Madness Lies Page 19

  He didn’t go home. When he reached the roundabout at Fishertown, he kept going. It was too good a day to be stuck inside. He needed to walk and think. At Findhorn, he parked in the village and walked towards the bay, his spirits lifting at the tinkling sound of the breeze stirring the masts and rigging on the boats. The curved bay was a sailing and water sports centre, popular with tourists and locals. There were boats everywhere, some moored in the bay, while others had been brought ashore to the gardens of the houses that backed onto the bay. Some of the houses had their own slipways. What Joe wouldn’t give to live here, with constant access to the water. He was tempted by coffee in one of the cafes along the water front, but the lure of the sea was too strong. He walked round to the headland, then on to the long stretching sands of Burghead Bay. It was more exposed, and there were fewer people around.

  As the soft sand crunched under his feet, he thought of the beaches in Harris with their golden sand and massive dunes. Though this beach was beautiful, there was really no comparison. Something stirred deep inside him, with a whisper of home and heritage. How he wished he could claim it. Let the hurt and the past go. Accept all that should have been his, if things had turned out differently. Maybe someday.

  He heard laughter and chattering from the sand dunes. A family had set up camp, with a stripy wind-break and a barbecue. The smell of burgers made Joe’s mouth water, and his stomach rumbled. A toddler broke away from his mother. His nappy was only fastened on one side and it flapped around his pudgy thighs before falling to the sand. With a high-pitched squeal, the wee boy made a dash towards the sea. His mother ran behind him, near enough to catch him, but letting him go as far as he safely could. Close to the water’s edge, the child stopped and turned. He held out his arms, and his mother scooped him up, laughing as she swung him round, then held him close.

  A wave of sadness swamped Joe as he passed the mother and child. He didn’t dare look at them, for he feared the mother might see the tears glistening in his eyes.

  Tears? Was it the hangover? He remembered hangovers that had made him cry before, especially in the years after his friend Matt was murdered. More than once he’d convinced himself he was suffering from depression, that he’d have to see a doctor, only to wake the next day fully recovered. But that hadn’t happened for a long time. Why today?

  He looked back over his shoulder, at the mother carrying the child to the dunes, and he knew. For the first time in years, he knew exactly what he wanted.

  ***

  Chapter 39

  Sharon had almost cried out loud at the station when she was shown the photo of Katya Birze; it was the girl in the photos in Christopher’s drawer. And the police thought she’d died on Sunday morning, around the time he’d disappeared and claimed to have gone for a drive. Had he been shagging her all along? Every night he wasn’t with Sharon? Was that why he hadn’t invited her to his house before the day of the shooting? But why would he have killed her?

  Alone in her flat, Sharon felt the first stirrings of a panic attack. She hadn’t had one since the early days of reducing her methadone. He’d been there every time, with his vitamins and his knowledge and his encouragement. And look where he was now. In the cells. A murderer.

  And there was Ryan. He was still in New Craigs and she wasn’t allowed to see him. What state was he in? They’d told her nothing. She picked up the small brown bottle of methadone and shook it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She sank to the floor. If she took it all, she wouldn’t get more for three days, but at least she’d feel better. But would she? Why not just call her old dealer, Smish? His number was imprinted on her brain. Gillian had collected Liam from school. He was safe. Ryan wasn’t going anywhere. And she was going to hell.

  The veins on her arm tingled and she remembered Stephen MacLaren, or Mac, as she’d known him. Last year, the day he’d murdered her neighbour, he’d given her smack to make sure she was out of it. Her last hit. Bastard. He’d reeled her in too. Not with sex or money or false promises. Just friendship and understanding. And it was all an act. If she hadn’t lived next door to Moira Jacobs, he wouldn’t have given her the time of day. Fucking men. Murdering bastards.

  At least she hadn’t been detained. She’d told the cops she’d only found out about the links between Todd Curtis and Christopher in London, and that she’d planned to go to the station this afternoon to tell them everything. She gave them details of Christopher’s family home and his rented houses. She told them about Dino and Lucas, the email from Todd Curtis and his befriending of Ryan. That Todd lived on Carlton Terrace and was into prostitution and drugs. That was all she knew. She couldn’t give Christopher an alibi for early Sunday morning.

  She didn’t phone Smish. She forced herself to go for Liam. His wee face cheered her up. He’d made a card with a picture of her. She had limbs like sticks and a belly like a Buddha. To my luvly mam xxx

  ‘That’s fab, son, but you’ve drawn me with missing teeth.’

  ‘I know, Mam. You’ve got lovely teeth now, but I liked when you ate bubble gum and blowed huge bubbles through the gaps.’

  She helped him with his homework, then they snuggled in front of the telly. He asked when Christopher would be coming round. The thought that he’d never be back gutted Sharon. She took a deep breath. ‘His mum’s sick just now, so maybe not for a while. We’re fine on our own, aren’t we?’

  He nodded. ‘Do you think Ryan will be home soon?’

  Sharon’s throat tightened. She coughed. ‘That’s a difficult question, Liam. At least he’s safe now, though, eh?’

  Liam was fast asleep. Nothing on the telly. The evening stretched before Sharon, and she couldn’t see how she’d get through it. Maybe she’d tidy the kitchen cupboards. That might have worked, if she hadn’t opened the cupboard beside the sink first, and found a bottle of wine she’d won in a raffle at the community centre.

  She’d never liked red wine, but this went down like nectar. Three quarters of the way down the bottle, she decided. Her hands shaking, she phoned Smish.

  ‘Shar, how’s it going?’ The sound of his oily voice sent waves of nausea through her. ‘Haven’t heard from you for a while. What can I do for you?’

  Butterflies in stilettos danced in her belly as she told him what she needed.

  No problem. It would cost her, though.

  *

  Carla hadn’t gone far today. A wander round the croft with Ronald, then she read for the afternoon, before making dinner. Ronald was apologetic when he came in and found she’d cooked. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you.’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t need looking after. Just a bit of rest, and cooking is restful for me. I don’t do it enough.’

  ‘You should; this is wonderful.’

  ‘That’s got more to do with your home grown beef and vegetables than my cooking. I should make the effort, but my work patterns don’t help, and it doesn’t seem worth it when you’re only cooking for one.’

  ‘You don’t cook for Joe?’

  Carla shook her head. ‘If we’re both off, we usually eat out or get a takeaway.’

  ‘What did he think of you coming here?’

  She shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell him.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘It’s probably run its course. Wasn’t really working out.’ With the words came a rush of nausea, followed by despair. The food felt like cardboard in her mouth. She put her knife and fork down, and clasped her hands in her lap to stop them shaking. ‘I must have eaten too much at lunch time; I’m not really hungry now.’

  Ronald reached for the butter dish. He took his time, cutting off a slab and placing it on his vegetables. Carla watched the butter melt. He looked up and smiled. ‘Did I tell you about the escaped cow at the last sale?’

  The tale of the rampaging cow that held up the ferry traffic in Lochmaddy for half an hour made her laugh, and then she felt hungry again.

  Ronald insisted on washing the dishes before he went to check the beasts. Carla
watched him from the kitchen window as she dried up. It was a fine evening, the island bathed in a soft yellow glow. Down at the shore, she saw a figure. It must be Will. She couldn’t make out his features, but he looked less decrepit than she’d expected from her cousin’s description. The tide was out and he looked to be rummaging around the exposed rocks. He had a pail with him; he must be collecting shellfish.

  At the bottom field, close to the shore, she saw Ronald. He’d gone to check the fence for a hole, as the sheep were escaping. The men were only a short distance apart, but Will had his back to Ronald. When her cousin shouted a greeting, she saw Will straighten up, turn and nod at Ronald. And then he eased himself down to pick up his bucket. He had a hand on the small of his back as he shuffled towards his caravan.

  When Ronald came in, they drank tea and chatted. She’d been worried he would want to talk about her tests, her prognosis, but he didn’t. He talked about the croft he was thinking of renting from a neighbour. He couldn’t quite make up his mind if he needed more land, but he hated to see it go to waste. Worse, it might go to one of those buggers that collected crofts like they were going out of fashion, and did nothing with them. By the time he said goodnight, he’d decided; he was going for it.

  Carla didn’t think she’d sleep. Was it over with Joe? Was that what she wanted? If it was, why did she feel as if someone had taken her heart and shredded it to pieces? She took her mobile phone out of her bag. She hadn’t given it a thought since she’d arrived, assuming there was no signal here. Had he been in touch? Maybe she’d switch it on and find there was a signal, and a dozen messages from him, explaining and apologising. And maybe she’d find no messages, and she’d be devastated, and she definitely wouldn’t sleep. She put it back in her bag. Maybe tomorrow.

  In the bedroom, she stood at the window and wondered why anyone would need a television. The setting sun was descending into the sand dunes on the horizon. The sky was a mass of colours, the fiery orange globe slowly disappearing. It left threads and fingers of light stretching and mingling with the trailing clouds. She watched until the sun was gone, leaving only a faint purple shadow behind the tinted clouds.

  ***

  Chapter 40

  From the plane, Joe looked down on the mountains and moors of North Harris, then the deserted golden sands of the south. The beaches stretched forever, alongside seas of stunning blue and green and violet. He felt his heart lift. No matter how much he tried to avoid it, he knew there was something there for him. One day, he’d go and face the past. He’d take Carla, if she still wanted him.

  He avoided looking down at Ceapabhal, the hill that overshadowed the shore where he and Stephen MacLaren had fought, yet still the wound in his chest tingled and an image came to him. He was lying on the rocks, consciousness slipping away, and a shadowy Stephen was walking towards Lucy, the knife in his hand. He shivered.

  When he next looked down, he saw that North Uist was nothing but water, with the odd bit of land scattered here and there. It looked so bleak, little ribbons of road connecting fragments of land. There were beaches; he knew that. He’d spent hours on the internet, looking at maps and trying to work out where Ronald MacKenzie might live. There was a place called Sollas on the north coast, with great expanses of sand. That was as good a place as any to start.

  When they were close to landing in Benbecula, the plane swept over a massive stretch of white sand, and it looked every bit as spectacular as the golden beaches on Harris.

  As he waited for his bag to come off the plane, Joe filled in the paperwork for his hire car. The man handed over the car keys and pointed out the window. ‘They’ll see you coming.’

  Great. A bright yellow Fiat Punto. That’s what he got for making last minute decisions. ‘Where do I return it?’

  ‘Here. Just leave it open and stick the keys under the visor on the driver’s side.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Would you steal it?’

  The driving challenges here were the same as those in Harris. Stretches of two-way suddenly narrowing to single track; blind summits and wayward sheep; road-hogging campervans that crawled along at twenty miles an hour. Joe didn’t really mind. Though he couldn’t wait to see Carla, he was nervous, and he needed time to decide what to say, and to keep an eye on the route planner he’d printed out the previous evening. Not that there was much scope for going wrong. Once he was on the A865, a couple of miles after leaving the airport, he didn’t turn off again for just over eleven miles, when he’d reach the Committee Road. Another six or so miles and he’d be at the Co-op in Sollas. Hopefully someone there would know where Ronald MacKenzie lived.

  *

  When Carla woke, the house was silent. Ronald must have been very quiet getting up. She couldn’t believe she’d slept well. She’d woken once, and felt a hint of worry poking at her. It was vague, a net of gossamer that threatened to capture her. It had almost succeeded, until she heard the faint surge of the sea in the background. She focussed on it, until everything else was gone.

  And now, it was a good day, the sky blue and cloudless, the house filled with a wonderful smell that brought memories of a child jumping out of bed and racing to the kitchen for her aunt’s scones. She didn’t race now, but her mouth watered just as it had then.

  Ronald had left the scones covered by a tea-towel on top of the stove. The table was laid for her, a small tea-pot and tea caddy waiting. He’d also put out a frying pan, with a note to say the eggs and bacon were in the fridge, and he’d gone up to Benbecula to take Bessie to the vet.

  Carla and her father had always left the island with enough of her aunt’s baking to last a couple of weeks, but they’d be gone in a few days. Her favourites were the yellow scones made with maize flour. And Ronald had remembered.

  She ate two scones and drank her tea, then she stood at the window and watched the hens pecking in the ground around the old rusted tractor. It was time.

  The signal was good. She held her breath as the texts came in. A couple from Louise apologising for not getting back to her. And then a third from Louise.

  Shit has hit the fan. Poor J. Hope he’s all right.

  What shit?

  And then several missed calls and three texts yesterday from an unknown number – Joe’s, apparently.

  I’m so sorry. Don’t have my phone. Call me. Please. J xxx

  I’m worried. Where are you? xxx

  The third was a picture of a beautiful bouquet, sitting in a jug by her kitchen sink. Typical. First time he’d given her flowers, and they were wasting away in her empty flat. She considered answering him, but he’d be tied up in whatever shit had hit the fan. She didn’t want to have to wait hours for his response. And she needed time to think.

  The smell of the machair was just as she remembered, a salty mix of sea and grass and sand. And it looked just as it had when she’d walked it with her father, except that the hills of Harris had seemed closer and bigger then. It was too far to Traigh Iar, the big beach on the other side of the sand dunes, but she was determined she’d make it before she left, even if it was on Ronald’s tractor.

  She took her shoes off and left them on the grass with her jacket. Though the tide was out, there were rock pools here and there, and the water was warm on her toes.

  She wanted to forget about Joe, at least while she was out, but she kept thinking of the flowers. They were beautiful, and at least he’d made an effort, but did it really make up for abandoning her at the hospital when he’d promised to take her home? And why hadn’t he called? Even if he’d lost his phone, he could have come round or called her landline. Maybe she should contact Louise and find out what was going on.

  Before she knew it, she was almost at the old caravan, and the side of her head had started to ache, nausea seeping through her. She had painkillers in her pocket, but no water to take them with. She was going to have to sit, and she was going to have to face the truth. She could forget for a while, but it was always there, in the b
ackground. Sickness; life-threatening sickness. She should face up to it. But how the hell could she, when she didn’t even know? She blinked back tears.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  The sun was behind him, so she couldn’t see his face. Just masses of wild dark hair and a beard. Must be Will. There was no point pretending. She shook her head. ‘I came too far. I’ve been unwell and I’m supposed to be resting; it was stupid of me.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Here, I’ll help you up. Come and have a seat in the caravan until you feel better.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

  ‘You’re not; I’ve nothing else to do, and I can’t leave you here.’

  Though his clothes had seen better days, they were clean. When Carla took his arm, she could smell wood smoke and soap. Outside the caravan, there was a low circular wall made of stones, enclosing the remains of a fire. A piece of driftwood was balanced on two boulders, making a long shelf for a kettle, some crockery and cutlery, and two battered pans. One of them was full of open razor, cockle and winkle shells.

  ‘The remains of last night’s dinner and today’s breakfast,’ he said. ‘Delicious.’

  Beside the shelf, there was a rack made of wood, with long pieces of seaweed stretched across it. ‘Is that dulse?’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  ‘My dad used to love it.’

  ‘A wise man. Your family come from here?’

  ‘Aye. Only my cousin, Ronald, is here now, though. He has the next croft.’

  He nodded. ‘He’s a good sort; leaves me vegetables and meat. It’s all very welcome. You go in. There’s a seat by the window. I’ll make you tea.’