Crash Land Page 8

‘She’s a good friend of mine,’ Ingrid said. ‘And she knows what she’s doing. It’s better to talk to her than just drive around thinking, churning things up in your mind.’ She looked at him, the milk still in his hand. ‘I can’t imagine what it was like being in that aeroplane. I can’t imagine what you saw but I want to help if I can.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Remember how it was with your mum. I don’t think either of us could’ve got through that without each other.’

  Ingrid’s eyes were a startling blue even now, not dimmed by the years. She was a striking woman, must’ve been a heartbreaker when she was younger. Finn pictured Maddie wandering around the exhibits, picking up bones, flicking through guidebooks. She’d said she needed him. Sometimes that’s all there is, people who need each other.

  ‘I’ll put this lot away,’ Finn said, waving the milk.

  Ingrid let go of his hand and he went back to the bags. He stole a glance at her as she stared out the window. The view could’ve been described as extraordinary except you got views just as spectacular all over Orkney. Rugged cliff tops, cascading waves, huge sweeps of sea and slabs of land, millions of years of slow war between them, the land trying to resist the expanses of water and retain its dignity against the onslaught. It felt like the roof of the world up here, the air thinner and purer, the land stronger, the elements more brutal. Like you were connected to the land in a way you couldn’t be further south, as if the stuff of your bones was one with the earth, only separated by a fragile layer of skin. Finn imagined turning to stone, standing for thousands of years on the cliff, facing south, a warning to others.

  Ingrid turned to him. ‘How were the old guys?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Before you went gallivanting you went to see them.’

  The Tomb of the Eagles.

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘Did they have much to say?’

  A joke, of course, but something underneath that was half serious. The way she spoke about the remains, they weren’t just a pile of bones. Ingrid sometimes talked as if they were still alive. Finn didn’t believe that she actually heard voices, but she often said they spoke to her. He got it. Their presence, the continuity of it, gave you perspective on the dross of daily life. A feeling that whatever you were going through, someone went through the same thing in this spot thousands of years ago.

  ‘They weren’t so great with the advice today,’ Finn said.

  ‘Don’t suppose they ever found themselves in quite your situation.’

  Finn wondered about Ingrid. When he wasn’t visiting she was alone, her husband and daughter dead and buried up the road. Sure, she had tourists in the summer and the Lewises along the way, but even for Orkney this place was isolated, the end of the road. She’d said that Janet was a good friend, but that was the first he’d heard of it.

  He loved spending summers here growing up, mucking about on the farm, going on adventures in the fields, looking for old pottery, glassware or fossils. But those days seemed a lifetime ago. He had his own life, so where did that leave her?

  He tried to imagine her funeral. Who would be there that Finn knew? He pictured himself standing over a hole in the ground at St Peter’s, just him and the minister, the standing stone in the distance, surrounded by sea and sky.

  ‘I wish Mum was here,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I went to see her on the way to the shop.’

  Ingrid was silent for a moment. ‘How’s her stone?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Angus’s too?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you speak to her about what’s happened?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘She would be worried sick.’

  ‘I know.’

  Silence.

  Eventually Finn spoke. ‘How was Sally growing up?’

  Ingrid considered this for a long time. ‘A lot like you. Artistic, sensitive but headstrong. A little lost, too, I think.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Ingrid rubbed at a scratch on the tabletop. ‘I don’t think she really knew what to set her heart on, until you came along. She loved art, creating, but deep down I don’t know if that drove her. She drifted through college, finding her way. When she fell pregnant she became much more focused, and when you were born, that was it. She found her purpose. Not all women want to be mothers, Finn, not by a long way, but she had it in her. I didn’t expect that.’

  Finn took a breath. ‘Why did she never come back here? Why did she never ask for help?’

  Ingrid smiled. ‘Part of it was just her, bull-headed. I think she wanted to make a new home, start a family, do it on her own. I loved having you up here for holidays, but she wanted you and her to have your own place to call home, not rely on my generation for anything.’

  ‘Did you ever fall out?’

  Ingrid sat rubbing the table, flicking at the surface. ‘We never did. I was so proud of her, I can’t tell you.’

  Finn looked around the kitchen. He’d sat here a hundred times before but it felt different, off kilter somehow.

  ‘She wouldn’t be proud of me,’ he said.

  Ingrid looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All this. The plane. The dead folk.’

  ‘Finn, she loved you, she would’ve supported you no matter what. Just like I will.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ Finn said. ‘There shouldn’t need to be any “no matter what”. That means I’ve fucked up.’

  ‘You just need some help. We all need help sometimes.’

  Finn noticed something on the floor behind Ingrid. His rucksack, the one that he had yesterday on the plane. He went round and picked it up.

  ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘It was in your bedside cabinet at the hospital.’

  Finn unzipped it at the table. The George Mackay Brown book at the top, a few of the pages bent over. He flicked through it.

  ‘You still have that,’ Ingrid said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sally loved it.’

  Finn imagined his mum touching the cover, turning the pages, sighing at the end. ‘Why did she name me after him?’

  Ingrid shrugged. ‘It’s a nice Orcadian name. And he’s a lovely character.’

  ‘But he doesn’t get what he wants in the end, to be a poet.’

  ‘He lives a good life,’ Ingrid said. ‘That’s enough.’

  Finn dropped the book on the table and lifted his sketchbook out the bag. He remembered Maddie holding it, flicking, staring, smiling. The drawings all seemed to come from another time, drawn by a different hand, someone else entirely. He landed on some sketches of the gravestones at St Peter’s, not plans for jewellery, just something for himself.

  He took a tin of pencils from the bag and chose one then turned to a blank page. He tried to hold the pencil but the metal splint wouldn’t let his outer fingers bend to support his thumb and index finger. He had no control. It was precarious and unsteady. He tried to draw a simple symmetrical shape, four loops on two sides like a butterfly, but the lines wobbled and the splint dragged along the page, smudging the whole thing and tearing at the paper. He closed his eyes and tapped the pencil against his forehead then dropped it on to the table and closed the notebook.

  He opened his eyes to see Ingrid skinning up, pulling strands of grass apart and spreading them along a single Rizla, followed by a little sprinkle of Golden Virginia. She smoked a bit of weed on and off, a child of the sixties, something Finn discovered as a teenager. She licked along the gum and rolled it, no roach.

  ‘Give me a draw,’ Finn said.

  She lit it and sucked in. ‘You sure?’

  Finn didn’t usually smoke Ingrid’s stuff but he wanted to now. He nodded, lifting his hand. ‘Painkilling properties.’

  Ingrid passed it to him and exhaled. He took a draw and handed it back, felt the rush to his head. He put his hand out and felt the grain of wood on the table.

  There was a kn
ock at the front door.

  They exchanged a look. Ingrid cupped the joint in the palm of her hand and peered out of the window.

  ‘It’s that young policewoman.’

  She carefully stubbed the joint out in an ashtray and lifted both into a high cupboard. She ushered Finn out of the kitchen and closed the door.

  She blinked a couple of times then opened the front door. ‘It’s yourself.’

  Linklater looked tired. Finn wondered if she’d had much sleep.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Sullivan,’ Linklater said. ‘But I need to speak to Finn again. Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ingrid held the door open and Linklater stepped into the hallway. ‘Go through.’ Ingrid indicated the living room as she closed the door, Finn leading the way.

  They stood in the middle of the room, Linklater waiting to be asked to sit. Finn loved this room as a kid, Ingrid’s bookshelves brimming with secrets, the same with her racks of sixties and seventies rock albums. Finn used to spend hours wading through Thin Lizzy, AC/DC and Black Sabbath, absorbing the covers, the rough-hewn sounds. It never occurred to him that it was unusual having a gran into that stuff.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Ingrid said. ‘You spoke to the lad at the hospital.’

  Linklater scratched at her neck. ‘I’m afraid the situation has changed, we’re now involved in a murder investigation.’

  ‘You mean the people on the plane?’ Finn said.

  Linklater shook her head. ‘I need you to confirm your whereabouts for all of yesterday, Finn, leading up to Kirkwall Airport at seven pm.’

  Finn narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘He was here with me,’ Ingrid said, moving into the room.

  ‘That’s right,’ Finn said.

  Linklater looked from one to the other. ‘All day?’

  Finn nodded.

  ‘Did anyone else see you here?’

  ‘No one came by,’ Ingrid said. ‘But you can take my word for it that he didn’t leave the cottage until I took him to the airport. What’s this about?’

  ‘After getting no response at Mrs Pierce’s house, we obtained a warrant and gained entry,’ Linklater said. ‘Kevin Pierce was dead inside, stabbed in the chest multiple times.’

  18

  He stood outside the visitor centre but didn’t take the key out of his pocket. He rubbed at the skin under his eyes as if wiping something away, then stared at the door. It was once a tree and before that part of the earth and air, regenerated atoms. One day in the future it would be something else entirely, the molecules making up part of a worm or a bird or some animal that hadn’t evolved yet. Finn leaned forward until his forehead was touching the door. He closed his eyes and breathed, the wind a constant force against his body.

  Linklater had quizzed him some more about his movements, his reason for being on the island, his relationship to Maddie. He’d told her he had no relationship with her. He thought about that now. He hadn’t given her up. He thought about that too. After Linklater left, Ingrid pushed him for information as well, echoing the cop.

  Kevin Pierce. He wanted to know all about Kevin Pierce. What kind of man he was, what kind of husband.

  Finn had waited for two hours after Linklater left. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself leaving the house, didn’t want to arouse Ingrid’s suspicions. And anyway, he needed time to think it all through. He was tied to Maddie now. Ever since he saw her at airport security he’d been drawn into her orbit, had become tangled up in her. He touched his lips with his tongue and imagined that he could still taste her from their kiss earlier.

  He could still give her up. Depending on how she was in a few moments’ time, maybe he would. He’d be in the shit for lying and helping her, but maybe he had to untether himself from her if she was sinking and dragging him under.

  He took the key out of his pocket and opened the door then walked down the hall, looking in the different display rooms. He went to the kitchenette. She was slumped at the table, her jacket folded underneath her head for a pillow. The bag of money was at her feet, the strap wrapped around both her legs. Her forearms were covered in large freckles. Her hair had fallen over her eyes and he lifted a strand and tucked it behind her ear. The sight of her face, relaxed and peaceful, made his stomach tight. He looked at her hands, bony knuckles with thin veins. He imagined those hands plunging a knife into a man’s chest, the force needed to get through the ribs into the heart and lungs, the energy needed to pull it out and shove it back in, again and again. How many times had Kevin Pierce been stabbed? How hard did he try to defend himself? Didn’t attackers get defensive wounds? Finn looked again at Maddie’s hands, arms and face.

  He took the seat across from her and shook her arm.

  ‘Maddie.’

  He wondered how much sleep she got last night in the cowshed.

  ‘Maddie, you need to wake up.’

  She moaned and stirred then let out a heavy breath. She sat up with a grunt, blinked several times and recognised him. ‘Hey.’ She cricked her neck, stretched her arms up and arched her back. ‘Jesus, how long was I asleep?’

  Finn watched her movements, slow, groggy. ‘Three hours.’

  He glanced out of the window. The sun was setting over the western corner of the sea, a shimmer of high cloud diffusing the light, throwing orange and yellow streaks across the sky. Not even a whole day had passed since Maddie came into his life. Imagine what a lifetime with her would be like.

  Maddie untangled herself from the seat and the bag. She lifted her mug from the table and headed to the kettle.

  ‘Want one?’ She switched it on and rubbed at her hips. Finn saw a flash of burgundy bra between the buttons of her blouse as she stretched.

  ‘I need to talk to you about something,’ he said.

  Maddie glanced at her bag on the floor then back at Finn. She turned and threw a teabag into the mug.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your husband.’

  Maddie snorted. ‘I don’t want to talk about that arsehole.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Maddie laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Finn watched her like an eagle tracking prey. He tried to read her body language, his eyes darting from her face to her hips, noting how she held herself.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  Maddie stopped moving. ‘Don’t mess with me.’

  ‘Kevin is dead.’

  Maddie shook her head. ‘How would you know that?’

  Finn stared, trying to make sense of her. This had to make sense.

  ‘The cop I spoke to at the hospital,’ he said. ‘She came to Ingrid’s cottage just now to speak to me. About your husband.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’ Maddie ran her finger along the edge of the worktop.

  ‘They went round to your house but there was no answer, so they got a warrant. They found him inside, stabbed to death.’

  ‘Why are you saying this?’ Maddie said, rubbing her forehead.

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  She held on to the worktop with both hands, the rush of the boiling kettle behind her.

  ‘Maybe you should sit down,’ Finn said.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Sit down, Maddie.’

  She took several big breaths, but no tears came. Finn didn’t know what he was expecting. She wandered to the table and slumped into the chair.

  ‘This is bullshit,’ she said under her breath. ‘Some kind of weird game. The police are up to something.’

  ‘Come on.’

  She looked at him for the first time since he’d told her. ‘Maybe they suspect you’re in contact with me, and they want to flush me out with a lie.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  Maddie shook her head.

  Finn swallowed, felt his Adam’s apple. ‘I have to ask you something.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I didn’t kill him, for Christ’s sake. Do I look like a murderer?’

  She had
her hands out in supplication.

  ‘Do you think these hands stabbed someone?’

  ‘You seem angry,’ Finn said, voice level.

  ‘I am fucking angry,’ Maddie said, running her hands through her hair. ‘My husband got himself killed, and now I’m the main suspect.’

  ‘I thought you might be sad.’

  ‘Of course I’m sad. I mean I hated the cheating, bullying prick, but I didn’t want him dead.’

  Finn studied her. It seemed as if this was all news to her, but maybe she was just a good actor.

  ‘You have to go to the police now,’ he said.

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘But they’ll know you didn’t do it. Forensics.’

  ‘If you trust those idiots to get it right you’ve got a lot more faith in Orkney police than I do.’

  ‘If you stay hidden it makes you look guilty.’

  Maddie was wide-eyed. ‘I already look guilty. I have a bag of Kev’s money and I helped crash a plane rather than come back.’

  That was the first time she’d said anything about guilt for the plane. He felt it too, deep in his bones, swimming in his blood.

  He thought about what she’d said. A dead husband, a bag of money, her panic on the plane. What did it take to kill someone? Would it show on your face if you could do that? He stared at her now. Her head was gently shaking, eyes down at the table. He tried to picture her doing something like that to Kev. If she could do it once, she could do it again. He realised his fingertips were gripping the edge of the table.

  ‘Tell me what happened at your place,’ he said.

  ‘I got in from work at the nursing home and found him screwing that stupid cow from behind on our bed. I turned around and left the house. I got the money from where it was hidden and headed to the airport.’ She slapped the table. ‘Claire, the bitch, you’ve got to go and see her.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’

  She reached out and took his hands.

  ‘Go and speak to Claire.’

  Finn pulled his hands away. ‘And say what?’

  ‘Ask her what happened after I left. She’ll tell you I had nothing to do with Kev’s death.’

  Finn stared at her. ‘Unless she did it and wants to blame you.’