The Dream Catcher (8 page)

She stood on the cliff until her body ached with cold, her feet were numb and her face frozen. Little by little the hazy skyline fused and melted into the ocean and dusk made the silver sands glow like the surface of the moon. A dark shape, a piece of driftwood probably, moved at the edge of the water.

An unwelcome thought crossed her mind. What if it was another body? Perhaps she should walk nearer to the edge to take a look.

She didn't have the chance. Rapid footsteps crushed the snow behind her, a strong arm grabbed her around the waist and she was lifted off the ground.

‘What the hell are you doing out here on your own?' Bruce McGunn's voice was as cold and sharp as ice. ‘Are you mad or plain stupid? Can't you see there's a five-hundred-foot drop off that cliff?'

He plonked her down on the ground and turned her roughly towards him without releasing her. His arm still wrapped around her waist, he glared at her, his eyebrows drawn in an angry scowl and his black hair flying around his face.

Her temper rose at once.

‘I was perfectly safe before you arrived,' she shouted back, pushing her balled fists against his chest. ‘There is no need to rumble and grumble at me like a grumpy old camel. You really are the rudest, most unpleasant man I've ever met. In fact, forget McGlum, I'll call you McGrump from now on, it suits you a lot better.'

‘What on earth are you talking about?'

His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed to dark slits of gunmetal. A warning rang inside her head – a loud and clear warning to hold her tongue for once. As usual she ignored it and forged ahead.

‘Don't you like McGrump? That's all right since I can think of a few others names, all suited to your delightful personality. Maybe you would prefer McGrumble or McGripe, since you seem to suffer from that particular ailment. No doubt it's the gripes which give you that permanent scowl.'

He didn't answer but the arm around her waist tightened. Now he was very angry. She held her breath and waited for him to start shaking her until her teeth rattled. Instead, he broke into a disarming smile, his face lit up and his eyes sparkled with silver. Once again, a strange feeling of déjà-vu made her ill-at-ease. Who could the man remind her of? Someone she knew, someone she'd seen not that long before. She shook her head. Some big ape she'd seen performing in Bou Saada market, perhaps…

‘I swear you're the most entertaining female I've ever met,' he said, before releasing her at last. ‘Come now. You're not used to the cold and you've been here far too long. You're turning blue.'

She shook her head and pointed at the sands below.

‘There is something, or someone, down there on the beach. That's what I was looking at before you came.'

He looked in the direction she indicated and muttered something in a language she didn't understand.

‘What is it? Can you see?'

‘I'm not sure,' he answered in a flat voice. ‘Nothing probably, but I need to check it out. Go back to the Lodge at once.'

He strode away without waiting for her answer, or even checking she was doing as she was told, leaving Rose to stare at his broad back as he started climbing down the path. Someone was down there, injured maybe… or dead. She'd heard it in his voice.

She cried out in frustration and kicked a few lumps of frozen snow with the tip of her boot. How she hated being told what to do, especially by that horrid Lord McGunn! What if she didn't want to go back to the Lodge but wished to see what was on the beach? She wasn't one of his servant women and he had no right to order her about.

She lifted her skirts above her ankles and followed into the big footsteps he'd made in the snow along the cliff top.

He hoped to God he was wrong but in his heart he knew he wasn't. Death awaited him on the beach. He could swear he heard the mournful lament of the
Bean-nighe
as he jumped onto the wet sand and started running.

The dead woman's face was turned away from him. Her long black hair coiled and stretched like seaweed on the pale sand. Her dark cloak was open, exposing her naked body. He knelt beside her and moaned with horror. Purple and yellow bruises formed a line around her neck. Her stomach and breasts bore deep cuts and burn marks, similar to those on the body of poor Fenella MacKay.

He should be used to the sight of death by now, he'd seen enough of it during his time in the army, but this was different, this was pure evil. Someone had killed the women not as a necessity of war, but for some sick pleasure.

He rose to stare at the vast expanse of empty sand dotted with rocks, and the high cliffs above. The killer was long gone. Who was he? Did he know him? Perhaps he was someone he spoke to every day, someone who worked for him at Wrath, at the fisheries or on a farm, or even one of his staff at the Lodge.

A wave crashed onto the shore and lapped at the woman's black cloak. He should move her further up the beach or the backwash would carry her off to the open sea.

He bent down to grab hold of her.

And saw her face.

Black butterflies danced in front of his eyes, blood roared in his ears and his heart thumped so hard it hurt. It was her. The dark-haired woman from his dream.

Slowly, he straightened up, closed his eyes and took long gulps of air to fight the dizziness which threatened to engulf him. After what felt like an eternity, the sickening sensations subsided and he could stand upright without swaying. A wave washed across the woman's feet, dragging at the hem of her cloak before retreating down the sand. He had to move her now. He'd do his thinking later.

Seizing her stiff, frigid body under the armpits, he hauled her higher up the beach, her cloak sliding wetly over the ridges hundreds of tides had imprinted in the wet sand. A small, silver object caught into the folds of her cloak glittered in the dimming light and attracted his attention. Curious, he put the woman down to unpin it and he held it up in front of him.

It was an earring – silver and with chains dangling down from a triangular piece so finely chiselled it looked almost like lace. He looked at the woman again. Even though her face was bruised, she was still beautiful. Her eyes, open onto the stormy dusk, were as dark as her hair.

Who was she? Who had abused her, killed her… and why the hell had he dreamt of her?

What if it hadn't been a dream?

‘Lord McGunn!'

He spun round. Rose was making her way down the cliff. He slipped the silver earring into his coat pocket and strode towards her.

‘I told you to return to the Lodge.'

She had reached the end of the path and balanced precariously about eight feet from the beach. Her small fingers gripped the overhanging rocks so tightly her knuckles were white. Her feet in their dainty boots kept sliding down the smooth stone. It was a miracle she had come that far without breaking her neck. Once again, he thought she was either terribly brave or completely insane.

‘Please help me. I can't hold on any longer.' She glanced at him, her dark blue eyes wide with fear.

‘I don't want you here. Go back,' he said, hardening his voice.

He fought the urge to pull her down against him and towards safety. The more scared she was, the quicker she'd scamper back up the cliff path and leave him alone to deal with the woman's body.

‘I wanted to see for myself what you had found…' She bit her lip and added in a weak voice, ‘and help you.'

‘What help can you be to me when you can't even climb down the cliff path on your own?' he retorted gruffly.

‘By Old Ibrahim's Beard, I'm going to fall,' she said, breathless.

Who the hell was Ibrahim? There was no time to ask. She let go of the rock with a whimper and he had no choice but to extend his arms and catch her. Her hands knotted at the back of his neck and tangled in his hair. She looked up, their faces only inches apart. The blue of her eyes was darker, more intense in the darkening light. He breathed in her delicate scent, felt her soft body against him and his arms tightened around her.

‘You're wasting my time. Now I'm going to have to take you back up.'

He let her down on the wet sand. He would return with MacBoyd and McNeil to collect the woman's body. They just about had time before the night.

She didn't move but stared at his coat pocket.

‘What is that?' She pointed to the silver earring which dangled out of his coat.

‘Something I found on the beach.'

He pushed the earring back into his pocket. She would only become hysterical if he announced he'd found a dead body, and he wanted to be alone. He wanted space to think.

He gestured towards the cliff. ‘We must leave before it gets dark.'

She ignored him. ‘I want to see it.'

He repressed a sigh of impatience. ‘And I said we needed to get back.'

‘I won't move from this spot until you show me. I don't care if you growl and if you frown, you don't frighten me.'

He gave her the look which made hardened soldiers shrivel and quake in their boots. She only put out the palm of her hand.

‘I don't have the time or the patience for a temper tantrum, my lady. If you won't come willingly, then I'll toss you over my shoulder and carry you back up the cliff like a sack of grain.'

He saw her face go pale and smiled with satisfaction. But she still didn't move.

‘At least tell me if it's an earring. A fine silver earring with three tassels dangling down.'

Surprised, he frowned. How could she possibly know that?

‘It is indeed.'

Her eyes filled with tears and she bit back a cry.

‘Please show me…'

Curious now, he took the earring out of his pocket and gave it to her.

She bent down to look at it, and her curly hair fell like a curtain, hiding the expression on her face.

‘Was there a woman on the beach – a young woman with long, black hair?'

‘Aye, I'm afraid so,' he answered, stunned.

‘Is she dead?'

She looked up. When he nodded, she let out an anguished whimper and tears slid down her cheeks.

‘I need to see her,' she said, putting her hand on his forearm.

‘Absolutely not. She's been badly hurt.'

‘I need to see her,' she repeated and her fingers dug into his arm.

‘Why?'

‘The earring. I recognise it. It belongs to my friend Malika.'

McGunn didn't answer. His face remained stony, his eyes devoid of emotion, but then again, he was a McGunn. Why would she expect him to show any compassion?

‘She was wearing these earrings the last time I saw her in Algiers. They were made especially for her by a silversmith in Bou Saada.'

Her voice wavered. ‘Malika and I grew up together, Lord McGunn. She's my closest friend, almost a sister. I pray to God it's not her. I don't even know how it could be her, but I have to be sure.'

At last he took a breath and nodded.

‘All right, if you're sure that's what you want, but I'm warning you, it will upset you.'

He took hold of her arm, his touch surprisingly gentle for once. As they got nearer an outcrop of rocks, she caught a glimpse of the black cloak, of long dark locks of hair spread out of the wet sand. Her head started spinning and her heart beat as loud as a
bendir
drum. She hardly noticed she was falling to her knees.

‘Oh no…' She heard her own hoarse, heart-wrenching cry. Her legs buckled under her. She felt the cold, damp sand under her cheek. And then she felt nothing at all.

Chapter Six

‘How is she doing?'

Kilroy closed the door and walked to the fireplace.

‘She'll be fine. Well, as fine as she can be under the circumstances. I understand she knew the dead girl.'

‘She was a close friend of hers.' Bruce pushed the papers on his desk into an untidy pile and reclined on his chair.

He felt hot and shivery, exhausted and achy – no doubt as a consequence of several journeys up and down the cliff, first carrying an unconscious Rose back to the Lodge, and later the body of a dead woman.

Untying his black necktie, he loosened the top buttons of his white linen shirt before rubbing his throbbing forehead with his fingers. That damned headache had come back with a vengeance. He could hardly see straight, let alone concentrate on his work, or anything else – like trying to remember where and when he had seen the beautiful, black-haired woman before today.

‘This is a very odd turn of events indeed.' Kilroy walked to a side table and poured himself half a tumbler of whisky.

Bruce slammed the palm of his hand on the desk.

‘Damn it, Kilroy, it's more than odd. It's downright bizarre. What the hell happened to Fenella MacKay and why was the body of an Algerian woman washed ashore on my land, when she's supposed to be in Algiers, or Bou Saada or God knows where else?'

He paused, closed his eyes and tried to silence the dark voice whispering that he knew the answer to both questions.

‘McGunn, are you all right?'

Bruce forced his eyes open.

‘I'm fine,' he growled.

‘All I can tell you is that both suffered similar injuries,' Kilroy resumed speaking. ‘Both were raped, tortured, burned and strangled.'

‘Aye, I saw the burn marks this time.'

Kilroy swallowed a mouthful of whisky, pensive.

‘Human depravity will never cease to amaze me,' he sighed. ‘Malika appears to have been killed in the last few days. The thing is, I don't think either woman spent very long in the water – a few hours, at most. It's almost as if they were both left near the beach, deliberately, to be found.'

Bruce rubbed his forehead again.

‘Are you still taking that tonic I had made for you?' Kilroy asked. ‘You look as if you could do with a good measure of it right now.'

Bruce opened the drawer of his desk and took out a half-empty brown glass bottle.