The Darkness and the Deep Page 10

  His first instinct was to go after it, but his orders were to stay here. He reached for his radio and reported the incident, though without any description of the car’s make, far less its number, this was more an exercise in clearing his lines than anything else.

  He settled back into his seat, hunching his shoulders uncomfortably. He’d been saving his last Mars bar, but perhaps now was the time to eat it. It was meant to give you energy and it wouldn’t do to be caught snoring when the next shift arrived.

  7

  Marjory Fleming pulled on her overalls on top of her work clothes – an appropriately sober grey trouser suit over a black polo-neck – and glanced anxiously out of the window. The wind had dropped and it looked like being a fine autumn day but there was storm debris all over the lawn: leaves and twigs and even small branches broken from the garden trees.

  Normally when there was a strong wind she checked the henhouse last thing to make sure it was secure, but it had been so late when she got back last night that she hadn’t a thought of anything except getting her head down. She’d crept in as quietly as she could so as not to wake Bill, but as she slipped shivering into bed he had turned over, gathering her cold body to his warm one in a close embrace. ‘Welcome home,’ he had murmured, and he hadn’t only meant from Knockhaven.

  Marjory normally snatched an extra ten minutes after Bill had got up but today she was too anxious about her chookies to wait until after breakfast as usual to feed them. If the roof had lifted off or something . . . She beat a tattoo on the children’s doors, reaching in to switch on their lights and waiting for some sign of life before she hurried downstairs.

  As she walked down towards the old walled orchard on the slope behind the Mains of Craigie farmhouse which was the hens’ domain, she could see that a huge branch from one of the twisted, lichened apple trees had been torn away. They were old trees now, not good for much except producing scabby windfalls for the hens to peck at. They had pretty pink-and-white blossom in spring, though, and when one of them fell victim to a winter storm provided the sweet-scented logs for the fire that Marjory loved. Perhaps they should be planting replacements, but making apple jelly and chutney and quantities of apple pies for the freezer wasn’t really her scene and the last thing she needed was something else to ratchet up her guilt about domestic inadequacy.

  The henhouse at least was unscathed, though as she watched its occupants shove and squawk their way out she thought that it had probably taken quite a battering in the night. They seemed unsettled: Tony, the rooster, instead of shaking his wattle and crowing, immediately began preening ruffled feathers, while Cherie, the aggressive alpha hen, seemed to be giving him dirty looks as if holding him personally responsible for her disturbed night.

  Marjory stood watching them affectionately for a moment, as she always liked to do. The social bickering, squawking protests, crooning exclamations of surprise and delight when their morning scratchings turned up some succulent titbit: her daily glimpse of their feathered world was somehow infinitely soothing.

  At last, reluctantly, she fetched the pail of mash and tipped it out for them, leaving them to their pecking-order squabbles as she collected eggs, then went back up towards the farmhouse. The sun wasn’t fully up but the sky was a pearly colour and after the rain everything looked freshly minted, as if promising a cleansed and better world. But Marjory had no illusions about the day ahead: same old world, same old problems, with some new ones added.

  The dormer windows of the old stone farmhouse, up there under eaves like pointed eyebrows, were the children’s bedrooms; in Cammie’s the light was off, which probably meant he was downstairs having breakfast since it was unlikely he would actually have got up to switch it off then gone back to bed. Cat’s was still on, so – unless she’d defied parental wrath by leaving it burning – she was most probably standing in front of the mirror in her black bedroom, trying to work out how much make-up she could risk applying without having one of her brutal parents sending her back to wash her face before school.

  Marjory saw Bill cross the yard just ahead of her and by the time she reached the kitchen he was standing looking at breakfast television. They were just finishing an item about the Knockhaven lifeboat disaster; Cameron had even suspended his attack on a heaped bowl of honey-nut cornflakes to watch.

  ‘Hey, Mum!’ he greeted her. ‘They’re talking about Knockhaven! They’ve just been talking to Forbes MacRobert’s mum. I know her!’ He was still young enough for the novelty of involvement with momentous events to outweigh any consideration of their nature.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Marjory went to switch on the kettle for tea. ‘You’ll probably hear about it at school. One of the crew who was drowned was a teacher at Kirkluce Academy – Luke Smith. I expect Cat knows him.’

  An expression of distaste crossed Cammie’s face. ‘Him? Oh, he’s just a rotten old paedophile.’

  His parents exchanged startled glances. ‘What?’ said Marjory, and Bill added warningly, ‘Cammie, I hope you know what you’re saying. If this is just some silly rumour going round among the kids—’

  ‘It’s not!’ the boy protested. ‘Greg Baxter’s sister’s in Nat Rettie’s class and she came for Greg after school yesterday and she said Nat said his girlfriend – you know, Kylie MacEwan – was going to see someone to complain.’

  In stunned silence Marjory tried to assimilate what she had heard. The Kylie MacEwan angle was unwelcome in itself; from what she had so recently heard about Nat Rettie he was the last person she would want to have any sort of contact with Cat’s close friend. Then other things began to slot into place: if Luke was going to be under investigation for paedophilia it would explain why he had been suicidal, and it did suggest, too, that the trap set for the lifeboat might not simply be mindless vandalism. If the boat contained not only the man who you believed had abused your girlfriend but also the stepfather you hated, you had quite a solid motive. And you might even have hoped it would simply be written down as an accident – which it might well have been, if it weren’t for Tam’s sharp-eyed observation. Well, they had circulated details on the car Nat was driving; even if he hadn’t turned up at home last night it shouldn’t take them long to find him.

  The kitchen door opened and Cat slid herself round it as unobtrusively as possible. She’d got on some new, ash-pale foundation and some state-of-the-art lash-lengthening mascara and she was horrified to find that all eyes were upon her.

  But for once her mother didn’t seem to notice. ‘Cat, do you know anything about Kylie having problems with one of the teachers at the school?’

  Bill shot her a warning glance and Marjory, realising she had spoken like a police officer instead of a mother, softened her tone. ‘Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean that to sound aggressive. It’s just that Cammie said one of your teachers had been accused of abusing Kylie – Luke Smith.’

  Cat gave her brother a contemptuous look. ‘What does he know? He’s still in baby school, anyway.’

  ‘Did you see Kylie yesterday after school? Did she say anything to you about that?’

  ‘Yes. And no.’

  Cat looked so indifferent that Marjory yearned to shake her. With some difficulty, she said calmly, ‘According to Cammie, it was something to do with Nat Rettie. Do you know him?’

  This time Cat did react. An uncomfortable flush coloured the pale cheeks. ‘Spoken to him. So?’ Her tone was defensive and she made a business out of picking up a cereal bowl and a packet of Special K then, shaking out a tiny pile of the flakes, sat down at the table with an air of unconcern.

  Marjory sat down opposite. ‘Cat, this is something very serious. Last night the Knockhaven lifeboat was wrecked and Mr Smith was one of two people who lost their lives. I need to know if he had problems at school, problems with Kylie.’

  It was good to see that under that hard exterior – what had the child got on her face and why did there seem to be furry caterpillars attached to her eyelids? – her tender-hearted daughter still exis
ted.

  Cat’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh no! Not the Maud’n’Milly!’ she cried. ‘I went out on her last summer when Gran was helping at the lifeboat fête and the crew were really, really nice! That’s awful!’

  ‘Yes, it’s all very sad. So – did Kylie ever say anything about Mr Smith?’

  ‘Don’t think she even knew him. He didn’t teach us.’

  ‘And she didn’t mention having gone to complain about him yesterday?’

  ‘She couldn’t have. We were, like, together all afternoon?’ The teenspeak had returned and she went on, ‘That’s just little kiddie Cammie telling porkies.’

  Cammie, outraged, shouted, ‘I’m not, Mum – just ask Drew’s sister!’

  Bill, as so often a silent observer, intervened with his usual decisiveness. ‘That’s enough, you two. Cat, there’s no excuse for deliberate rudeness. No, don’t get up and flounce out. And take a proper helping of cereal – you’re not going to school without breakfast.’

  If she had said that, Marjory reflected ruefully, there would have been a scene, but mercifully Cat would still take it from her father. She had filled up her bowl and seemed to be eating obediently now, thank goodness; the last thing her mother needed on top of everything else was a daughter with an ambition to be anorexic.

  She brewed the tea, her mind already racing ahead to the instructions she would be giving at the morning briefing. The uniforms would be assigned to interviewing anyone and everyone, but there were areas she wanted covered by her own team. Someone must go to the hospital: that had better be Tansy Kerr, since Katy Anderson would probably still be with her husband and a female officer would be more appropriate. Jon Kingsley could go to the school – she’d need to brief him on Cammie’s story – and then go down to Knockhaven to talk to Lewis Randall, and find out how much he knew about his wife’s goings-on. She’d have to tell her Superintendent, Donald Bailey, the bad news, and she wasn’t looking forward to that. He was inclined to take anything that disrupted the smooth running of his Force and the balance-sheet projections as a personal affront, and blame the messenger.

  Then, of course, if they picked up Nat Rettie—

  ‘Marjory!’ Bill’s voice broke in. ‘Were you actually planning to pour out the tea or just to swirl it around in the pot?’

  With a conscience-stricken start she apologised. ‘I was just—’

  ‘Oh, I can imagine what you were just doing,’ Bill said with mock severity, but his smile was sympathetic.

  She smiled back. ‘I think I’ll take Tam in the car with me when I go down to Knockhaven. That way he can’t walk away when I start trying to build bridges. I’m going to take your advice – tell him straight out that he’s nairra-nebbit and all I was doing was telling him to keep a civil tongue in his head.’

  ‘Nairra-nebbit? Where on earth did you dig that one up from?’

  Marjory grinned. ‘Good, isn’t it? One of my mother’s words – it means bigoted. And if I hadn’t been daft enough to try to use tact on a Glaswegian, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘And who’s being nairra-nebbit now?’

  It was only after breakfast, when Marjory was doing a lightning clear of the dishes before taking the children with her to school, that she noticed the telltale traces of cereal round the sink drain. She had vaguely noticed Cat get up from the table but, absorbed in conversation with Bill, she hadn’t looked at her bowl. With a sudden twinge of anxiety she wondered how much Cat had actually eaten, after all. They’d have to watch her much more carefully in future.

  The room for patients’ relatives at the hospital had been arranged with comfortable chairs, pictures and a light, pretty colour scheme, but its impersonal cheerfulness, the backdrop to so many of its occupants’ darkest hours, did not register with Katy Anderson. Her eyes were so swollen she could hardly see and she had no idea how long she had been sitting in the prison of her misery. Kindly nurses had popped in from time to time, making her fresh cups of tea which she obediently sipped then left to get cold, and she thought she might have dozed from time to time, though she couldn’t be sure.

  Rob, when she had been allowed in to see him last night, was drifting in and out of consciousness and connected up with wires and tubes to frightening-looking machines. He had some deep gashes on his face but she couldn’t see any other injuries; he had opened his eyes and recognised her, even muttered a few words, but she could see he was somewhere far, far away from her, somewhere that her tear-choked pleas couldn’t reach.

  They wouldn’t let her stay long. They were working on him, they told her, hoping to get him stabilised so they could operate to deal with his internal injuries. But she could tell they weren’t hopeful; the young doctor who had talked to her had explained gently that there was no guarantee that he would survive surgery.

  ‘What’s – what’s the alternative?’ Katy had asked, white-lipped.

  ‘We-ell . . .’ His reply was awkward and she knew what that meant.

  All through the dreadful, interminable night she had looked up every time the door opened but it was never the visitor she was waiting for and at the same time dreading. Now it was a young woman with dark red hair streaked blonde at the front, wearing jeans and a hooded top. Katy looked at her blankly.

  ‘Mrs Anderson? I’m DC Kerr.’ She flashed a photo card in a plastic holder, then came over to sit down beside Katy. ‘Is there any news of your husband this morning?’

  Katy licked dry lips. ‘I think they must still be operating. Surely they’ll be finished soon?’

  ‘They’ll be doing everything they can for him, I know that.’ From her accent, the policewoman sounded like a local girl; she had a low, pleasant voice. ‘It’s tough, but try not to worry too much. They’re pretty good at their job, these guys.’ Her calmness was reassuring.

  ‘Do you know yet what happened?’ The question had been haunting Katy all night. ‘How did they go in there? Rob knew about Fuill’s Inlat – everyone knew!’

  ‘We’ve people checking it out now. Our inspector’s away down to Knockhaven this morning and I’m sure we’ll get some answers soon.’

  ‘And—’ Katy licked her lips again. ‘The others? What happened to the rest of the crew? I know Rob was coxing because Willie didn’t go, but what about Ashley? And was the other one Luke? They couldn’t tell me here at the hospital.’

  Couldn’t – or wouldn’t, more like, Tansy Kerr reflected bitterly. Who wanted to be the person to tell a woman that two people had died when her husband had been at the helm? She’d had a drink in the Anchor herself a couple of times; Katy was a nice woman, and he by all accounts had been a nice man. ‘Yes, Luke, that’s right. I’m afraid they were both dead when they got to them.’

  Katy bowed her head and Kerr could see the cracked lips quivering. ‘Did he know what he’d done?’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’ Changing the subject swiftly, Kerr said, as neutrally as she could, ‘Mrs Anderson – Katy – can I just ask if you’ve seen your son at all?’

  ‘Nat?’ She looked startled at the name, as if the thought of her son hadn’t crossed her mind since she heard about Rob. Now, she was remembering what she had done and she put her hand to her head. ‘Oh dear! I was so angry last night, before—And I’d been so worried, too, about him joyriding. But maybe I shouldn’t have told the police he’d taken my car, informed on him—’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Kerr said firmly. ‘How would you have felt if he’d come to harm because you hadn’t stopped him?’

  Katy drew a shuddering sigh. ‘Or harmed someone else. That’s what Rob said – he was very strict about it. Oh, what shall I do if – if—’ Mentioning her husband brought tears, welling up and splashing silently down her cheeks.

  ‘But you haven’t seen Nat?’ Kerr persisted gently.

  ‘No. He’s probably back at home by now.’ Picking up a tissue from the box to mop her sore-looking cheeks, she obviously wasn’t interested in his whereabouts.

  The detective scri
bbled a note discreetly. Then she said, ‘Katy, can I just ask you, was Rob able to speak to you last night – tell you anything at all about what happened?’

  ‘Not – not really.’ She was finding it hard to keep control. ‘He was so weak – just muttered something about the lights—’

  ‘Can you remember his words, exactly?’

  ‘He kept saying, “My fault, my fault.”’ She couldn’t speak for a moment and it was only with an obvious effort that she managed to go on. ‘And it was – sort of like he didn’t understand, was puzzled. “The lights were there,” I think that was what he said. He said that once or twice – maybe, like, “There were lights.” Then he said something about three of them – “Three of them – too many, too many.” And then about it being his fault again.’

  Kerr scribbled the words in her book. ‘You’re being so brave, Katy – this is really helpful. Was there anything else?’

  The woman frowned, as if seeing a picture that Tansy couldn’t see, of a man only just holding on to life, murmuring words that might be his last. Then she shook her head. ‘Just that. He sort of repeated that kind of thing, once or twice, and there were one or two words I couldn’t make out. Then when they made me go he opened his eyes and said, “Katy, love—”’

  She began to sob and with a lump in her own throat Tansy looked round, saw a little sink in one corner and fetched a glass of water, more as a distraction than anything else. She clasped the woman’s hands round it, persuading her to take a sip. Her own voice wasn’t quite steady as she said, ‘I know. It’s awful. But hang on, there’s always hope—’

  And then the door opened and Tansy did not need the jerk of the nurse’s head indicating that she should make herself scarce to tell her that the doctor standing behind her in the doorway was bringing the news that would kill that hope stone-dead, as dead as Katy Anderson’s husband.