Candles and Roses (29 page)

At first, she could see nothing but the sheets of endlessly falling rain. Beyond the short row of houses to her left, the path to the beach cafe disappeared into the grey mist. The cafe itself would have closed hours ago and was visible only as a darker silhouette. The other smaller shapes would be the wooden benches that dotted the grassed area above the beach.

Then, as her eyes adjusted to the mist-shrouded twilight, she spotted it again. A flickering movement of light. The play of a torch beam on the empty beach.

Horton pulled her hood back over her head and climbed out into the rain. The wind buffeted her coldly, drumming the water into her face. Who would be out there on an evening like this? She peered over the railing. The tide was rapidly coming in, the beach disappearing under the relentless encroachment of the wind-whipped waves. Even the most ardent dog-walkers would have left the beach.

She’d taken McKay’s warning to heart and had no intention of advancing further if she saw any signs of Robbins. She glanced back along the empty seafront, confident that she could outrun him if he should appear ahead of her. She took another few steps forward and stopped.

A figure had appeared along the shore, rising white and ghost-like above the beach. It took Horton a breathless moment to realise that the figure was making its way up the steps from the sand to the grassy bank in front of the cafe. The flashlight flickered in the figure’s hand, scattering a diffused glow through the rain.

Her first thought was that it must be Robbins. Almost immediately, she realised the figure was too slight. McKay had described him as well-built and muscular, someone who looked as if he worked out. This figure was shorter and slimmer than McKay himself.

As Horton watched, the figure walked slowly and steadily across the grass, coming to a halt at one of the heavy carved benches in front of the cafe. In the teeming rain, the figure remained motionless, staring out to sea, the flashlight beam pointing vainly into the gloom.

There was no other sign of life or movement. Horton walked cautiously forward, half-expecting some other figure to step out of the shadows ahead. But there was nothing except the slim, pale figure on the bench.

As Horton drew closer, she saw the figure was a young woman, blonde hair plastered across her gaunt white face. Horton had expected the pale clothing to be some kind of waterproof, but the woman was wearing nothing more than a sodden white blouse and a pair of pale-coloured jeans. She was soaked to the bone, but her posture suggested an indifference to the rain and cold.

Horton had assumed she was still out of the woman’s sight, lost in the copse of trees that lined the path. But the woman suddenly called: ‘Hello.’

Horton froze, unsure whether the woman was addressing her or someone else. Then she realised the woman was staring directly at her.

‘Hello,’ the woman said again. Her voice was clear and loud enough to carry above the roaring of the wind and the incoming tide. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone else here.’

Horton glanced back, fearful that someone was behind her. The pathway and the street beyond were deserted, stained orange by the glow of the streetlights on the rain-washed surface. ‘Are you all right?’

The woman nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m fine now,’ she said.

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Not really.’

Horton walked cautiously towards the woman. ‘Do you want to borrow my coat?’

‘I’m fine now,’ the woman said again.

‘I’ve an umbrella back in the car. Help keep you dry?’ It sounded absurd.

‘No, I’m really fine.’ The tone was a little sharper.

‘Can I take you anywhere?’

‘No, I really am fine.’ The woman gestured behind her. ‘Anyway, I can drive myself.’

Horton’s gaze followed the gesture. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a vehicle parked in the shadow of the cafe building, twenty or so metres from where they were standing. A large vehicle.

She turned and looked more closely. It was what she had thought. A substantial 4x4. A Mitsubishi Shogun.

Robbins’s car.

***

McKay banged heavily on the bar door, irritated at being left standing in the rain. After a moment, he heard the sound of the lock being unfastened inside and the door was pulled open.

‘Oh,’ Mary Graham said. ‘It’s you. Sir.’

‘You sound disappointed. What were you expecting, a visit from the chief constable?’

‘We’re still waiting for the examiners to arrive.’

‘Ah. Even more exalted company. If it’s Jock Henderson, he won’t be hurrying on a night like this.’ He followed Graham into the bar. ‘Where’s Ginny?’

‘She’s still out.’ Graham’s expression suggested that even facing the weather outside was preferable to being stuck in the Caledonian Bar.

‘Out?’

‘After your call. She went to check out this car up in Rosemarkie.’

McKay looked at his watch. It had taken him longer than he’d expected to get here, his passage slowed by wet roads and low visibility after he’d left the A9. He’d picked up Horton’s message confirming that there was no sign of Robbins’s car, and had assumed she’d have returned by now.

He thumbed her number. The number rang for a minute or so and then cut to voicemail. ‘How long’s she been gone?’

‘She left straight after you called,’ Graham said.

‘Best part of half an hour then?’

‘Something like that.’

It was maybe five minutes to Rosemarkie, even in weather like this. McKay called Horton’s number again, but the call again rang out to voicemail.

‘Shit,’ McKay said. ‘OK, Mary. You hold the fort here. I’m going looking for her.’

‘If you say so, sir,’ Graham said, but only once the door had closed behind McKay’s disappearing back. ‘If you fucking say so.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

‘Is that yours then?’ Horton said, gesturing towards the Shogun parked in the shadows. ‘Your car?’

She had sat herself on the heavy wooden bench next to the woman. The edges of the bench were carved with a Biblical quotation and the name and dates of a local boy who’d died before reaching adulthood. In the dim light, it resembled nothing so much as a wooden tomb.

‘Sort of,’ the woman said. ‘It was my father’s.’

Horton’s eyes were fixed on the young woman’s face. ‘Your father’s?’

‘Yes, it was his.’

‘John Robbins?’

The woman turned towards Horton, surprise in her eyes. ‘You know him? Aye, I suppose you would. He always liked your type.’ A small smile played round her lips. ‘My type.’

‘What’s our type?’ Horton asked.

‘You’re troubled, aren’t you?’

‘Troubled?’

‘You don’t need to pretend, you know? We’re all in the same position. We’re all victims.’

Horton felt as if her blood had frozen in her veins. She had told no-one of her own troubles, her own past. Not even Isla. Not properly. She’d shared some of it on one or two half-drunken nights when they’d downed too much wine. But not the whole story. Isla didn’t need that. She had plenty enough troubles in her own past. That was why they’d come up here. To put all that—or as much of it as they could—behind them.

‘Are you a victim too, Elizabeth?’

‘You know my name?’ Elizabeth Hamilton said. ‘Did he tell it you?’

‘No, Elizabeth. It’s a long story.’

‘It always is,’ Hamilton said. ‘You can call me Lizzie if you like. We can be friends. I want friends.’

‘We all do. Why are you sitting here, Lizzie?’

‘I’m just waiting.’

‘What are you waiting for?’

‘I’ve been waiting all day. For the tide. I was too late this morning.’

‘Why are you waiting for the tide?’

‘I like watching the tide. Waiting for it to come in and go out.’

Horton followed Lizzie Hamilton’s gaze. It was scarcely possible to see anything through the thick twilight and heavily falling rain.

‘Why are you here, Lizzie?’

‘Watching the tide, that’s all.’

There was something in the way she spoke that Horton found unnerving. Something inexplicable even in this absurd situation. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked again.

‘I needed to stop him. I should have done it before. Long ago. It was my fault. It was always my fault.’

‘What was your fault, Lizzie?’

‘Everything was my fault. It was my fault that my mother died. It was my fault we were alone. It was my fault he couldn’t help himself.’

‘You don’t believe that, do you, Lizzie? You don’t believe it was your fault?’

She shook her head, not entirely a gesture of denial. ‘I don’t know. Some of it was my fault. I could have stopped him before.’ The rain was dripping from the angles of her cheeks. ‘I should have stopped him before.’

‘He’s responsible for what he does, Lizzie. Not you.’

‘I don’t know. I’m like him. I’m too like him.’ She was staring out across the beach, eyes fixed on the almost invisible sea. The roar of the waves was drawing closer, crashing below them.

‘Why don’t you come with me, Lizzie? I can take you somewhere warm and dry, where you’ll be safe. Then we can talk properly.’ Horton looked over her shoulder, conscious how vulnerable they were in this semi-dark. There was no movement other than the constant pounding of the wind and rain.

‘I have to wait,’ Hamilton said.

‘What are you waiting for?’

‘I’m waiting for the tide.’

Horton felt the same chill she’d experienced moments earlier. Nothing to do with the cold, wet night. ‘Where’s your father, Lizzie?’

Hamilton turned to face her. ‘I’m safe now,’ she said. ‘We’re all safe now. You. Me. All the victims.’

‘Where is he, Lizzie?’ Horton had half-risen, peering over the grassy bank towards the beach and the encroaching sea. It was impossible to make out anything from here.

‘He was right,’ Hamilton said. ‘He was always right. After the first one, it becomes easier. It becomes part of who you are.’ Her gaze had shifted. She was no longer looking out to sea, but staring down across the beach. Horton walked cautiously over to where a short flight of steps led down to the path at the top of the beach. The tide was nearly in now, only a short strip of beach left exposed.

Then she saw it, twenty yards away along the shore, where the rising sea hit what remained of the beach. Something long and dark, and another shape beyond it.

Not stopping to think, Horton ran along the beach path and, reaching its end, jumped over the low wall on to the wet sand and shingle. She sprinted the last few metres, the ground sinking beneath her weight, the lash of the spray on her face.

It was a human body, as she’d expected, face down on the wet sand, the waves already beating against its torso and legs. The arms and legs were tied and the ropes weighted with piles of stone. Horton looked further along the beach. Another similar body, again face down, already half-sunk in the rising tide.

She ran to the far body first, suspecting she was already too late. She grabbed the nearest arm and leg and hauled the body as best she could back up the beach. It was a dead sodden weight, dragged down by its wet clothes, constantly being sucked back by the pull of the waves.

After what felt like far too many minutes, she managed to drag it on to the stones above the debris that marked the high point of the tide. Not stopping to check the body, she turned back to where the first body still lay. The tide had risen another few centimetres. Elizabeth Hamilton was standing a few yards away, her frail body whipped by the wind. Horton wanted to call for her help, but knew there would be no point. Instead, she turned to the first body and began to drag its resistant bulk from the clutch of the sea. The body was weighted more heavily by the stones and its own heavy clothing, and the effort was almost too much. But slowly, inch by inch, she pulled the body away from the sea, up towards the tide-line.

She’d almost dragged the body to safety when she finally looked up. Hamilton was standing behind her. She was holding the flashlight at her side, its beam glittering on the wet sand and pebbles.

‘No,’ Hamilton said. ‘Don’t listen to him. Don’t believe him. We were safe. We were almost safe.’

And she raised the flashlight and brought it down hard against the side of Horton’s head.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Where the bloody hell was she?

McKay pulled into the space by Horton’s abandoned car and climbed out into the wet night. He’d kept calling during the short drive over, but the calls had simply rung to voicemail. Why the hell hadn’t she called before buggering off on whatever fool’s errand she was pursuing? Visibility was down to a few metres, and he could see nothing beyond the narrow inlet where the burn ran into the sea.

‘Ginny!’ His voice was almost immediately whipped away by the sharp wind.

With nowhere else to go, he took the path to the beach cafe, peering into the gloom for any sign of movement. There was nothing but the roar of the tide, the clatter of the wind in the trees.

Then, suddenly, he saw an unexpected flash of light by the water’s edge. Something moving in the near dark.

With no rational thought, he began to run towards the sea, slipping and stumbling down the wet grassy bank until he reached the firmness of the beach path. It was only as he reached the end of the path that he realised what he was seeing.

Out on the narrow strip of beach, two figures were struggling, the waters already around their ankles. McKay jumped on to the sand, trying to work out exactly what was happening. One slender ghost-like figure, pale against the roaring sea. The other larger, bulkier, stumbling backwards as if about to topple into the water.

He dragged his own powerful flashlight from his waterproof. ‘Police!’ Again, he was conscious his voice was almost inaudible, but the shout was sufficient to cause the pale figure to turn. Almost immediately, the other figure jumped, pushing the pale figure further back up the sand.

‘Police! Stop!’ McKay screamed again. The bulkier figure, he realised now, was buried in a heavy dark waterproof. Horton.

‘Hold her,’ Horton yelled. ‘Just fucking hold her!’