Marnie blundered past the reporters on her way out of the police station. One of them came towards her calling out a question but she didn’t even hear it and the man stepped back with a shrug.
She got into the car and drove away, not going anywhere: just driving, as if physical escape could distance her from mental torment. At the moment her mind felt blank and dead but it was the sort of numbness you felt before the anaesthetic wore off after a tooth extraction. Pain was waiting there on the edge of consciousness, red and raw.
Mother. The word started to spike through the blankness, bringing with it shafts of horror. What sort of woman would kill another child, all but kill her own daughter? What monster had been called up from the deeps by her questioning?
And what was she, herself? Bad blood, that was what they called it, coming down through the generations. At the thought of what had gone into the making of Marnie she was overcome by nausea. Drax, too? Stopping the car with dangerous abruptness she tumbled out and vomited onto the verge, again and again, as if trying to purge herself of the poison of knowledge.
At last, shaking and shivering in the cold, she looked about her. She had no idea where she was; she had presumably been driving on autopilot since she hadn’t hit anything, but now she realised she was only a couple of miles from the Clatteringshaws cottage. With the instinct of a stricken animal she had headed for such home as she had. It would be bleak and cold but there was nowhere else she could think of to go.
Marnie got back into the car and when she reached the loch she slowed down and turned into the car park. It was empty and when she got out she felt as if she might be alone in the world.
It was all very beautiful today, glittering and icy, with the steel-blue sky cloudless overhead and the loch still as a mirror. The scrubby trees along its edge were leafless, the bare black branches like skinny arms with clutching skeletal fingers at the end.
There was a hum of traffic from the road behind her but Marnie didn’t hear it. The silence of the hills that encircled the loch seduced her with the promise of peace; the rippling water sang quietly at her feet.
She had longed to know what lay on the other side of the silence she had lived with for so long. Perhaps this was the only way to find out.
Shelley Crichton was in the conservatory using a leaf-shine spray and a soft cloth to clean the stiff, sharp leaves of the snake plant as tenderly as a mother wiping her child’s face. It was the most soothing occupation she could think of but today it wasn’t working; her nerves were still jangling like fire alarms going off in her head.
Shelley didn’t know what to make of last night’s phone call. The caller was a man, certainly, but she didn’t recognise his voice and he didn’t identify himself. He just gave her the information, then hung up.
How did he know she would want to know? And what else did he know about her – and what might he do with that knowledge? She felt sick at the thought.
Could it be a trap of some kind? If she was wise, she’d ignore it, pretend it had never happened, but she was tempted – so tempted! Anita Loudon’s death had felt like a sort of revenge but it didn’t satisfy her. The hatred, a constant low-burning flame, flared up until she felt consumed by it.
A leaf snapped off in her hand. Horrified, she realised her grip had unconsciously tightened; she bent over the mutilated plant to assess the damage, murmuring, ‘Poor baby, poor baby!’
‘Nick, I’m sorry,’ Fleming said in bewilderment, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Daniel Lee, that’s what I’m talking about.’ DCI Nick Alexander was definitely annoyed. ‘Look, I know your super is anxious about her precious reputation and thinks we’re not getting far enough quickly enough, but if she sends in your lot to trample all over this with hobnailed boots it will screw everything up just as we’re hoping to move in for the kill.
‘I could take this up with a higher authority but I thought a quiet word with you might be the quickest way to choke it off – if the damage hasn’t been done already.’
‘She did ask me, yes,’ Fleming admitted. ‘I told her to leave it in your hands but she made it an order. My plan was to drag my feet as best I could, and then Anita Loudon’s murder gave me the ideal excuse to put it on hold, indefinitely.
‘The reason we were “on your patch” as you put it, is that Daniel Lee was Anita Loudon’s lover and his business associates are at least tangentially involved as well.’
There was an appalled silence at the other end of the phone. Then Alexander said slowly, ‘Puts us in a spot of bother, then. We’ve been watching them for some time but they’re smart and we’ve never caught them with the goods.’
‘The human goods, I take it,’ Fleming said.
‘Yes. Asians mainly, some Chinese. We think there may be a Liverpool-Irish connection. We’re liaising with Lancashire and the Garda but they haven’t had any luck either and we’re trying the Al Capone technique. The tax accounts they file are clean as a whistle – and trust me, we’ve checked. There’s no way we’d get warrants for a fishing expedition but our own experts say there must be a paper trail, so we’ve got HMRC on to calling in each individual company’s records to check them out for discrepancies.’
‘There’s no reason for them to suppose that our enquiries have anything to do with that,’ Fleming argued. ‘We might even happen on the sort of evidence you’re looking for.’
‘Might, perhaps.’ Alexander didn’t sound convinced. ‘But—’
‘Exactly,’ Fleming said, ‘but. Where do we go from here?’
There was a pause, then Alexander said, ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but we’ve had a tip-off about a shipment due in one of Crichton’s container lorries. I want you to lay off any action until I give the nod.’
‘I don’t see how I can, Nick. Murder, remember? The situation’s complicated and I still don’t know if they’re even directly involved, but until we can nail whoever did it, there’s someone very dangerous out there. How can I ignore legitimate lines of enquiry?’
He didn’t back down. ‘We’re talking lives at stake too. Just a few days, that’s all.’
‘Sorry,’ Fleming said.
‘I’m sorry too. I thought we could have done business without involving the big guns. But—’
‘You have to do what you think is best,’ Fleming said stiffly, ‘but so do I.’
Even so, when she had put down the phone she picked it up again. ‘Tam? If you’ve spoken to your friends in Glasgow about going round to check Daniel Lee’s alibi, get hold of them and call it off. The big boys are bullying us and that can wait for the moment.
‘Where are you, anyway?’
‘In Dunmore. I’ve a wee notion to find out who was outside Marnie Bruce’s window that night. Try out the patter on the locals, ken, and see what I can find out.’
‘Have you seen Andy and Louise? I’m wondering how they got on with Mrs Morrison.’
‘They didn’t. She’s done a runner to London.’
‘Has she, indeed. Done a runner – or been sent away?’
‘Like enough. He’s taken her to the Glasgow train so they couldn’t question him either.’
‘Find out when he’ll be back. I want him put over a slow flame before we’re called off.’
‘What’s going on, then?’
‘Need-to-know basis.’ Fleming was amused at the little ‘humph!’ of annoyance that came down the line. ‘If I told you I’d have to kill you afterwards, but you could maybe work it out if you think of our esteemed superintendent’s most recent preoccupation.’
‘Aah.’
The sound of satisfied curiosity. At least Tam was quick on the uptake. ‘Anyway, good luck. I hope the locals are susceptible to your very particular brand of Glasgow charm. Just a word of advice.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Don’t smile too often. It tends to alarm the natives.’
Grant Crichton put his head down on the desk on top of the mountain of papers and groaned. He should have been more systematic; now he had no idea what he’d checked and what he’d hadn’t. His stomach was churning and he felt as if someone had put his brains through a blender.
He’d a good head for figures normally, he kept telling himself. He oversaw everything that came in and went out, so he wouldn’t have put anything in the wrong file. Of course he wouldn’t.
But what if he had? What if he’d missed some small, insignificant entry – or what if one of the others had? It had run so smoothly for so many years, perhaps they’d got careless. Perhaps he had, even.
Now it was as if a whirlwind had struck. He was being assaulted from all directions at once and his life was spinning out of control. He couldn’t believe what he had done, what he had become.
Even if the records were as clean as he believed them to be, it wasn’t the worst of his problems. He might have seen off the sergeant who had come asking questions, but he wasn’t kidding himself that he would be the last.
It wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair. All right, what he’d done was wrong, but he could justify it. Most of it. He didn’t want to think about the rest.
He sat up and went back to his papers, rubbing his eyes as if that would clear his brain. The knock on the door was an unwelcome interruption.
‘Your lunch is ready,’ Denise said.
‘Lunch? Oh, I’m not hungry.’
Instead of retreating, Denise came further into the room. She held out something – one of the endless holiday brochures she was always looking at.
‘I really need you to decide about this now. If we’re going to do that Caribbean cruise we talked about, we have to book today. There’s only one superior cabin left and—’
‘Cruise!’ he roared. ‘You must be mad!’ He gestured at the laden desk. ‘If I can’t get this straight, there will be no more cruises, ever, or anything else! Get that into your dim little brain.’
Denise didn’t reply. She turned and walked out and he turned to the accounts again. It had relieved the tension to have a legitimate reason to explode and his mind seemed clearer. He hadn’t noticed the mutinous expression on Denise’s face, or the look of loathing she gave him as she went out.
The relief was short-lived. Just as she shut the door, his mobile rang and when he picked it up Drax’s name was in the caller ID box. He looked at it with a mixture of fear and loathing and his stomach started to churn again.
The Cottage Bar, Dunmore’s only pub, where the detectives had arranged to meet at lunchtime, wasn’t enticing. It wasn’t a cottage either; it was a seventies single-storey building with metal-framed windows and an interior that suggested its designer’s brief had been to eradicate any vestige of character. If so, it was a succès fou, Hepburn suggested.
Getting the gist if not a precise translation, MacNee nodded. ‘You’re not wrong there,’ he said gloomily. He’d never enjoyed a pub lunch the same since having a pint with your pie, or even a half, became a mortal sin. And if his nose wasn’t deceiving him, there wasn’t going to be the pie either.
‘Just sandwiches. Ham, cheese, ham and cheese, cheese and pickle.’ Hepburn brought over the drinks on a tray and put a glass of a livid orange liquid in front of MacNee, wrinkling her nose. ‘Irn-Bru. And a Coke. I don’t know how you two can drink that sickly stuff.’ She set down her own lime and soda.
‘Oh, very French, very sophisticated,’ Macdonald sneered.
‘I’m meant to apologise?’
MacNee looked at them with some irritation. Sophisticated? The pair of them hadn’t got out of the playground. ‘Anyway, orders,’ he said. ‘Would they rise to cheese, ham and pickle, do you reckon?’
‘A bridge too far, would be my guess. The girl who served me looks as if remembering two ingredients at the same time will stretch her, but I’ll try.’
When she returned, Macdonald and MacNee were discussing the sad situation of Rangers FC – at least Macdonald was talking about it while MacNee sat silent in a grief too deep for words.
‘It’s finished.’ Macdonald, a Hearts man himself, spoke with ill-disguised satisfaction. ‘By next season – no more Rangers. You’ll have to support a decent club after that, Tam.’ Then, seeing MacNee’s expression added hastily, ‘Just a wee joke.’
It was no joking matter. When it came to the Rangers’ plight MacNee felt, to quote Bill Shankly, that it wasn’t a matter of life and death, it was more important than that, a subject only to be treated with reverence. He greeted Hepburn’s return with surprising enthusiasm, given that she was saying cheese, ham and pickle wasn’t on the menu.
‘Did Marnie Bruce turn up today?’ Hepburn asked.
‘Couldn’t tell you,’ MacNee said. ‘I came straight down here after the interview with Daniel Lee.’
‘Anything useful?’
‘What happened?’ Macdonald and Hepburn spoke simultaneously.
MacNee pulled a face. ‘Claims he’s got an alibi for Wednesday night. We’ll have to test it sometime – don’t trust him an inch.’
‘Manipulative,’ Hepburn said. The two men looked at her quizzically.
‘His schtick is to draw you in, get you to see things with his eyes. He focused on me because I guess women tend to fall for that sort of humorous charm – you know how they always say the most important thing about a man is having a GSOH. Much more important than, say, previous for GBH.’
‘Right enough,’ MacNee said. ‘He tried it on with the boss too but he didn’t get very far.’
Macdonald gave a crack of laughter. ‘He’s a brave man! Did Big Marge tell him she’d have his guts for garters?’
Hepburn looked at him coldly. ‘I know you all say that’s her catchphrase but I’ve never heard her use it.’
‘Used to,’ MacNee said. ‘But she’s not daft – she found out what you were saying behind her back. She always does.
‘Anyway – this afternoon. We’ve to see Morrison as a priority, and—’
Macdonald’s mobile rang. He took the call, raising his eyebrows as he realised who was at the other end. ‘There’s an incident room at the village hall in Dunmore,’ he said, then, ‘No, fair enough. Right, I’ll be there. Two-thirty.’
He put the phone back in his pocket. ‘I have an assignation with a lady in a tea shop. She doesn’t want to see me at home and she feels the village hall would be too public. Denise Crichton has something to tell me and if it’s not about the alibi she gave her husband you can get me lime and soda the next time you’re in the chair.’
Michael Morrison arrived back in his office just after lunch. Vivienne was safely on the way to London, which was one less thing to worry about and though he was, as instructed, checking the Morrison Construction records for discrepancies they were in good order and he was confident that he wouldn’t find any. His major worry was Grant, who might have a good enough business brain but otherwise needed to have everything explained to him very slowly and clearly, preferably with pictures. He had a tendency to panic, too. That worried him. He and Drax were both on edge about Grant.
He’d no worries about Drax. Drax was a genius, in his way; he’d spotted that when the smart, cocky lad had applied for a job all those years ago and had made himself indispensable in record time. The success of the consortium was largely down to him and though he drove a hard bargain he deserved the rewards in money and in status within the group.
In the current mess, it was Drax who was making the running. He’d cancelled the consignment as being too risky, so they’d have a breathing space to get everything sorted out. He trusted him, and his belief that they would come through all this provided they all held firm was contagious. Most of the time.
He’d better phone Gemma, tell her he was back and see how she was getting on. She was a good girl, his Gemma, and she hadn’t deserved the little sod who had done his best to ruin her life – though without him, of course, there would have been no Mikey. An intolerable thought!
Gemma was worried. ‘The police came this morning, Dad, and they said we were to tell Mum to come back immediately for questioning. I said she wasn’t fit for it and that she needed a break, so I certainly wouldn’t tell her. They were a bit snarky – will I get into trouble?’
‘No, love, of course you won’t,’ Morrison said soothingly. ‘If they come back I’ll speak to them. She hasn’t anything useful to tell them and it wouldn’t look good for them to go hounding her over nothing at all. Just leave it to me and put it out of your mind.
‘How’s Mikey today?’
‘Had a great time at playgroup. He’s done a picture for you – says it’s of you but I can’t say I think you’ll be flattered.’
He chuckled. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing it.’ Then a thought struck him. ‘Is Ameena in today?’
‘No, I think she must still have flu. I’m being your domestic slave instead.’
‘That’s the way it should be. I like a daughter who knows her place. See you tonight.’
He set down the phone, then, with a sudden thought, picked it up again. ‘Morrison here. Gather Ameena has flu. I think she may take a while to recover. We won’t be expecting her back for the time being. Clear? Right.’
He had just rung off when his secretary buzzed through to say that the police were there, wanting to speak to him.
Denise Crichton was obviously nervous. Macdonald had arrived first and he saw her checking up and down the street before she came into the little self-service café. She had chosen it, he guessed, as somewhere that neither she – nor, perhaps more importantly, her friends – regularly frequented.
He had a mug of coffee in front of him, though after he got it he had wondered if he should have chosen tea. However, the look of the mug of orange tea that Denise brought when she slid along the red vinyl banquette to join him in the booth didn’t look any better.
There was a bowl of sugar packets in the centre of the table. He offered it to her but she shook her head, though as she started talking she took one out and began to fiddle with it.
‘I need to ask you something,’ she said. ‘Will you give me a straight answer?’
‘If I can, but I’m not promising.’
‘Is my husband’s business under investigation for something?’
He remembered Crichton’s chaotic desk. ‘I’m afraid I genuinely haven’t any idea.’
She considered that, took a sip of the orange tea and shuddered. ‘The thing is,’ she said carefully, ‘I’m afraid something’s not right. I’m afraid there’s going to be real trouble and I don’t want to be dragged into it.’
‘Are you involved in the business, then?’
‘Oh no, not at all. I’m just a housewife. Grant’s been very successful and my job is to make it easy for him to go on being successful.’
The look in her eyes suggested that this was in itself a business agreement; not only that, but it was one that would be terminated with extreme prejudice should the goods not be delivered.
‘But you still seem to be worried that you might in some way be drawn into any problems?’
Denise had managed to tear one side of the sugar packet and a little pile of white crystals spilt onto the table. She scooped it automatically into a neat pile and into her hand, then looked at it helplessly.
‘Here,’ Macdonald said pushing forward his mug, ‘tip it in here. I’m not going to drink it, anyway.
‘Look, Mrs Crichton, unless you tell me what your problem is, I can’t help you.’
‘It’s a big decision.’ She picked up another sugar packet. ‘I could just be getting myself in deeper. But … if I tell you something, will you keep it confidential?’
Macdonald sighed. ‘This is a murder inquiry. If you mean, will I go straight and tell your husband that you’ve changed your mind about backing up his alibi—’
Denise gasped. ‘How … how did you know?’
‘Because you were very obviously lying when you did.’
Her face crimsoned. ‘He insisted,’ she cried. ‘I didn’t want to lie to you! I’ve never been in trouble with the police in my life before.’
‘Given that you’ve contacted me, and that you’re now going to tell me what really happened, you’re not in trouble with the police now. And we won’t tell your husband unless the situation demands it.’
Macdonald could see calculation in Denise’s face: by that stage, would she have nothing to lose?
‘My conscience was bothering me,’ she said piously. ‘I just kept thinking of that poor woman, and where her body had been put. Of course, I’m sure Grant had nothing to do with it really, but I just wanted to do anything I could to help.’
Up to and including tying a slip knot for a noose round his neck, Macdonald thought sardonically, but he only said, ‘Of course,’ with a grave inclination of the head.
So out it all came. Grant Crichton, she said, had definitely gone out during the evening. ‘Then he bullied me into telling you he hadn’t. And so I lied to you. I’m sorry – I didn’t want to, truly.’ She put on a little girl, penitent face.
Revolted, Macdonald had to struggle to sound warm and reassuring. ‘That’s all right. I’ll just make notes now for a brief statement that I’ll bring back and ask you to sign once I’ve written it up. We won’t mention your previous evidence, I promise.’
Michael Morrison greeted the officers without enthusiasm and got his retaliation in first. ‘I gather you were speaking to my daughter this morning. She phoned me in some distress about being pressured to tell her mother to return for questioning.’
DS MacNee glanced at DC Hepburn, who said calmly, ‘Yes, as my colleague said at the time, we need to talk to her as a matter of priority. She spent the day with Anita Loudon and may have information that could shed some light on what happened later.’
‘My wife told me all that Anita had said that day – poured it out, really, in her distress at the news. I can assure you there was nothing beyond the ordering of new stock and discussion of the latest fashion news – oh, and one client’s determined effort to get into a size 14 when in the ladies’ opinion a 16 would have been on the small side. I am now also fully au fait with the trends for the winter season, should you want to know.’
He smiled, but neither of the officers did. MacNee said, ‘We’re needing to speak to Mrs Morrison direct. She maybe heard something that didn’t seem important so she wouldn’t think of passing it on to you. Where is she staying?’
Morrison’s lips tightened. ‘I’m not going to have you bullying her. This is a question of her health and if you’re going to persist I’ll get her doctor to spell it out for you. She’s not a suspect—’
‘You’re all suspects, till we’ve got evidence to the contrary,’ MacNee said bluntly.
Morrison bridled. ‘In that case, I’m happy to tell you that you can take her name off the list. My daughter and I can both vouch for the fact that my wife was at home all evening. Since I slept beside her I can definitely state that she didn’t go anywhere in the middle of the night.’
‘If we could speak to your wife for corroboration, maybe we could take you off the list as well,’ Hepburn said chippily.
‘I’m sure she’ll be feeling less stressed in a couple of days.’ Morrison didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Now, if there’s nothing more, I’m a busy man—’
‘Did she take sleeping pills?’
He gave Hepburn a look of intense dislike. ‘Occasionally. Very mild ones, when she’s stressed, and as far as I can recall that wasn’t one of the occasions. All right?’
As they got back in the car, MacNee said ruefully, ‘Wasn’t much of a grilling, was it? He’d stated already he barely knew Anita Loudon and there’s nothing to suggest he did. He says he and his wife can alibi each other, which is probably true. Can’t see where we can go from here.’
‘At the moment,’ Hepburn insisted. ‘I don’t like him – far too smooth.’
‘You don’t like Daniel Lee either,’ MacNee pointed out. ‘And I can tell you Shelley Crichton’s no bundle of joy. Doesn’t prove any of them did it.’
Hepburn conceded the point. ‘So where now, Sarge?’
‘Just a wee chat with a pal of mine. Won’t take long.’
Janette Ritchie welcomed them warmly, beaming when MacNee said he’d just come to see if she was all right, ignoring Hepburn’s cynical look as they followed her in.
‘That’s really nice of you, Sergeant. Och, I’m fine. Just such an awful shock, you know?’
‘Of course,’ MacNee said sympathetically. ‘You’ll have been needing to comfort poor Mrs Crichton, too.’
A cloud crossed Janette’s face. ‘She’s been a bit funny,’ she said slowly. ‘Probably just shock too, of course. But she’s not wanted me to go round, and to tell the truth, she’s … well, she’s not been very sympathetic about poor Anita.’
MacNee hoped that she couldn’t see his ears pricking up. ‘Still upset about the business with the girl?’
‘Shelley thought she’d brought Kirstie’s daughter to make fun of her, I suppose. Whether she was right or not …’ Janette sighed. ‘I told her it wasn’t, but mind you, the lassie was the dead spit of Kirstie.’
‘Other people must have thought so too. That nasty business in Kirkluce …’ He shook his head.
‘Oh, that would be that Lorna Baxter, I’ve no doubt – her and her nasty friends. It’s got her mucky fingerprints all over it. She’s just a disgrace to Dunmore, that’s what she is.’ Janette’s cheeks flared with annoyance. ‘She got in trouble with the law for that kind of thing at the time when it all happened. She won’t admit to it, but you just send one of your chaps in uniform round to give her a scare and you’ll see, it’ll not happen again.’
‘We’ll maybe do just that,’ MacNee said and got up. ‘I’m glad to see you’re doing all right, anyway.’
‘That was real good of you to come in like that,’ Janette said as she showed them out. ‘It says a lot for the police force.’
As they went down the path, Hepburn said, ‘I hope you feel ashamed of yourself, snowing that nice old lady.’
MacNee grinned. ‘I’m long past that. Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose.’
DI Fleming gave a final glance at her emails then stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. There wasn’t a lot more she could do today.
The endless routine of statements and interviews was ongoing, but no clear line was as yet emerging and all she had been able to say to the unimpressed media was the standard ‘lines of enquiry’ guff. She was pinning her hopes on the forensic tests, and the labs certainly wouldn’t be working over the weekend.
Now she’d better make the call to MacNee.
‘Tam, I just wanted to warn you. You’re on duty tomorrow, aren’t you? I should be but I’m going AWOL. OK, it’s a murder inquiry but it’s becalmed at the moment. Cammie’s playing his first game in a Scotland jersey and I’m not missing that.’
She smiled at his congratulations. ‘Thanks, I’ll pass it on. I haven’t told the super, so will you cover for me? I won’t have my mobile on till after the game’s over.’
MacNee reassured her that he had it in hand.
‘Oh, just one other thing, while I remember. Anita Loudon’s lawyer said he was going to send over her will and some letter that she left for Marnie. I don’t suppose lawyers work over the weekend so I guess it will be Monday before we see it. Can you contact Marnie and make sure that she’s here then to open it? I’ll see her myself. It’ll need a light touch – it may be a very emotional situation again.
‘All right, Tam? Thanks very much.’
It was the darkness and the cold that drove Marnie back to the cottage in the late afternoon. Perhaps the cold had done her a favour; when it came to the point of walking into the loch the icy water looked so forbidding that her courage had failed her. Perhaps. She wasn’t sure.
Instead, she had walked, walked and walked, stumbling sometimes on the stony paths, blind to everything except her own thoughts and the endless images of her childhood that bludgeoned her. She cried at some of them: tears of anger that her mother seemed to have been so unloving, tears of pity for the sad child she had been. And eventually, tears of pity for her mother too. She had suffered more in her childhood than Marnie ever had and perhaps it had warped her into being unable to love her daughter.
There was nothing more she could do to find out whether her mother was alive or dead. As she got back to the cottage by the loch, her teeth chattering now and her breath a frozen cloud in front of her face, Marnie admitted defeat.
Tomorrow she would try to strike a deal with the police that would allow her to go back to London and put all this behind her. Just one more night to get through, that was all.
She didn’t know what had wakened her. For once Marnie had fallen asleep quickly and slept soundly. Then suddenly, she was wide awake.
She sat up with a formless anxiety, looking and listening. Had she heard a car stopping outside the cottage – and was that a car door being shut, very, very quietly? With her heart racing she got out of bed, thrust her feet into her shoes and shrugged on her discarded jacket against the cold.
She opened the door to the hall. The front of the house was lit up, by the headlights, presumably. Who—?
Marnie wasn’t going to wait to find out. She tiptoed through to the kitchen, leaving the door open so that she could see to find her handbag and the key. It grated in the lock as she turned it, wincing at the sound. As she opened the door, she could smell a heavy, sickly stench on the bitter air. Petrol!
She flung herself out of the house, her clenched knuckle in her mouth to stifle a scream of terror. There was a path down to the loch here at the back – where was it? Where was it?
In the light from the headlights she spotted the gap in the trees. The sagging wire of the boundary fence tripped her and sent her sprawling; she scrambled up, knees bruised and her breath rasping in her throat.
The path was overgrown and brambles snatched at her clothes as she fled, unnoticing, down it. She could see the shimmer of the water ahead but it was all she could see; behind her it was so dark, so dark – someone might already have heard her escape and be following stealthily behind.
Marnie had just reached the shore path when the whole world blew up. She couldn’t stifle the scream this time, but it was covered by the noise of the explosion and the roar of a fire.
Staring back through the trees, Marnie could see that where the cottage had stood with its old, dried-out wooden structure, there was nothing except a fireball of red, orange and yellow flames.