‘Listen,’ Iain said, ‘Sandy Murdoch …’ He went quiet for a moment as if trying to work out how to explain. ‘She’s great … I’ve nothing against her, you understand, not a thing. But she’s just maybe … a wee bit strange.’ ‘I’d never say anything bad about her, she’s a good woman, a decent woman, ready to help anyone and she’s fitted in, which isn’t easy. She’s not pushed herself but she’s – aye, fitted in. And yet …’ He was anxious to defend Sandy, that was clear, but against whom? What had people said? Which people?
Simon pushed his glass over for a second pint. ‘Where did she come from?’
Iain shrugged.
‘Some said Glasgow,’ Tommy McDermid muttered into his whisky. ‘Some said London. Some will say anything when they ken nothing. She’s never told – not to my knowledge. She just arrived one March – what, three years back? Has to be. She’d rented out that house from an advert. Didn’t bring much stuff of her own. Couple of packing cases came over.’
‘Has she disappeared before?’
‘That’s a strong way of saying she just hasn’t been around for a day or so,’ Iain said.
‘What would you call it then?’
‘She wouldn’t have to tell everyone her business, that’s all. She’s been away a couple of times but there could have been others and why not?’
‘You’re a cop. You can’t help it.’
‘Once she said she was away to a funeral in Greenock.’
‘She did.’ Iain turned to serve the postman, in for a pint at the end of his round.
‘Gordon – you haven’t seen anything of Sandy?’ Simon asked.
‘Took a letter and her magazine up there this morning. She wasn’t in. No surprise. She goes walking along the shore for miles, she goes over the hill … I see Sandy all over the island.’
‘But she always goes back home.’
‘I wouldnae know what she does.’
‘Was her jeep there?’
‘It was.’
Serrailler got up. There was only one way Sandy could have left the island and returned to it.
It was an hour before the next ferry left and there was no one on board except Alec, checking things in the cabin.
‘You going over? Like a fish pond today.’
‘I’m not. I’m looking for Sandy.’
‘Ah, I saw her what, last Sunday? She was just there, where you’re standing, watching.’
‘Watching.’
‘We’d a full boat – quite a few for the field centre, quite a few walkers. You know how it is, fine weather. I thought Sandy was maybe waiting for someone, had a visitor, but she just watched the last off and she was away.’
‘Has she been over this week?’
‘Not with me. Donald was on Monday and Tuesday, with John. I know it was pretty slack. You could ask him.’
‘I will.’
‘She in trouble then?’
‘I hope not but her jeep’s parked outside and the house is empty. No one’s seen her, she wasn’t at the ceilidh.’
‘Och, don’t worry about Sandy, she’s done this before – she holes up by herself somewhere, over the other side. Maybe she watches for the birds, maybe she just likes to live in a cave for a wee while. Wouldn’t suit me.’
‘A cave?’
‘Under the cliff – bit wild out there but it’s all right until maybe end of October … you wouldn’t want to be on your own after that. Nothing much frightens Sandy, but even so.’
Sam drove. He was competent and pretty safe, Simon thought, though still a bit driving-school correct, and he had too tight a grip on the wheel. He’d learn and this sort of trip across the island was invaluable. He had to think fast, read the track ahead. The 4x4 was rock solid but there had been rain, and as they descended on the far side, the road turned to mud. They saw no one, though the minibus was outside the field centre and there were bikes against the wall.
After that, there were no more houses, just some of the old, tumbledown stone crofts and sheep sheds, open to the elements, and an ancient rusting barn. The stunted trees were bent by the prevailing wind.
‘No one’s been along here recently,’ Simon said.
‘No tyre tracks?’
‘No wheel marks on the side where there’s been pulling in to pass.’
‘So she comes and lives like a Bronze Age cave-dweller. Or a hermit. Maybe she’s religious. Anchorites – is it?’
They were almost on the headland. The sea was navy blue and swollen to a boil, churning about within itself. When they got out, the air was heavy but still. Simon pointed to the mouth of a path that led downwards and they set off, sweeping left, then straight, then left again. It was steep and they had to slither and take hold of tussocks of rough grass here and there to save themselves.
‘Don’t rush,’ Simon said, ‘steady … one step at a time.’
‘No one’s been down here. It’s not been disturbed at all.’
It took a while to reach first the rocky outcrop and then the beach. They looked up. ‘There might be another way back,’ Sam said.
‘Hmm.’ Simon was walking in the lee of the cliff. Sam followed. The tide was out. There were no other footsteps or disturbances in the sand.
There were two caves, a shallow one which they came to first, and which had large weed-covered rocks almost covering the entrance. Simon shook his head. The second was under the steepest area of cliff, and had a sandy entrance. The light showed them the way in for a few yards and then Sam switched on the torch.
‘Jesus, the last time I had to investigate a cave …’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. But it wasn’t good. This doesn’t actually go very far back.’
The walls of rock were gleaming with water, and vivid green weed. And there were no signs that anybody or anything had been here except the tides, ebbing and flowing.
‘Nothing.’
‘She hasn’t been here. And honestly, I wonder if she ever has. You can’t see anything, and the tide fills it right up, likely as not. Alec was wrong.’
Sam was in charge of supper that night. Simon stacked logs. It was colder. The cave haunted him, the smell of the wet rock, the seaweed, the sand. The echo. It made him feel unsettled. Uneasy. But he was sure of the reason and he tried not to dwell on his memory of those other caves, set far back into the North Yorkshire cliffs. The stone ledges which the strong torch beams had picked up. The small still figures.
He did not think Sandy had spent any time in the caves here. Why would she? She liked walking, liked climbing over the top and looking out to sea, blown about by the wind. Or going along the beach, peering down to see what the tides might have brought in. Sandy was not a person to hide herself away under the cliffs. He had no reason to be so sure of it but he was sure and he had always followed his hunches, his gut feelings, as a cop and in the rest of his life. He wouldn’t change now.
‘Any idea how long you’re staying?’
Sam gave him a long look. Simon helped himself to the last of the spaghetti Bolognese.
‘Maybe another few days?’
‘Sure. Then what?’
Sam shrugged. And then he was silent for several minutes, cutting bread, getting out a fresh pack of butter. Simon finished eating. He had lit the fire and it was crackling nicely, not yet giving off much heat. But it wouldn’t take long. They would need to have the lamps on soon.
Who does he remind me of? Not his mother. His father then? Yes. Chris had been quiet, thoughtful, occasionally explosive. Clear-minded. Stubborn. Rarely changing his mind. A bit of his father then. Who else?
Simon smiled to himself. Yes, he thought. Like me in some ways. Some of the time.
‘Thing is,’ Sam said now, ‘it’s not that easy to get my head round stuff at home. I think Mum sees me as the same age as Felix still and she asks about everything … oh, you know. I’m just trying to get it all clear.’
‘Sure. Kick me if I start probing.’
‘You won’t. You don’t.’
‘Thanks. But if you do want to run something past me, you can.’
‘I know that. I don’t remember Granny too well now. Was she like that?’
‘She was like a mother, if that’s what you mean. But no – there were three of us, remember, all the same age. She didn’t have time, and she went back to work at the hospital when we were a year old. She was an achiever, our mother. She believed in letting us get on with it, so we did.’
‘Was Grandpa the same?’
‘Oh God yes. More so. But he was different. He let us think we could do what we wanted and then when we did, he kicked off.’
‘He’s never like that to me.’
‘No. He isn’t. I suppose people aren’t so tough on grandchildren.’
‘I might go and see him actually.’
‘What, in France?’
‘Why not?’
‘Not sure he’d be all that happy if you just turned up.’
‘Why?’
Too many ‘whys’, Simon thought. Like a much younger boy. Robbie. Yes. Because Richard wouldn’t be happy if Sam did? Because I would never do that? Because … All he had was a hunch, but where his father was concerned, hunches had never been reliable.
‘If you want to go I’d email him first – check it out.’
Sam did not reply, just got up and started to clear the table.
Simon went to the back door. The sky was clear and thick with stars. There was no light pollution up here. Any cloudless night was a starry one. It never failed to please him and make him feel an odd sense of rightness. Belonging. No, he didn’t belong here. He never would. He could come as often as he liked, it would make no difference.
How had Sandy appeared from nowhere and become part of the island so quickly? She might have lived here all her life. What had Sandy done, or not done, to be so accepted, and how?
It was as still a night as ever it would be. There was always the slight stirring of the grass, the movement of the air; the wind never lay down and slept.
He went out to shut the side gate. If it blew up from nowhere the gate would slam hard, and go on slamming.
When he returned to the house, Sam had gone upstairs.