Dark Tides, page 20
‘What’s going on, Claire?’ David had caught up to me. He was taking exaggerated steps through the grass in an effort to keep his shoes clean. ‘Why did we have to meet you out here?’
I looked to my right and saw Callum standing on his pedals, his bike chain making a faint ticking noise as he glided alongside me, his chunky tyres throwing up fans of spray from the back.
‘Yeah, what gives, Detective?’
I reached inside a pocket of the padded body warmer I had on and removed my mobile phone. I used my thumb to select a photograph, tilting the display towards David.
‘What am I looking at?’
I showed Callum the same thing. He jammed on his brakes and snatched the phone from me.
‘What the hell, Claire?’ The muscles in his neck had pulled taut. ‘You really think I need to see this again?’
‘Look closer.’ I leaned over and manipulated the image with my finger and thumb until it zoomed in. ‘See?’
His jaw fell. He stared at me, then back at the phone. ‘When did you take this?’
‘First of November last year. I went back the day after the accident. But I saw it when the coastguard crew were retrieving Rachel’s body.’
‘Does someone want to tell me what’s going on?’
I grabbed the phone and held the image up to David. I told him the photograph showed the boulder where Callum had anchored his abseil equipment. Then I told him that most of the chalk drawings had been there before we started our descent.
‘All except for the footprint.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Pretty sure. And I saw another footprint when Scott died. It was a muddy outline left on the car mat behind his seat.’
Callum swung his leg off his bike, letting it fall to the ground.
‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’
‘I wasn’t sure what to make of it before.’
Which wasn’t strictly true. I’d had other reasons for keeping the information to myself. Suspicions that wouldn’t quite go away.
‘This wasn’t mentioned in the inquest into Rachel’s accident. What are your lot doing about it?’
‘Your lot’ being the police. As if we were a different species entirely.
‘They don’t know about it.’ I switched my phone off and pocketed it. ‘Nobody does.’
Callum and David looked at me. The wind tussled my hair, throwing it round my face. I waited for more.
‘I don’t understand this, Claire. What does it mean?’
‘You tell me.’
David lowered his voice, almost as if he was afraid to utter the words. ‘You think this is connected to Mark? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I think it’s connected to all of us.’
‘As part of what, some kind of vendetta?’
‘Maybe.’
Callum raised a hand in the air. ‘Wait. Are you suggesting Scott and Rachel were murdered?’
‘I don’t know. But is it any more unlikely than your anchor rope being cut by a broken bottle none of us saw?’
‘You don’t know.’ He clasped his hands to his helmet. ‘And you wait until now to tell us this.’
‘I thought you deserved a warning.’
David grabbed my arm and hauled me round. ‘A warning? How do you mean? Do you think we could be next?’
‘Hop-tu-naa isn’t far away. I guess we’ll find out.’
Callum shook his head slowly, his hands still gripping his helmet. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t report this.’
‘I didn’t have any evidence.’
‘Then what’s that on your phone? What does that picture mean, Claire?’
‘It means something to us, maybe. Because of what we were involved in. All of us. But it means nothing to anyone else. And I did mention the footprint in my report on Scott’s death. I flagged it a couple of times.’
‘And?’
‘And nobody was interested. They thought it was just a muddy footprint.’
‘But you knew otherwise.’
He was angry. I supposed he had every right to be.
I closed my eyes. They were getting damp now, the tears beginning to come. I couldn’t pretend it was because of the wind. It was seeing the horror and distrust on their faces. It was finally facing up to all of this being real.
I tore my arm free of David’s grip and started walking again. I moved fast, head down, feet pounding the sodden earth.
‘It could be nothing,’ David said, hurrying to keep up.
Callum was hobbling along next to him, wheeling his bike at his side. The fracture to his pelvis had been severe. Chances were he’d always have a slight limp. But the effect was pronounced because of the cycling clips fitted to the base of his shoes.
‘Two deaths,’ I told them. ‘Both on successive Hop-tu-naas.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
I shook my head roughly. ‘And the footprints? Hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’
It was enough. They saw it now.
‘Then somebody sabotaged my gear.’ Callum sounded stung and wistful. ‘Do you know what the past year’s been like for me, Claire? Do you have any idea?’
Oh, I had an inkling. I had a reasonable understanding of how awful it might feel to believe you were culpable for the death of one of your closest friends. If Callum had tortured himself with the idea that Rachel would still be here if he hadn’t screwed up in some way, then I couldn’t avoid feeling the same way.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry. That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?’
‘What else do you want me to say?’
‘I want you to tell me why you didn’t do anything about this. I want you to explain why you didn’t say anything before now.’
I hurried on, moving ahead of them, pumping my arms and legs. We were getting near to the lighthouse. Up close, among all this flat land tapering away into the sea, it struck me as vastly out of proportion. Too wide. Too tall. Too absurd.
A collection of low whitewashed dwellings surrounded the base of the tower, hemmed in behind a high stone wall. The facility had been purchased by a private family some years ago now, and the former keeper’s quarters had been divided into separate homes. There were signs up warning people not to trespass. There were bed sheets drying on a sagging washing line outside.
I cut away to the left, tracking a path that bisected the last of the dunes and followed the shingle beach around the peninsula. The wind was picking up now. It was blowing against me, sea spray lashing my face.
‘Claire, you need to talk to us.’
It wasn’t just sea spray. It had also started to rain. Fat drops spluttered down. They gathered pace, drilling into the sand and surf, the wind whipping them into tumbling spirals.
David ran past me on a slant, lifting the tails of his jacket above his head, veering sideways as though the ground were shifting beneath him. He was making for the shelter of a ramshackle cottage just beyond the perimeter wall of the lighthouse complex. The place looked abandoned. So did the derelict garage out back. The grass had grown long around both buildings. There was a faded sign in a dusty window of the cottage: FOR SALE.
I huddled next to David with my back pressed against the stone wall, breathing hard.
Callum was standing out in the downpour holding his bike, his clothing drenched.
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’ he shouted. ‘Why didn’t you report the chalk drawing?’
‘I couldn’t. Don’t you see? If I explained it to any of my colleagues, it would be an admission. I’d implicate all of us in what Mark did. They’d be obligated to pursue it. We’d all face charges.’
‘That’s not an option.’ David was holding the collar of his jacket up around his chin, fingers white. ‘It was all on Mark, anyway. He’s the one who lost it.’
Not the only one, I thought, but I didn’t correct him.
‘You could have told us.’ Callum’s chin jutted forwards, the rain streaming down his face.
‘And I have. Now.’
It wasn’t enough. There was no way I could ever justify it. Not to them. Not even to myself.
‘I needed to wait. I needed to clear my head.’
‘Then why today?’
‘Because we have to have a plan. Think about it – you remember why we were planting a footprint in Edward Caine’s home that night?’
Callum shrugged. ‘To scare him.’
‘More than that, though.’ I stared out at him. ‘The footprint was supposed to be a taunt – it was a prediction that someone would die.’
‘Oh, I get it.’ The rain pinged off Callum’s bike helmet. ‘You’re saying the muddy footprint was a message for Rachel. And the chalk footprint was meant for one of us.’
I barely nodded, unable to find the words to express how much I wished it weren’t so.
‘What kind of plan do you have in mind?’ David’s voice was a strange monotone.
‘We stick together this Hop-tu-naa. All three of us, all day. We spend the night somewhere no one will think to look for us. We watch each other’s backs. We don’t tell anyone where we’re going to be. We keep our phones turned off so the signals can’t be traced.’
And I get to keep a close eye on both of you.
Callum gazed away through the rain towards the agitated waters out at sea, as if he was searching for something far off shore.
‘Twenty-four hours,’ I shouted. ‘That’s all. And if we get through it unscathed, if it turns out I was wrong, we can move on with our lives. All three of us.’
‘But say you’re not wrong.’ David turned to glance in through a window of the cottage, cupping his hands against the dirtied glass. I thought maybe he was afraid somebody could be listening to us, though there seemed little chance of that. ‘Don’t you want to find out who’s doing this?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And?’
You’re the detective, Claire. You figure it out.
‘There are a couple of people I think we should talk to.’
Which is why almost two weeks later, staring out through the windscreen in David’s BMW, I finally cracked open my door and turned to go.
‘Stay here. And remember, no phones.’
‘I still think one of us should come with you,’ Callum said.
‘Yeah, and I still think it’s a bad idea. We’ve been through this already. It’s better if I go in alone.’
Better, maybe, but believe me, that didn’t make it any easier.
Chapter Thirty-two
The Caine residence wouldn’t intimidate me today. I’d been preparing for this visit. I’d rehearsed it in my mind many times. My strategy was locked down. My emotions were in check. I was going to march into Edward’s room and look over him in his bed, gaze deep into his bulging eyes, and demand to know if he was behind the deaths of my friends.
I paced up to the door and rang the muffled bell and stood waiting with my hands clasped tight. An image came to me, unbidden, of Mum standing alongside me in her winter coat, holding the turnip lantern. I could almost feel her there. Could almost smell her perfume. Curse this place. My heart beat so rapidly and so weakly that it felt as if it was filled with air. The anger was building inside me. The resentment, the bile. I fixed my eyes dead ahead and tried to calm myself but the door opened before I was close.
‘Can I help you?’
The woman was slim and blonde and unnaturally tanned. She wore a white tabard over a blue T-shirt, blue trousers and white plimsolls. She was holding a jug of chilled water in one hand and a small brown pill bottle in the other.
For just an instant, I was reminded of the framed photograph of Marisha that Edward had kept on his desk, and I was so startled that I almost forgot to speak. But then I saw that she had a first-glance beauty. Look beyond the cosmetics and you glimpsed the hard edges – the raised cheekbones, the beaked nose, the eyes a fraction too close together.
‘Mrs Francis?’
‘No.’ She looked me over with disdain. ‘She left months ago. I’m April.’
‘I’d like to speak with Mr Caine.’
‘Can I ask what it concerns?’
‘It concerns my wishing to speak with Mr Caine.’ I showed her my warrant card and gave her my name and rank. I could see that she wanted me to say more but she could want all she liked. I had the impression it wasn’t the first time she’d been confronted by a police officer.
‘Wait here, then.’
She swung the door closed like she was throwing a slap.
Many minutes later, she returned. The water jug and the pills were gone. The attitude wasn’t.
‘Follow me.’
I followed, but she didn’t lead me past the Persian rug and up the grand staircase as I’d expected. She guided me across the dark entrance hall towards the study instead.
‘Wait.’
She turned with an exaggerated sigh.
‘I’m here to see Edward Caine.’
Her painted lip curled into a sneer, but before she could reply, Morgan stepped through the doorway behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘Father’s not available today, Claire. I’m afraid I’ll have to do.’
My first impression was that he’d aged dramatically. My second was that he looked a lot more like his father. He was stooped forwards, shoulders rounded, and the hand not resting on April was gripping a wooden walking stick. He looked pale and washed out, with patches of discoloration on his face and neck. The polo shirt he had on hung loosely from bony shoulders. I recognised the metal bracelet on his wrist from my police training. It was a MedicAlert tag.
His hand still hadn’t left April’s shoulder. It looked like a familiar enough gesture. If she hadn’t been wearing a nursing outfit, I could have believed they were a couple. She was a little low-rent for Morgan, and that intrigued me.
I glanced away towards the stairs.
‘Father’s recuperating from a heart operation. He mustn’t be disturbed.’
I should have told Morgan I was sorry to hear it. I should have said that I hoped his father was recovering well. But I didn’t. I’d been so sure of confronting Edward today that I was having trouble adjusting to this new reality.
‘Not a good time to be a Caine male. I’m sure you can tell that my Addison’s is playing up. It’s all the worry about Father’s health. My doctors have been adjusting my medication. Trial and error at the moment. I’m due to see a specialist in Manchester this afternoon.’ He patted April’s shoulder. ‘Poor April’s looking after both of us right now.’
Poor April didn’t blush. And she didn’t move. She was busy folding her arms across her chest and practising her who-do-you-think-you-are glare.
‘Can we talk in private?’
His smile became strained, and I saw more of his father in him then, as if Edward’s wasted features – his perished lips, sunken temples and grossly swollen eyes – were somehow emerging from behind Morgan’s younger skin.
‘Of course,’ he said, in a voice as welcoming as April’s work with the front door. ‘But I don’t have long. There’s a car coming to take me to the airport.’ He gave April a squeeze. ‘Would you check on Father?’
The sweet smile she gave Morgan as she sauntered off towards the stairs was very different to the one she offered me. ‘I was just on my way when she arrived.’
Morgan watched her go, then entered his study before I could stop him. I lingered a moment, but found myself drifting in behind.
My attention was immediately drawn to the massive fireplace. The darkly veined marble seemed almost to suck all the light from the room. I lowered my eyes to the grate. It was empty of coal. The hearth was spotlessly clean.
‘Drink?’
I spun towards Morgan so fast that I could almost believe I’d glimpsed a spectral echo of Mark’s ashy shoe print from the corner of my eye.
‘No, thank you.’
Morgan was leaning back against the big teak desk, his walking stick slung across the highly polished surface. There was a leather briefcase next to the walking stick with a red passport on top of it. One large and one small suitcase were propped against the wall.
Morgan folded his reedy arms over his chest and I found myself looking at his MedicAlert bracelet once more.
‘You seem tense, Claire. Is everything all right?’
Everything was wrong. Here, in this room. The spot where Mark had attacked Edward lay just behind me. I deliberately hadn’t looked at it, though I didn’t know why exactly. I could already tell that the carpet had been replaced. There could be no sign of any gore or mess. But I was afraid I’d be capable of seeing it all the same.
‘What is it you wanted to talk to Father about?’
‘Hop-tu-naa.’
‘You’re a little old for trick-or-treating, Claire.’
I glanced up then and caught something like amusement in his eyes.
‘Forgive me.’ He raised his hand. ‘It’s these pills. They affect my mood. Shorten my temper. I know why you’re here. It’s the same reason you were here last year.’
There was a prickling sensation across my shoulders, a gathering heat from behind me as if someone was watching from the doorway. I turned, skittish now, but there was nobody there.
‘It’s your mother, isn’t it, Claire? Part of you truly believes that something ghastly happened to her here. I can assure you that’s not the case.’
I shook my head, not trusting my voice.
‘No? Then what is it?’
‘The attack on Edward.’ I dug my nails into my palms. ‘Your father told me last year that he always believed there was more than one person involved.’
‘And?’
‘And two people have died on the island in the past two years, both of them on Hop-tu-naa. Something connects their deaths that I can’t explain.’
‘Not a ghost, I hope.’
‘A footprint.’ I gazed back towards the fireplace. ‘Just like the one that was left here on the night your father was attacked.’
Morgan moved away from the desk and hobbled over to stand next to me. He looked down at the hearth, almost as if he, too, could see the outline of the ashy footprint that I remembered so well.
‘Tell me if I’m missing something here, Claire, but are you suggesting the two deaths you mentioned are somehow connected to the attack on my father?’
