The Wild Coast, page 9
Rhona’s look of gratitude convinced him he’d been right to outline her concerns to his boss despite his own feelings regarding Professor Magnus Pirie.
‘Right,’ Chrissy said, swallowing the remains of her drink. ‘I’m off home to see wee Michael and have my tea. Mum’s made stovies for me.’ She grinned. ‘Not as fancy as what you had,’ she told Rhona. ‘Plus I won’t have a handsome man to share it with.’
‘I could come home with you,’ McNab said, his smile fading at the looks of disbelief being bestowed upon him by both women. ‘Hey, I’m not that bad,’ he protested.
Rhona glanced at Chrissy and they both laughed. ‘Had you there,’ Chrissy announced as she bid her farewells.
‘You heading off too?’ McNab found himself saying.
‘I am,’ Rhona said. ‘An early night for me.’
His disappointment at her departure was tempered with the thought that Sean, currently about to go on stage, would not be going home with her.
‘Am leaving shortly myself,’ McNab announced. He wanted Rhona to ask where to. When she didn’t, he told her anyway. ‘I’ve a date later at the Blue Arrow,’ he lied. ‘The jazz place on Sauchiehall Street.’
‘I know where the Blue Arrow is.’ Rhona gave him a penetrating look. ‘Is your visiting Sauchiehall Street anything to do with the rumours Chrissy mentioned?’
‘What rumours?’ he said cautiously.
‘The sexual assault rumours circulating supposedly involving a police officer.’
McNab considered telling another lie, but only briefly. ‘Not strictly, no, but the last place Deirdre Reid was seen before she disappeared was on the student strip.’
‘That’s where you called me from when I was in Arisaig?’ Rhona said.
He nodded. No use pretending otherwise.
‘Does Bill know you’re running your own night-time investigation along the strip?’
Of course the boss didn’t know he was hanging about there. He hadn’t even told DS Clark about his night-time excursions.
McNab decided to come out fighting. ‘If the body you unearthed is confirmed as Deirdre Reid, then there’s going to be more than just me down there.’
Rhona gave him one of those looks he believed she kept solely for him, before wishing him goodnight.
‘You’re a sad bastard, McNab,’ he muttered again as he watched her disappear up the stairs. ‘And she knows it.’
Swallowing down the rest of his pint, he ordered another, wondering why he’d pretended he had a date for tonight instead of admitting to heading home alone with a fish supper.
What the hell, he thought. He didn’t have to go home alone. He could have a date if he wanted one. Someone to eat with at least. He immediately brought up Holly’s number and pressed it before he could change his mind.
When she swiftly answered he was momentarily nonplussed, not having decided what to say.
‘Detective Sergeant or is it just plain Michael tonight?’ she said, a smile in her voice.
‘Michael it is. Have you eaten?’ he asked cheerily.
A moment’s silence, then, ‘Not this evening, if that’s what you mean,’ said with a laugh. ‘Why?’
‘Do you like curry?’
‘Vegan curry, yes.’
‘Would you like to come eat some vegan curry with me at Ashoka on Ashton Lane?’
‘I would. When?’
‘As soon as you can get here,’ McNab said, his heart lifting a little.
‘I’ll head for the underground and text you when I’m at Hillhead. I’m guessing you’re at the jazz club you were talking about?’ she said.
‘You guess right.’
‘So, do I get to meet your police pals?’ she said with a laugh.
‘Just come to Ashoka. I’ll be waiting for you there.’
‘And after we eat, can we go out clubbing?’ she said teasingly.
McNab had greeted her request with a laugh, although he knew that’s exactly what they would do. Tonight he didn’t feel like turning her down, whatever she might ask.
As he headed for the restaurant, he considered the fact that maybe he wasn’t such a sad bastard after all. Not in Holly’s eyes at least.
21
Achmelvich
Day four
Faced with a drop on her left and a rock face to her right, plus an incline too steep for her tired legs, Eléa got off her bike.
Now, if she met a vehicle on one of the numerous blind corners on the single-track road, she could step swiftly aside.
The sweat trickling down between her breasts, she promised herself the first thing she would do when she arrived at her destination would be to plunge into the cold waters of the Atlantic.
Swimming in both the dark, peaty Highland lochs and the turquoise waters of the west coast had been a joy. Something her friends at home couldn’t understand.
‘But the sea off Nice is like a warm bath,’ Vivienne had remonstrated with her.
‘Exactly,’ had been Eléa’s response. ‘When you’ve been cycling all day, you don’t want a hot bath.’
‘It rains a great deal in Scotland,’ Vivienne had warned her. ‘And they have small biting insects.’ She’d made a horrified face.
Eléa had laughed at this point, knowing nothing that Vivienne could say was likely to change her mind.
Her plan to come to Scotland had been hatched over a year ago when she’d first read an article about the North Coast 500 route. Eventually after much online study, she’d settled on flying to Glasgow and picking up a rental bike. She’d located a hire place near Glasgow University which had great reviews.
The guy there, Joe, had got in touch and helped her with her hire and her itinerary. She’d enjoyed a couple of days in Glasgow, sightseeing and checking out the clubbing scene, then headed north via the train to Mallaig.
She’d posted so many images online of that train journey, she’d even made Vivienne, a big Harry Potter fan, jealous.
Early evening now, the traffic on the road had lessened, in particular the campervans that had plagued her earlier. No doubt they were already set up in the campsite and enjoying the warm summer evening.
She wondered whether she should have ventured so far in one day. She could have pitched camp earlier. There had been plenty of opportunities along the way, but they hadn’t appealed as much as the place she was now headed.
She had, she decided, been right to follow her instincts. Despite the late hour, she would wake up tomorrow exactly where she wanted to be.
Free of the rock face and with a better line of sight, she got back on her bike to enjoy the descent towards the bay, thinking all the time of plunging into the clear blue water that lay ahead.
Fifteen minutes later, she was staring, heavy-hearted, at the FULL sign at the campsite, and the warnings in various languages telling her that she wasn’t permitted to camp on the stretch of meadow that led to the dunes.
So where was she going to sleep tonight?
Okay, she told herself, I may not be allowed to pitch my tent, but there are no rules stopping me from swimming.
Depositing her bike and gear, she changed into her costume and made her way through the dunes.
Daylight in these northern climes stretched on further than she’d ever experienced. Even now, the sun had not yet set, burning the sky red before dissolving into a creamy pink and blue as it reached the water.
Pleased to find the beach deserted, she set off in a run across the warm sand, anticipating the sharp cold of the water.
Gasping as it met her thighs, she stood for a final moment to watch as the setting sun kissed the horizon, knowing she didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world at this moment.
22
Day five
He’d been woken earlier by the rain on the tin roof.
Rising, he’d taken a look out of the window. Through the glass, streaked by rain and the faint beginnings of daylight, he could see that the sea swell had turned the earlier aquamarine waters of the bay to a choppy grey.
Never mind, he’d thought, at least my tatties are getting a good watering.
The long hot spell had depleted the stream he used to water the potato patch he’d dug in the grassy cleft that ran from his access road to the small sandy cove below.
Encircled by a high wire fence, the green tops of the plants had avoided the munching of the local sheep, but they did need water. Something the north-west of Scotland wasn’t normally short of.
He’d been relieved to see by the rain on the window that things were back to normal.
By the time he’d eaten breakfast and performed his morning chores, the rain had passed, replaced by a Scotch mist that softened all sound, even the excited chittering of the birds as they came to the feeder in the front garden.
Opening the door, he stepped outside and, with a whistle to his collie, Meg, set off down the path towards the shore. From his vantage point on the hill, he could just make out the distant western headland of Achmelvich with its campsite, the nearby lumpy dunes and the wide curved smile of its golden sands.
The cove he was heading into was mostly bordered by a cliff face, its beach covered at high tide, but, choosing the time wisely, an explorer might locate this path and find themselves with a fine place for a sheltered swim.
It was where he and Meg often came to bathe, but not today, he thought.
Stopping by his potato patch, he noted that the plants looked much the better for their overnight soaking. Happy with that, he whistled for Meg, who was out of sight, then catching sight of her black ears in front of him, he began to wind his way down the steep track towards the shore.
The tide would have turned by now, he knew, leaving at least half the beach exposed. He was intrigued to find out what the rough night might have washed up against the cliffs. The best place for salvage was undoubtedly the most westerly section of the cove with its deep ravine and rough stone steps leading down from the high path that skirted the cliffs round to the main bay.
He’d often gathered driftwood here, plus netting and buoys broken free from fishing boats.
Meg, aware of where he was heading, had gone on in advance. He couldn’t see her through the grey mist apart from the bobbing of her white-tipped tail, a feature of collies known as the shepherd’s lantern, for good reason. Minutes later, he heard by her insistent bark that she’d found something of interest.
Either that or she’d smelt a rabbit on the grassy but inaccessible headland above.
As he edged round the final rock, he could make out the swishing tail but little else, except it was clear she was agitated about whatever she’d discovered there.
‘Come, Meg,’ he ordered.
At his command, she came to whine alongside him, giving his hand a concerned lick, staring back at what had obviously disturbed her.
As he continued his approach, he whispered, ‘What is it, girl?’ as much to himself as to the dog.
Later, he would tell folk that he could pinpoint the exact moment his mind interpreted what he was looking at, although how the jigsaw of blue and yellow plastic netting, small orange floats and the tangle of limbs and hair sorted themselves out in his brain to fire the word body at him he didn’t know.
He came to an abrupt halt, his boots sinking into the sodden sand, just as his heart sank into the depths of his stomach.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he whispered to the upturned face of the dog, whose eyes met his own in sympathy. ‘It’s a lassie, Meg. It’s a drowned lassie.’
There was no signal to be had here. He was well aware of that and yet still he stared at his mobile. It was shock, he told himself. Shock that froze him there, his brain unable to function.
Eventually, Meg’s eyes still on him, he told her to stay. ‘I’ll have to go back to the house to phone.’
Meg obligingly did as told, watching him retreat along the beach, half walking, half running, until he turned up into the valley and disappeared. Hurrying past the potato patch, he had to stop briefly to regain his breath before the final steep climb to the house. He had chosen this place to be out of the way of people mainly. And it had worked up to now.
Not any more, he thought, throwing open the door. Not any more. There would be police swarming all over the place. And the coastguard. Was the cove a crime scene now?
He hesitated before lifting the receiver. Did he have to do this? She was obviously dead and perhaps the next high tide would take her away again. The momentary cowardly thought made him feel ashamed.
Was it a 999 call or to the nearest police station? Lochaber or Ullapool?
Eventually he went with 999, and asked to be put through to the coastguard, all the time wishing himself a hundred miles away.
He’d been advised not to touch the body, but to stay on guard nearby until the coastguard arrived.
He had no wish to touch the body, so that was a given, although his eyes were constantly drawn to it as he perched on a nearby rock, a subdued Meg by his side.
The mist had begun to clear, aided by a light onshore breeze, and above him the sun was attempting to escape the clouds.
From where he sat, he could see that the girl wore a short wetsuit of black and pink. Her face was turned from him, the tangled blonde hair shielding most of it. He was relieved about that, having no wish to see what damage the sea and its creatures had already done.
He had heard that a female kayaker had gone missing from a campsite further down the coast near Arisaig. The local radio station had reported it, and the police had been using Twitter to ask folk for information, although they’d only had a first name and a description of the girl they called Callie, plus a photograph of her blue campervan.
The area around Achmelvich was much more exposed than the sheltered bays of Arisaig, so if the girl had ventured this far north, it could be her body that had been washed up here in the bay.
His 999 call had put him through to the coastguard at Lochinver, who’d said they would be with him as soon as possible. He’d mumbled something about the next high tide and how it came all the way up the beach, then felt stupid when they’d assured him that they were aware of that, and just to stay on site.
After what seemed like hours, he eventually heard the thrum of a motorboat and stood up on the rock to watch it make its way into the bay.
‘Okay, mate?’ a voice shouted as the boat approached the beach and a couple of men jumped out and walked towards him.
‘She’s there.’ He pointed at the tangle of netting and body.
Like him, they took a moment to register what they were looking at, and he could see the reaction on their faces. Unlike him, they didn’t swear. He assumed it wasn’t the first drowned person they’d encountered.
‘The tide will be in here soon,’ he repeated. ‘Will you take her away?’
The two men were talking together in an undertone. Then they turned to him and one said, ‘You can go home now. We have your details if we need to get in touch.’
Despite having wanted to go, he now found himself reluctant to leave. He had sat beside her for so long, he felt bad about deserting her.
‘Is it the girl from Arisaig?’ he said.
They didn’t respond to his question, just repeated their request that he should go and leave them to get on with their job.
Jumping down from the rock, and with a whistle to Meg, he did as ordered.
23
Day five
The dark-blue tent had been pitched on the edge of the dunes, despite the notices forbidding wild camping.
Achmelvich’s official campsite occupied a grassy promontory west of its famous beach. At busy times of the year, especially in good weather, the small site filled up very quickly and there was little point in travelling the torturous winding single-track road if you hadn’t booked ahead, especially if you came by motorhome.
But if you arrived after dark, on foot or by bike, you might try your luck wild camping among the dunes, and leave before anyone came to remonstrate with you the next morning.
Murdo had spotted the tent on his way to work at the campsite and assumed it would be gone by now. He checked the beach, but there was no one there as yet, not even an early keen wild swimmer.
Deciding the tent’s owner had been given enough time to be up and away, he headed across the grass.
A bike lay against the dune directly behind the tent.
So that’s how they’d arrived, he thought, probably late last night. With the FULL sign up on the campsite entrance, they’d done what any sensible and tired person would do. Pitched for the night, with a plan to take down the tent early next morning and get out before being confronted.
Approaching the tent, however, he had a strange feeling that something wasn’t quite right about it, but wasn’t sure why.
‘Hey, anyone in there?’
Murdo waited for a minute then called again, a little louder this time. ‘Sorry, but you’re not allowed to camp here.’
When greeted by a continued silence he tried a couple of other languages, repeating what was already on the signs.
‘Camping ist hier verboten,’ then, ‘Le camping est interdit ici.’
When there was no response to this, he had a sudden thought that if there was anyone inside, they were either choosing to ignore his presence or maybe they were ill.
The campsite had had its fair share of medical emergencies over the years, heart attacks included.
He knelt down and, taking hold of the zip, shouted, ‘I’m opening up now.’
He smelt the blood first, the metallic taste of it escaping as he unzipped the entrance. By now, he was convinced that something was wrong. They’d not only had medical emergencies on site, they’d also had attempted and sadly some successful suicides.
Folk escaping to the Highlands to bring an end to their lives. Mostly they took overdoses or walked into the sea. One young lassie had slit her wrists, but they’d luckily got to her in time. She’d returned later to thank them for saving her life.
The dimness of the tent showed him nothing except an empty sleeping bag, a bundle of cooking utensils and some feminine underwear but no backpack.
