’t spoken or moved. ‘Hi, Dom, how’s it going?’

  In the six weeks he’d been dating Madison, Fiona had quickly realised that she and Dominic Tate were never going to be friends. She’d discovered that any conversation she raised provoked cutting, sarcastic responses masquerading as friendly banter.

  It wouldn’t ordinarily have mattered – Madison had always had idiosyncratic tastes – and usually Fiona would have simply avoided him, made plans to see Madison on her own. But it wasn’t working out that way, because lately, whenever she made arrangements to meet with Madison for drinks or a curry and a catch-up, somehow he was always there.

  The last time she had met Madison at her Clapham flat, he had called by unannounced with a bottle of wine and flowers; claiming to have forgotten Mads telling him that Fiona was coming over, dominating the conversation and starting to yawn heavily around nine o’clock, a cue for Fiona to leave.

  When they’d met at Fiona’s place in Cambridge, he’d called Mads’ mobile, with some story about his grandfather having collapsed and his car breaking down – he needed Mads to meet him in Essex and take him to the hospital.

  ‘There’s no one he knows within a hundred miles that can drive him? He can’t get a taxi?’ Fiona asked, astonished. She’d only just opened a bottle of wine.

  Madison shrugged. ‘Well, yeah, but he probably needs support.’

  ‘Is he close to his grandfather?’

  ‘I dunno. Probably.’

  She should have let it go. Mads liked him, Mads wanted to be there for him. It was none of her business, she thought, watching Madison pack up her overnight bag and head back out the door to her car.

  But a hint of suspicion persisted. The next morning she rang and asked Mads how the sick patriarch had been.