34

Rebecca huddled under her umbrella against the rear wall of the church. The mourners who had defied the weather to say goodbye to Mary Drummond stood around the grave at the far corner of the graveyard. It was quite a turnout and indicative of how well regarded the woman was that even the glowering clouds and darting rain couldn’t keep people away. There was a forest of umbrellas, mostly black, like dark mushrooms sprouting in the dampness.

Roddie, dressed in a long black coat, stood with his father and his sister Shona, who Rebecca recognised from the harbour the day she arrived. At her side was a man she assumed was her husband and a girl of about eight or nine years. The child was the spitting image of her mother, Rebecca noted. There was a slight gap around this family grouping, just as there had been around Campbell at the public meeting, but Rebecca couldn’t say whether it was through respect or the toxicity that seemed to cling to Roddie. Shona and her daughter sheltered under a single umbrella held by her husband, while Roddie had one to himself. Their father spurned any kind of shelter: Campbell was stiff and erect as he stared at the coffin that had been lowered into the grave, his hands clasped in front of his black woollen coat as if he was praying. Shona was crying and her brother had surreptitiously reached out with one hand and clasped hers to offer comfort.

Fiona McRae had made it back to the island and was standing at the head of the grave, solemnly reading the poem by Henry Scott Holland, ‘Death Is Nothing At All’. The lines told them that Mary had only slipped away into the next room. The Reverend may have believed that but Rebecca didn’t. There was no next room. There was only this room, this world, and what people left behind.

Rebecca now fully remembered seeing the minister at her father’s funeral, when she and her mother had been standing at the door of the crematorium while people walked by, shook their hands, mouthed condolences. It’s a curious form of torture for all concerned, the post-funeral line-up. Friends, relatives of her mother but none from her father’s side, police colleagues, neighbours, even a couple of crooks her father had arrested, had all walked that line, their faces solemn, their voices hushed as if they were fearful they would waken the dead. But the dead were beyond being disturbed. Their flesh was but ashes, their bones ground up, poured into an urn to be presented to the grieving. What had once been living and breathing was dust; what made them what they were was gone. There was no next room. There was no great beyond. There was only an eternity of nothing. Those who had gone lived only in memory and that was fleeting and faulty.

Fiona McRae had been one of the people who solemnly walked the line to Rebecca and her mother. A shake of the hand, a sorry for your loss, then she was gone. Watching her now as she intoned the words of the poem, Rebecca promised herself she would talk to her that day. She had questions about her father and she had to have answers. There had been too many looks that were like half-finished sentences. She felt sure the minister would have the answers she needed.

She saw Bill Sawyer and Lord Henry Stuart in the crowd, a few other faces that had become familiar during her stay, including the woman she’d met on this very spot. Was it only two days ago?

Dr Wymark wasn’t there; he had duties at the hospital, where she’d heard Donnie had taken a turn for the worse. Terry Wymark was there, though, looking stunning in black, as she stood beside her son. No Alan, though. He’d told Rebecca that he detested funerals. She couldn’t blame him.

The clang of the gate at the bottom of the steep path reached her ears. A latecomer, she thought, but whoever it was had missed it all. The funeral party was breaking up, the mourners drifting away from the grave. Even Roddie and his sister’s family were edging back. Only Campbell remained. He was drenched. Rebecca could see that even from this distance. He was in the same position, head bowed, hands clasped, a few feet and an eternity away from his wife. Did he buy the whole next room thing, she wondered?

A cry of alarm made her look to her right. Carl Marsh was striding towards the mourners, his boots splashing in the rainwater gathering in the gravel, his thick woollen jumper and his bare head soaking wet, the shotgun in his hands held at waist height. His attention was fixed on Roddie Drummond. He marched across the grass and the paths and the graves, coming to a halt within six feet of his target and raising the weapon to shoulder level.

‘Drummond, you wife-stealing bastard!’ he screamed.

Roddie saw him then, his face liquid with fear. His body steeled itself to flee but he had nowhere to run. To his credit he pushed Shona aside, just as her husband snatched the child out of the line of fire. Campbell snapped out of his reverie and looked up, his eyes at first dreamy but then solidifying into something more of this world when he saw Marsh and the weapon.

Bill Sawyer was the first to move, edging forward, his hand out. ‘Carl, put the gun down . . .’

‘You go to hell,’ said Marsh without looking at him.

Sawyer took another step and Marsh swung the barrels of the shotgun in his direction.

‘Take another step and I’ll send you to hell myself. I mean it.’

‘Carl!’ snapped Henry. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

Marsh’s eyes flicked towards his employer, then he jerked the weapon back in Roddie’s direction. ‘All due respect, your lordship, but this is none of your concern. This is between me and this murdering bastard. I should’ve done this years ago.’

A handful of mourners ran for the gate, their panicked voices floating among the raindrops. Suddenly, the downpour was thunderous, drilling at the ground and the people on it, but those who remained were oblivious. All eyes were fixed on the drama in front of them.

Henry took a step closer. ‘Carl, I don’t know what’s happened but—’

‘I’ll tell you.’ Marsh cut him off. ‘He’s not back a day and he’s had my wife, my Deirdre, in his bed. That’s what’s happened. She was seen, yesterday, at his cottage. Not even back a day. Not even a single bloody day!’

Sawyer and Henry both looked at Roddie, but all he could do was shake his head. It was left to Campbell to answer. ‘That’s not true, Carl . . .’

Marsh sneered. ‘You would say that, he’s your son. What is it they say on the island? Family is family and everything else is just everything else. That right? You all do it, all you bloody islanders. Stick together. Protect each other. Lie for each other.’

Roddie finally found his voice. ‘Deirdre came to see me, I won’t deny that. But nothing happened. We just talked, that’s all. Just talked.’

‘You expect me to believe that? After what happened before, between you and her? I started a job back then, when I battered lumps out of you . . .’ Marsh steadied the stock of the shotgun against his shoulder, lowered his eye along the barrel. ‘Today I’ll finish it.’

Campbell stepped in front of his son. ‘You’ll need to kill me first, Carl.’

‘Get out of the way!’

Campbell didn’t move.

‘For God’s sake, Carl,’ said Lord Henry. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’

Marsh kept the shotgun trained on the Drummonds. ‘I’ll take you, too, if that’s what you want.’

‘You’ll have to,’ said Campbell, his voice very calm.

‘And me.’

Shona’s voice, her face streaked with tears as she moved to stand in front of her father.

He pulled her aside, kept himself between his children and the shotgun.

Marsh, his cheek pressed against the wooden stock, smirked. ‘See what I mean? You all stick together, even when he’s a dirty, murdering wife-stealer. Family, it’s all family . . .’

Then Sawyer placed himself in the line of fire. ‘I’m not family, Carl. God knows I’ve got no great love for Roddie Drummond, but this . . .’ He held up both hands. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘It may not be right, but it’s fitting. He should’ve been put down before—it would’ve saved everyone a lot of grief. He should’ve been taken up into the hills, like the old days, at birth. Drowned up there. That lass would still be alive. My wife would still be my wife.’

Fiona McRae had moved closer to the line of fire and Carl finally noticed her. ‘This doesn’t concern you, love. This is to do with the flesh and the blood, not the soul. Once this is done he’ll be your business, but not before.’

‘My concern doesn’t begin and end with the afterlife, Carl,’ she said, still moving, not to the group in front of Roddie but towards Marsh. ‘And even if it did, you’re placing your own soul in jeopardy here.’

He laughed, a bitter, snarling sound. ‘Don’t preach to me, love. I’m not one of your flock. I’m not a believer. Save it for that hypocrite there.’

Fiona kept moving. ‘Carl, I know you’re not a believer, but Deirdre is. She never misses services, you know that. Do you think this is what she wants?’

‘I know what she wants. She wants that one’—he jerked the barrels and the sudden movement startled Fiona, but she kept moving slowly towards him—‘between her legs. She’s made that plain. But I’ve taught her a lesson about that. She won’t make that mistake again. But just in case . . .’

Fiona’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of lesson, Carl?’

He didn’t answer her.

‘Carl, what kind of lesson did you teach your wife?’

‘That’s no concern of yours.’

Fiona edged closer. ‘Where did you get the blood on your hand, Carl?’

Marsh twisted the shotgun to the right so he could study his left hand, the one that gripped the weapon’s forearm. Rebecca leaned to her left to see for herself the smears of blood, wet from the rain.

Still moving, slowly and carefully, Fiona asked, ‘Whose blood is that, Carl?’

He didn’t answer, but the barrels of the gun dipped slightly. There had been a change in his body language. Whereas before he’d been tense and erect, now his back had curved, his shoulders had drooped. He had been angry and resolute when he arrived but now there was something else. Although she didn’t have a clear view of his face, Rebecca felt she knew what that something else was. Shame.

Fiona was directly in front of him now, the barrels level with her chest, but she ignored them. There was an edge to her voice now. ‘Where’s Deirdre, Carl?

The rain drummed in the silence that followed. Sawyer had eased to the side and was almost casually making his way closer to Marsh. Rebecca scanned the faces of the remaining mourners. Some were terrified. Some were blank, as if they didn’t fully understand what they were witnessing. Others were hard and knowing. They didn’t need to be told where Deirdre was or whose blood was slowly being erased by the torrent.

Fiona knew she wasn’t going to receive an answer. Her tone softened. ‘Put the shotgun down, Carl.’

Marsh didn’t move.

Sawyer sidled ever closer, picking his way through the gravestones.

Fiona poured some grit back into her voice again. ‘Carl, you’re not going to shoot anyone, certainly not the person you want to shoot. Look . . .’ She jerked her thumb behind her, to where Roddie was shielded by his father and sister. Marsh raised his head to gaze over her shoulder, seeing them as if for the first time. ‘This will not change anything, Carl. This will not change the past or fix the present. All it will do is ruin the future. Put the shotgun down, Carl. Let’s all get out of the rain.’

She raised her hand as if to take the weapon but Marsh took a step back, the barrels rising again. This time she didn’t flinch. ‘You don’t want to do this, Carl, not really. I know you don’t . . .’

His brittle laugh cut through the hiss of the rain. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, love. I really do.’

He stepped around her and steadied the weapon again, his finger on the trigger. It was a quick, fluid movement but Sawyer was close enough now to reach out for Carl, though he saw him and swung the shotgun in his direction. Fiona was also in motion. She ducked under the barrels to catch Carl in a rugby tackle, forcing his body backwards and the weapon upwards just as the trigger jerked. The blast shot harmlessly into the air. They slipped on the wet ground, Carl still holding the weapon but Fiona on top, forcing it hard against his chest. Sawyer reached them and wrested the gun from Carl’s hands.

Fiona stood up and wiped the mud from the front of her robe, then waved to the Drummonds to leave. Roddie bundled Shona away, but Campbell lingered, giving Carl, still lying on the ground, a long look. Then he followed his family from the graveyard. Those mourners who still hung around filtered towards the gate with them. Chaz and his mother seemed to be waiting for Rebecca to move, but she gestured for them to go on ahead. She wanted to stay for a while.

Sawyer checked the shotgun was safe but still left it cracked open as he crooked it over his arm. He stooped to haul Carl up from the ground.

‘Stupid bastard,’ he said.

Lord Henry shook his head at his estate manager but said nothing as he, too, walked away.

Sawyer had a wry smile on his face. ‘I think that means you’re fired, pal.’

With no weapon in his hand and the object of his hatred now out of sight and heading down the pathway towards the gate, Carl Marsh seemed deflated. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes cast downwards. Rebecca could almost feel sorry for him.

If it wasn’t for the blood on his hands.

Fiona hadn’t forgotten about that either. Her voice was cold when she spoke. ‘What have you done to Deirdre, Carl?’

It looked at first as if he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said in a dull monotone, ‘She’s at home.’

Sawyer’s voice was harsh. ‘You weren’t asked where she was, you were asked what you did to her.’

Marsh seemed to think about this before he raised his eyes to Sawyer. ‘What any man would do. I taught her a lesson.’

Sawyer glanced at Fiona and gave her a little nod. Then he gripped Marsh firmly by the shoulder. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go see . . .’

It had looked as if the fight had gone out of the estate manager, but he had either been faking or it suddenly returned, for he moved very fast, twisting himself free and slamming the former police officer firmly with both hands on the chest. Sawyer lost his footing and tumbled back, landing hard on the gravel path that ran between two rows of graves. Fiona reached out but Marsh swiped her hand away and darted off, his feet slapping hard on the gravel. Sawyer swore once, and powerfully, but then he was on his feet, still holding the shotgun as he pursued Marsh out of the graveyard.

Fiona watched them go, her face concerned, then she saw Rebecca standing against the wall and her expression changed to one of surprise.

‘Rebecca?’