Dark Tides (27 page)

I drove fast and aggressively, racing along the narrow coastal road, speeding over dips and rises, sliding around winding curves. Traffic was light. Nobody got in my way. Nobody pursued me. I made good time and I was just nearing my destination when my mobile started to chirp.

I guessed my caller was probably Shimmin or Hollis, possibly Dad or perhaps even David. I was wrong on all counts. The display told me it was Marianne Crellin. I debated what to do for a few seconds, then raised the phone to my left ear, steering with my right hand.

I said, ‘Now’s really not a good time.’

‘For me, either. I’m between meetings. Actually, that would suggest I have some time scheduled for the interim period, which I don’t, so I’ll get straight to it. I finally caught up with the prosecutor you wanted me to speak with today.’

‘And?’

‘He was reticent, as I warned you he might be.’

‘But he talked to you?’

‘After a little gentle persuasion, and now I owe him, so I hope the information is what you wanted to hear.’

I very much doubted Marianne was capable of doing anything gently. She was the type of woman who’d extract information from other lawyers using methods that would make the CIA blush.

‘Tell me.’

I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear as I approached a tight turn and changed down a couple of gears.

‘I asked him why they decided to ignore Edward Caine’s testimony and prosecute Mark Quiggin as Edward’s sole assailant. He told me they didn’t.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘He said it wasn’t their call. At least, not exclusively their call.’

‘So whose call was it?’

‘Edward’s. He refused to press charges against Quiggin unless all mention of the other five suspects was dropped.’

I fell silent. The road speared on ahead of me, very straight, but I slowed and pulled over to the side. I clutched my phone tight.

‘Claire? Are you there?’

‘I’m here.’ The engine idled. The windscreen wipers beat from side to side. ‘Did he say why Edward insisted on that?’

‘He didn’t know. At least, that’s what he told me and I believed him. You sound upset. Is everything OK?’

‘Everything’s fine. Thanks for doing this.’

I ended the call and cut the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition as I stepped out of the car. A violent wind was raging across the barren lowlands, blowing the rain sideways and thrashing the reeds and wild grasses. The sky was the colour of burnt tin, the clouds ruptured and torn. I was scared to be out here alone again, within sight of the lonely woods where that unknown hand had touched me so many years ago, as if somehow cursing me and setting me along the pathway that had led me back to this place.

I’d abandoned the Focus in a flooded gully by the side of the road, hidden behind a bank of overgrown gorse, and now I was tramping towards the lighthouse, my eyes set on the distant lamp room through the hazy blur. I trudged through ditch water and mud, my clothes still clinging to my skin, shivering uncontrollably.

But despite the cold and the wet, despite the confused emotions Marianne’s call had stirred in me, and despite the crushing terror of what I’d just fled from and what lay in wait, one thing tormented me above all else: that cruel
x
on the end of David’s message. What kind of sick mind could sign off like that, I wondered? What sort of twisted psycho could take our love, our intimacy, and abuse it that way?

I couldn’t begin to understand any of it. Oh, I knew how it was possible. My brain had run through the practicalities quickly enough. Shimmin had wondered if I might have set the fire that had killed Callum, but why couldn’t it have been David spraying the accelerant and striking the match, shortly before coming to my dorm? It was David who’d bailed on our climbing trip at the last possible moment, but he’d known we were gathering to remember Scott and he could have followed us to the Chasms. And David could have been travelling with Scott in his car. He could have forced him from the road.

Then there was Mark. If someone had paid for him to be stabbed and stamped to death, then why not David? He had enough money to do it. He earned a good wage. He drove an expensive car. He’d inherited a large cash sum along with the fishing boat his uncle had left him.

The real question was what had driven him to do it. Had the time I’d slept with Mark burned him so badly that he felt the need to destroy us all? Did he believe that the others had concealed the truth from him? Or was his part in the attack on Edward just a glimpse of the real monster that lurked inside?

And how had I failed to see that it was him? Had he faked his feelings for me all along? Had he talked of love when all he really felt was hate? It explained why he’d been so distant just recently, why it had been so hard for the two of us to connect.

I clutched a hand to my belly, feeling sick and disoriented. I stomped on, my shoes swamped and squelching, and with every step it felt as if I was leaving behind another tiny fragment of my sanity.

I knew where to find David. I knew why Shimmin hadn’t tracked him down yet. Late last December, he’d come to my apartment in the middle of the night, a crumpled brown envelope trembling in his fists. He’d freed the glass of red wine from my hand, then opened the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork from inside, laying it across my duvet as if he was spreading a pack of cards for an elaborate magic trick.

‘What’s this?’ I’d asked, trying not to slur my words.

‘Land deed. I just bought a house.’

‘A house? But I like your place.’

‘This is for development. You remember that cottage? The tumbledown place up at the Point of Ayre? I got an amazing deal, Claire. And all right, it needs work. I know it does. But think of the location. The very last property on the island. The lighthouse nearby. It’s perfect.’

I’d looked at him then, in my drunken state, and maybe if I’d been sober I would have seen it. How could he do it, I’d asked myself? How could he live within sight of those woods, that beach, the car park where it had all begun? But then he’d pushed the papers on to the floor and he’d kissed me, and I’d let him, because I was drunk, because I was upset, because I’d wanted to think of anything besides the person David might just have revealed himself to be and the person I’d allowed myself to become.

I hadn’t visited the cottage very often since. I’d tried to convince him to sell it. Tried to explain to him why it was a terrible idea. For a long time I’d thought that he was blinded by money, by profit, by the need he had to always acquire new things – a better suit, a faster car, a property portfolio – and now I finally got that it hadn’t been about any of that. He’d bought the cottage
because
of the car park and the beach and the woods. He wanted to live here within sight of places that reminded him of all the awful things that he’d done.

I came round the side of the lighthouse. The keepers’ cottages inside the perimeter wall were unlit and looked abandoned. There were no cars outside.

It was different at the cottage. David’s BMW was parked in front of the dilapidated garage and I staggered towards it, leaning into the wind, my hands up in front of my face, no longer really caring if I could be seen or where he might be watching me from.

I was just mad enough to head straight for the cottage, to blunder inside and announce myself in a crazed fury. But a loud rattling noise snagged my attention. One of the big wooden garage doors was shaking in the wind.

I circled the back of the BMW and saw that the metal hasp that held the doors together was clattering. The heavy-duty padlock that normally secured the doors was gone.

Carefully now, I loosened the ironware, prising my fingers between the paint-flaked timber and heaving the outer door back against the wind. Once the gap was big enough, I wedged my body through as the wind butted the door against me.

The interior was dark, barely lit by the splinters of grey light piercing the missing tiles in the pitched roof. I could smell diesel and old grass clippings and my own soaked hair.

Something brushed my face. I flinched and raised my arms in panic. But it was just a light cord.

I tugged on it.

An urgent electric buzz was followed by the flicker and twitch of fluorescent tubes. Cold blue light settled across the space. I saw the hard concrete floor, an old mower to one side, an antique chest freezer in a far corner beneath a peg board that was empty of tools.

And right in front of me, I saw an aluminium stepladder, a coarse rope suspended from the warped ceiling beam, and the gaping hangman’s noose that had been tied at the rope’s end.

The first sound you hear is the front door opening. You still instantly. Your skin prickles all over. She’s here. She’s close. But is she alone?

You shut your eyes, even though you’re sitting in the dark, and you listen very hard. The rain thumps down. The wind howls. The lock on the cupboard door rattles and clicks in the draught. It concerns you a little, but not too much, since you were careful to lean the handle of a broom against the cupboard door to create the impression that there’s nobody inside.

The front door closes but there’s no complete silence. The storm is raging too hard. It’s battering the cottage walls and lashing against the windows. From your cramped and unlit hiding place, which smells of mould and damp and decay, you could almost believe that you’re locked deep in the bowels of an old fishing vessel.

You sense she’s come by herself. There’s no muffled conversation, which is not conclusive, but once you hear the door close and her first few cautious footsteps, you’re pretty sure she’s obeyed your instructions.

Some of the tension eases from your body. There was no guarantee she’d comply but now that she’s here you can only conclude that everything at the prison has gone just as you’d hoped.

The footsteps draw closer. You lean forwards very slightly and you press your eye to the crack in the hinge of the cupboard door. It’s dim in the hallway but your eyes have adjusted to the blackness you’ve been sitting in and you see her quite clearly as she edges past. You spread your gloved fingers against the partition wall. It’s very tempting to burst out and launch yourself at her. But you resist, because you’re an expert at waiting, and it’s better this way.

Besides, she’s carrying something in her right hand. You can’t quite identify what it is at first and then you see that it’s some kind of aerosol can. Pepper spray, you imagine. Which is not ideal, but it could be a lot worse. She could have a gun. Or a hunting knife, like yours.

Her foot clips a metal bucket, though she seems not to notice as she walks through to the living room.

You wish you could see her reaction when she looks at the fireplace and spots the message you’ve left for her there. But you decide it’s spookier like this because she has no idea where you are or when you might appear. You smile and you raise your hand to your nostril and you sniff at the particles of ash that have adhered to your gloves.

Something bangs and clatters outside and your heart seizes painfully before you identify the sound. It’s one of the big garage doors slamming in the wind. So she’s ventured into the garage already and she’s seen the noose you were keeping for her as a surprise. It’s a small disappointment to you, though not a major concern. You wanted her frightened, after all. You wanted to deliver the complete Hop-tu-naa experience – a real house of horrors – and the order of the scares doesn’t really matter, as long as they achieve your desired effect.

And they have, you’re sure, because her eyes are wide and straining when she steps back out into the hallway. Her movements have the taut, jerky quality that comes from an excess of fear and adrenaline. She’s holding her arms out in front of her, as if she’s feeling her way in the dark, just like she did all those years ago in the woods.

Your heartbeat races. Your blood hums in your veins and you experience a familiar tightening sensation in your groin.

It’s so tempting to mess with her now. You could shout or whisper or scratch at the door. But you wait some more, and she edges beyond the portion of hallway you can see in the direction of the kitchen.

You listen to her footsteps on the linoleum. Then silence. There’s a long spell where all you can hear is the wind and the rain and the beat of your own pulse in your ears, and then there’s the sudden hard thud of a door striking a wall and then nothing again as she waits, and you wait, for her to gather her nerves and tackle the stairs.

The treads creak and settle. Dust sprinkles your hair and you’re careful to keep your face down so that the debris doesn’t get in your eyes or nostrils. She takes an age to reach the landing and her approach to the two bedrooms is slow and careful. That doesn’t surprise you. You expected her police training to be a factor.

More time passes and then you hear the fast swish of plastic on metal and you smirk as you picture her whipping the shower curtain to one side. It’s only a small thing, but it brings you a jolt of satisfaction, and you half wonder if perhaps you should have hidden something behind the curtain. A dummy, maybe, wearing a Halloween mask.

But on balance, you decide that would have been a bad idea. You don’t want her to freak out and flee the cottage. You want her to do precisely what she’s in the process of doing right now, as she comes slowly back down the stairs and shuffles by your hiding place and returns once more to the living room.

Finally, after all this time, after all these years, your wait is over.

You get to your feet, almost disbelieving that this is really happening, and you ease aside the bolt and push the cupboard door open very gently before reaching out and grabbing for the broom handle. You lay the broom down without a sound and creep towards the living room, picking your way between the decorating gear, holding your knife in an overhand grip up next to your ear.

You reach the doorway and you pause before leaning your head around and you see that she’s sitting in the single filthy armchair, facing away from you, looking towards the fireplace and the ashy footprint that forecasts that somebody is going to die.

You move forwards, fast and fluid, very grateful now for the covering noise of the storm and the banging of the garage door. You’re close, getting closer all the while, and you can’t quite believe that she isn’t about to turn at the very last second and spoil the moment for you.

But she doesn’t.

You reach for her with both hands, your mouth dry and your pulse beating very hard in your groin, and you rest one palm on her left shoulder at the exact same moment that you prod the knife blade beneath her jaw.

Then you slide your left hand down past her throat to close over her breast, and you have to hold back a slight murmur as you press your lips to her ear and you say . . .