Two days later, I’ve heard nothing from Bishop or the two men in the van. I have, however, got the latest on the “plans” for the castle. The information came from Theresa, obviously, who sat at the breakfast bar with her hands around a mug of quality coffee, and delighted in telling me everything she’d heard from one of her clients down at Strontian.
‘Sparing no expense, apparently. Going to be one of those really fancy “alternative medicine” places as well as offering retreats and rejuvenations to the rich and famous. Done it well, don’t you think – keeping it quiet, I mean. All sorted on the planning permission front, which must mean some palms have been greased. You know me, I try to keep my nose out of other people’s business, but I couldn’t help having a bit of a dig about online to see when it all went through with the authorities and there’s next to nothing to be found, which means they probably aren’t going to be advertising their services to the likes of me – much as I’d like to be tightened from the top.
‘Company doing it is A Thasgaidh Ltd. Hope you don’t think me nosy but I had a wee look and they’re registered in Jersey. That’s the Channel Islands, and I only hear their name when it’s to do with something dodgy. The address given is a firm of accountants, but the directors are two women. An Alice McCall and an Ailsa McCall. I tell you, if I had my time over again I’d love to be an investigator. Either way, I’m hoping they need a cleaner…’
I drank it all in, bouncing Lilly on my knee and whispering the “giddy-up” song in her ear while she giggled and pretended she was on an out-of-control horse. Theresa had been delighted to hear about the posh cars I’d seen heading for the castle and even more excited to learn that one of the work vans had taken out the wall.
‘We should go up there, don’t you think? Go and demand payment and say you’ll get the papers involved if they don’t sort it out. In fact, I’ll go. As your representative, like. Give them what for, and maybe have a poke around while I’m up there…’
I declined the offer. Sorting out the wall was low on my priority list. In fact, the only thing that seemed to matter right now was Bishop. He’d pretty much dropped off the face of the planet. It’s not that I’m desperate to win his heart or to get some kind of answer for the cold-shoulder treatment – I’m genuinely worried. He’d wanted to tell me something the last time I saw him and I hadn’t been in the mood for listening. I’ve tried to call him but his phone isn’t connecting, and I sent a Facebook message to the mum of one of Atticus’s school friends, who lives on the same stretch of property as Bishop. She reported back that she didn’t even know the house was occupied, and that she’d never seen anybody matching his description, let alone noticed their absence.
I’ve had the same everywhere I’ve tried. The pubs he’s mentioned, the library, the canoe instructors down at Strontian that he told me he’d got to know pretty well. Nobody had seen him, and the canoe instructors remembered so little about him that I think they were only humouring me when they said they remembered him at all.
So where does it leave me? I mean, he’s a grown man, and he briefly flitted into my life, and now he’s gone again. What do you do in those circumstances, eh? I’ve thought about mentioning it to the community police officer but I can just hear myself trying to explain the situation and I wince when I imagine their face as I outline just how concerned I am that a man has dumped me and moved on.
So I do nothing. I play with Lilly. I look after the guest houses. I check my phone and try to find a way to stop Callum making good on his threats to come and visit the kids. I’m not ready for it. They’re not ready for it. The wound is still too raw; too open. Whatever Lilly says, it’s better for her to be kept away from toxic people.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying half an hour of me time, listening out for the moment when Lilly will wake up and start shouting “booby”, when I hear the first siren. I figure it for an ambulance at first. We hear them a lot. There are always people crashing into the loch or hitting trees, and the tree surgeons have a nasty habit of falling off branches at this time of year. But one siren becomes two, then three, then four, and in a moment I’m at the window, watching a full convoy of white-blue cars careering around the bend; blue lights casting eerie strobing shapes onto the silver-grey water.
Mr Roe is in the kitchen when I turn back towards the room. How the hell had he done that? The door was closed. Locked, even. I hadn’t heard a sound. And now he’s standing, perfectly still, looking at me, his head angled slightly to the right, as if he were a bird who has heard a worm beneath the ground. I feel gooseflesh rise all over my body. I realise how much he unnerves me. I don’t know if it’s his appearance or something more primal than that. He just gives off something that feels, well, wrong. It’s as if he vibrates at a different temperature to any other person I have met.
‘Oh, you scared me,’ I say, beginning to gabble. ‘Was there something wrong? Do you need something? I didn’t hear you come in…’
He doesn’t speak. I fall silent, staring at him the way he stares at me. I consider myself. Jeans, jumper, hair in a great bird’s nest twist. If he’s been beguiled by my appearance then he’s done most of the work in his imagination.
He’s breathing hard, as if he has exerted himself. He’s wearing a battered raincoat over a padded shirt and corduroy trousers, but if he stretched out his arms he’d pass for a scarecrow. He’s a dreadful colour; a shade that makes me think of uncooked chicken. And he seems to have cut his own hair. There are clumps missing; red patches on his scalp, open weeping sores. I thank God the kids are at school, while at the same time wishing, for the first time since I kicked him out, that Callum were here.
‘What is it, Mr Roe?’ I ask, some steel in my voice. ‘I’d rather you didn’t just let yourself in like this – you really did startle me…’
He raises a hand to his mouth. Puts his index finger to his lips.
‘I’m sorry?’ I ask, annoyed. I don’t get shushed. Not in my own bloody kitchen by a guest. Not a bloody chance. ‘You’re shushing me now? I’m not sure this is working out, Mr Roe. I’d rather that…’
He puts a hand in his pocket. Pulls out a mobile phone. Lays it on the table in front of him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, under his breath. ‘Those coppers. All that racket. It’s your friend.’
I narrow my eyes, confused. I feel my heart begin to race. There are jangling bells in my head. ‘My friend? I don’t understand,’ I stammer, and start to move towards him. He picks up the phone. Flips his thumb across the screen and calls up a photograph. With a look akin to apology, he flips the phone and shows me the image.
I recognise the blue mesh of a lobster pot; the black, barnacle-encrusted bars; the orange buoys that dangle down one side. The contraption is set up on a strip of jagged rock; the background half sea, half sand.
Inside, a head, severed at the neck. Dark hair. A mouth hanging open, slack-jawed, tongue protruding like the tail of an eel. The eyes are gone. There is a deep slash to the left cheek, sugar-dusted with sand. And the top lip has been chewed away, revealing the top row of teeth.
Gold teeth…
‘Jesus,’ I say, and it takes an effort of will not to let myself start to shake. I look at Mr Roe uncomprehendingly. ‘How? When…?’
He puts his finger to his lips again. Jerks his head towards the top floor. ‘She sleeping? Little one?’
‘Yes, went down a bit ago,’ I begin, not understanding.
‘Good,’ he says, and puts the phone away. ‘Then you’ve time for a walk.’
I feel the mean little smile twist my lips. ‘A walk? Mr Roe, are you out of your mind? You’re showing me a picture of a head… You expect me to just leave Lilly and come with you for a walk…’
He looks at me with something like regret on his face. Then he reaches into another pocket and pulls out a canister. It’s black, and he has his finger over the nozzle. I recognise it from TV. It’s CS spray.
‘Yes,’ he says, nodding sadly. ‘Yes I do.’