Cold Grave (7 page)

‘Like father, like daughter, eh?’

‘Something like that,’ she agreed.

Kenny and Dazza were backing off, maintaining a staring session with Tony but retreating quickly to the safety of the bar. Dick Johnson stood, shaking slightly but with a comforting hand on the shoulder of his friend Heneghan, who looked distraught.

‘I think you should go too, don’t you, Miss… Narey?’ Johnson suggested.

She nodded, grabbed Tony’s elbow and guided him to the door.

‘You do know that those big lumps would have snapped you in two?’ Rachel mocked gently when they were driving out of Callander on the road back to Port of Menteith.

‘Of course I do. But the important thing was they didn’t know it.’

‘True,’ she laughed. ‘And was that also why you did that thing with your accent?’

‘What thing?’

‘Oh, come on, you know fine well. When you squared up to them, you sounded more “Glesga” than I’ve ever heard you.’

He grinned. ‘Works every time.’

‘Thanks. Seriously. It was getting a bit hairy before you stepped in. My hero.’

‘Don’t take the piss,’ he smiled. ‘You made sure they spilled your bag deliberately, didn’t you? To save me from getting a doing.’

‘Well…’ she shrugged apologetically. ‘Tony, you’re a lover, not a fighter. Maybe you could prove that later…’

He smiled again. ‘I could and I will but I thought there was maybe something else we could do after dinner?’

‘What’s that then?’

‘Hm. Came to me while I was watching the game. Rangers were winning so I had nothing better to do than think. Have you seen the rowing boat that’s tied up in front of the conservatory? I saw it at breakfast this morning.’

She had seen it: a little white boat that bobbed on the lake beyond the frosted green expanse of lawn.

‘What about it?’

‘Well, how about, once it’s dark and the bar is empty, we go for a little sail? To the island.’

She smiled and nodded again. Her hero.

The further the hotel slipped into the distance, becoming one with the trees and the church and the night, the worse an idea it seemed. The lake was inky black beneath them, the mist an icy chill rising from the surface and eating into their bones. Tony paddled them quietly towards the island while Rachel tried to stop her teeth from chattering.

They’d stolen through their bedroom window and across the lawn where Tony freed the rowing boat from the wooden stake that it was attached to. He let Rachel sit down in the back of the little boat before carefully joining her. There were no oars but he had liberated a kayak-style paddle from the darkened dining room and used it to push them silently from the shore and onto the lake. As he did so, it struck him that the boat was placed there more for decoration than practical use and it might not be entirely sound. He swallowed his reservations down, letting them settle on top of the three glasses of whisky that were stopping him from worrying and reasoned they would find out soon enough.

Tony’s camera bag lay on the floor of the boat and he was much more worried for its safety than theirs. They could always swim for it if the worst happened but the bag wasn’t going to save his cameras from the murky depths of the lake. It also contained a torch and flash guns that they were going to need when — if — they got to Inchmahome. Rachel looked at the lake. Maybe for the first time, she understood his
sgriob
, her sense of anticipation was tingling just as much as his.

Something flew just over their heads but neither of them could see what it was; they just felt the rush of air and saw the silent shadow slip into the gloom. They were over halfway now and there was no turning back. As Tony propelled them forward, Inchmahome rose out of the mist and darkness and emerged menacingly before them. More by memory than sight, he headed for the right-hand side of the island, knowing that was where the small jetty was with the boathouse behind it. Rachel turned as they got nearer, causing the boat to wobble, as she desperately sought a closer look at the place that had filled her thoughts for so long.

Finally, Tony lifted the paddle onto his knees and let the boat glide soundlessly for the remaining yards to the jetty. When they drew parallel to the little wooden platform, he reached for the camera bag and hauled it safely onto the jetty first before scrambling out of the boat and helping Rachel to do the same. He kept the torch switched off until they were past the boathouse and shielded by it and the trees. Even then, he used it only intermittently — just enough for Rachel to be able to lead the way to the crime scene.

She’d never been there before but had seen enough aerial shots and online maps to know where to take them. The ground was hard with frost beneath their feet and it crunched as they walked, frozen leaves crackling and brittle twigs snapping, the noise echoing off the remains of the priory walls and sounding big in the still night. No one could possibly hear them from the shore, even if anyone was still awake, but they moved without speaking, the enormity of the place suffocating them.

They wound their way through the ancient arches, taking a haunting tourist trail past the south wall of the priory church, then the cloister with the remnants of its warming house and kitchen. Whatever ghosts still lingered there were whispering at them from the shadows and following them past the chapter house and towards the darkest corner of the island.

Rachel slowed to a halt and waited till Tony was by her side. She stretched out her arm and he followed her point with the beam of the torch.

‘There,’ she whispered.

It was an unremarkable spot compared to the dramatic ruins they had just passed through, an ordinary junction of low wall and frozen ground. They both stood and contemplated it in silence, the intervening nineteen years slipping away before their eyes. Slowly, Rachel knelt and traced the air with her hands, drawing shapes of where the girl’s body had been discovered years before.

‘She was on her back here,’ she said, both her father’s words and Bobby Heneghan’s coming back to her. ‘They said there were weeds up to this height. Heneghan and Conway had to part them with their hands to see what was lying here.’

Tony took his camera bag from his shoulder and took out his Canon EOS-1D, fixing on a flash as he listened to Rachel.

‘Her legs were here… and here, this one tucked under the other…’

Winter was photographing nothing except memories and dirt but his mind’s eye was well practised in capturing death’s final throes even long after life had been extinguished. The lack of a body and the gap of nearly twenty years didn’t stop his imagination from running riot.

He saw the weathered red jacket, faded from its original candy red the same way Lily’s blood had lost its vital colour after leaking from her battered skull. He saw her dark blonde hair flecked with blood and dirt as she lay back on a pillow of snow, her head battered, one eye gone and the other shrinking in fright, her mouth wide open, screaming for help that never came, pleading for mercy that wasn’t offered.

She was so young, forever young, laid out on a snowy altar with the monks of Inchmahome standing over her weeping. He saw her skin and flesh, a winter feast for the island’s wildlife, its surfaces pulled back to expose everything below, her body shrivelling day by day as it lay lonely and abandoned.

Tony fired off shot after shot, his finger hammering at the shutter release even though the girl, her jacket, her blood and her battered skull fragments had long since gone. Rachel looked up at him, seeing him lost in his moment and knowing what he was seeing through his lens. She had seen the collection of gory photographs that filled a wall of his flat in Charing Cross and wondered if this image of what-had-been would find a place among them. His fascination being what it was, she knew it could fit in his collection even if the substance of it existed only in his mind. She realised it already had a place in hers.

‘You feel it?’ she asked.

Her words broke the trance Winter had drifted into, causing the murdered girl to fade from his sight, her beseeching mouth and pleading eye the last things to disappear as the flame from his final flash shot petered out.

‘Yes, I feel it.’

His camera arm fell to his side, his job done. Rachel took his free hand and gently led him away from the murder scene and back towards the jetty, every step guarded by Inchmahome’s mournful monks as they saw their uninvited guests safely off the island again.

He looked smaller but she knew he couldn’t be. It had been only a week since she’d last seen him but it was the first time since he’d moved into this bloody place. Could a man really shrink in a week? Rachel took advantage of being able to watch him, knowing that he didn’t yet realise she was there. They’d told her it would be better if she left it a bit before she went to see him, give him time to settle in without being embarrassed about her seeing him there. So she’d waited, much as it hurt. Christ, he looked sad. People around him chatted away but it seemed as if he’d rather be anywhere else. He appeared older too. There was no getting away from it. Maybe he had done for a while and she just hadn’t seen it but now the bloody home was showing it up.

Someone was saying something to him and he looked up, confused, as if he hadn’t heard them properly. She hoped that’s all it was. He was shrugging at the man who’d been speaking to him and turned away. She’d seen that faraway look sometimes when he was still at home with her mum — seen it but not noticed it.

Deep breath. Now go speak to him.

‘Hi, Dad,’ she managed as brightly as she could.

There it was: the half-second deliberation as he looked up and didn’t immediately recognise who she was. That part of a second could range from almost instant to drawn out, every extra tenth of it meaning so much and so little.

He knew her now though and the smile lit up his face and warmed her heart. He got up and held his arms wide for her like he always did. She knew this time the smile hid awkwardness but she ignored it. She needed the hug at least as much as he did — more.

Now that she was closer, she could see there were a couple of bits of stubbly grey on his chin that he’d missed while shaving and a button undone about halfway up his blue checked shirt. Not much maybe but her dad was always a stickler for being neat and tidy. It worried her to see him letting his standards slip.

‘How are you, love?’ he was saying. ‘How was the traffic?’

‘Oh, not too bad at all,’ she replied, even though it had been awful. ‘How are
you
more to the point? Settling in?’

He lied too. She could see it in his eyes, clear as day.

‘Och, yes. You know me. I can make myself at home anywhere. This place is fine. The people are nice enough.’

‘How’s the food?’ she whispered conspiratorially.

‘Bloody terrible,’ he whispered back. ‘Not a patch on your mother’s.’

‘What have they given you today?’

The moment the words were out her mouth she regretted them. The look of loss in his eyes cut right through her.

‘Who can tell?’ he laughed eventually. ‘It all tastes and looks the same anyway.’

Typical Dad. He would always do anything he could to save her from hurt of any kind. If only she could do the same for him.

‘Seriously, Dad,’ she persevered. ‘What’s it like in here?’

‘It’s okay. It probably sounds silly but I can’t take the fact they all know my name but I can’t remember theirs. They’ve all been here forever so when I come in they’ve only got one name to learn while I’ve got to try to remember all of theirs. And I’m not doing very well.’

She let the pain of his comment show on her face.

‘Hey, don’t worry,’ he laughed lightly. ‘I was never that good with names anyway.’

She knew that was anything but true. She used to badger her dad to tell her about his old cases and he would sit her on his knee and reel off incidents, dates and names without ever having to pause to remember details. He’d had a mind like a vice.

‘You shouldn’t be in here, Dad. It’s not right.’

‘I’m afraid it is, love,’ he replied with a sad smile. ‘I’m just a burden to your mum and it’s not fair on her.’

‘Mum? Dad… Mum wouldn’t want you in here.’

Her mum had died five years earlier from breast cancer. Dad had been heartbroken but he’d taken the burden for both of them, as brave and strong as always. It had been the single most devastating event in his life and yet, for now, he seemed to have forgotten it.

‘I know she never complained,’ he continued. ‘But that’s your mum for you: she’s not the complaining type. But that doesn’t mean she deserves to have to wet nurse someone who can’t remember if he’s eaten or when he last changed his… um… his socks. See? I can’t even finish a bloody sentence sometimes.’

She knew better than to challenge him; getting upset only made him worse.

‘I can pop over more often and see how you’re doing. I should be doing that anyway.’

‘Rachel, you’ve got your own life to lead. Anyway, this bloody thing means I can go haywire at any time. I wandered out for a walk last week and didn’t even tell your mum I was going out.’

‘Lots of people do that, Dad.’

‘It was raining. Raining and cold and I didn’t even think to take a jacket. I was soaked to the skin by the time your mum found me. It’s not fair on her.’

Narey could feel a tear rising to her eyes but fought it, the same way she choked back the lump in her throat. It was the last thing he’d want to see and she wasn’t going to make him endure it.

‘It’s not fair on you either, Dad.’

‘Ach, well, you get what you deserve in life.’

‘Not that again. You’ve got to stop feeling guilty, Dad. It was nearly twenty years ago. You can’t keep beating yourself up about it.’

‘Can’t I? Well, why do I keep waking up and thinking about it then? Ironic, isn’t it? I can’t remember a bloody thing half the time but the one thing I’d rather forget…’