FERGUS GRIGOR KISSED his wife gently on the cheek. He stared down at her as she lay asleep in their narrow double bed. She stirred and turned to look at him.
‘You’re awake early,’ she murmured, stroking his cheek.
‘Morning. I’m going for a run, I can’t sleep.’
‘You’re mad,’ she said, with an exaggerated yawn and a stretch.
‘You love me for it. It’s why you married me.’
‘No, I married you for your huge wallet and athletic physique. Make sure you bring me coffee when you get back. Where’re you going?’
‘Just around the headland. It’s looking like a beautiful day. Honeymoon weather,’ he said, stroking her long auburn hair.
‘Aye well, it’s honeymoon weather every day in the Maldives, but your daft bloody job put paid to that, eh?’ she said without resentment, referring to the holiday that they’d cancelled because of his overrunning trial. So instead of two weeks in the Indian Ocean, they’d had a long weekend in a lighthouse keeper’s cottage at Dunnet Head.
‘We’ll do it soon, Mrs Grigor. I promise.’ Fergus leaned forward and kissed his new wife once more.
‘Yeah, whatever, counsel,’ she said, burying herself in the duvet again and closing her eyes, a trace of a smile on her face.
Fergus chuckled, stood up and left the room, pulling his running vest over his head. He quickly put his well-worn trainers on and let himself out of the small, whitewashed cottage right next to the lighthouse at Dunnet Head. The most northerly part of the United Kingdom.
The wind whipped in from the Pentland Firth as he broke into a jog along the path and out into the empty car park. It was normally busy with tourists, but the season was drawing to a close, and it was still early. Very early.
Fergus marvelled at the starkly beautiful sweeping expanse of open landscape that stretched inland for what seemed like a hundred miles; stark, bleak, and almost devoid of trees. There wasn’t much that could withstand the battering of the almost constant wind. To his right, lay a vast sheet of cobalt-blue sea that glittered all the way to the horizon. It was, as always, uncompromisingly beautiful, particularly on a morning like today.
The sun rose in the east, beginning to chase away the early chill. He was thankful for the brisk wind blowing in from the Firth, keeping the bloody midges away. Had it been still they’d have chased him along the path, thirsty for a morning drink.
He breathed deeply, tasting the ozone tang of the sea, and a wave of satisfaction swept over him. He picked up his pace as he hit the coastal track, leaning into the roaring wind. He continued along the path beside a stone wall that separated him from the hundred-metre drop to the rocks below. As he rounded the bend, he got a view of the grey, jagged cliff plummeting down to the crashing waves.
A faint noise carried in the wind as he jogged, and he slowed his pace a touch. There it was again, a faint cry that fought to be audible against the rush of the wind. His brow furrowed. Surely there was nobody about at this early hour? He’d seen no campers, and the other cottage was empty. Was it an animal?
There it was again. Definitely a cry, or a wail, coming from the direction of the bird species information board that was set against the wall. He stopped and listened, his breath even and controlled.
Suddenly, he jumped, startled, as a throaty wail erupted. It seemed to be just the other side of the wall. He climbed up the rough stonework and looked over at the few metres of scrubby grass that led to the cliff edge.
His heart began to pound.
A pair of bright white sneakers, an empty bottle and a rucksack sat on the grass in between the wall and the edge of the cliff.
He swallowed and reached into his pocket to locate his phone. He looked at the screen, but saw the familiar icon indicating no signal.
He jumped over the wall, landing two-footed on the tussocky grass. The wind buffeted his vest against his body and tousled his curly hair, as he cautiously approached the sneakers and bag. His heart seemed to be trying to beat its way up and out of his throat. He squatted and picked up the empty bottle to look at the label. Grant’s whisky. He glanced towards the edge, considering his next move. Dare he risk a peep over? If anyone had jumped, there’d be no saving them. He’d have to go back to the cottage to get a wi-fi signal to alert the authorities. He took a step closer to the sheer drop. Before he could understand what was happening, he was hit by a massive impact that smashed into his back and tore his breath from him in a whoosh. It felt as though he’d been struck hard with a baseball bat, or even a fucking lorry. His body exploded with pain and he dropped, face first, hitting the rough grass like a felled tree. The morning sun began to fade, until there was only an inky wall of impenetrable blackness.