again, and thinking about Hayley, out on the street.
Ten
The dawn was coming up a little later every day now but it was still the same soft, pearl-coloured light that sifted gently in through the window. He never drew the curtains and the bed faced the gentle slope of shingle that ran down to the silver water and the huge pale sky. Serrailler wondered how he could ever have woken to anything else.
He turned slightly. Her bare shoulder was towards him, her hair fanned out finely against the pillow.
She must have sensed him looking at her. She stirred slightly, murmured, turned. ‘What time –’
‘Twenty past six.’
‘Christ!’ She shoved back the duvet. ‘The boat’ll be here in half an hour, I’ve got to move. I said not to let me sleep in.’
‘I don’t call twenty past six “sleeping in”.’
But Kirsty McLeod was already on her way to the shower. Simon rolled onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head, propping himself up to look at the water, and at the heads of two seals which were bobbing close to the shore.
He had been on Taransay for six weeks and it felt like half a lifetime, remote from everything and everyone, in its own time that was somehow out of time. It had taken two days and a night of driving, a ferry and then a helicopter to get here, and it seemed as if he had fallen off the edge of the world. The last SIFT job he’d headed up had been exhausting, draining, terrifying and ultimately successful, but when he’d got back to his own CID the Chief Constable had taken one look at him and told him to take some leave.
‘Five young men were brutally murdered, one of them in front of you, Simon. You’ve been living like a rat in a sewer for weeks, you’ve been short of sleep and in some danger, and if your nerves aren’t in shreds they damn well ought to be. I’m extremely proud that you belong to us and you’ve done an amazing job, but I don’t want you back on my force until you’ve had a proper break. That’s an order.’
Sitting in the Chief’s office, he had suddenly felt all the wind go out of him, and as if he might be about to faint, throw up or burst into tears. Paula Devenish was right. He needed to get away. He had spent half an hour on the Internet tracking down this small, isolated cottage on the remotest Scottish island he could find, booked it, packed and set off. He had brought a single bag of old, rough, favourite clothes, some books and his rucksack of pencils, pens, inks and sketch pads. He had even thought of leaving behind his phone, but only for a moment – work wouldn’t call him, but family might. No one else. He had recently changed the number.
Kirsty was out of the shower, still damp, pulling on jeans, shirt and sweater which had been thrown across the back of the chair. He watched her. Thick, light brown hair with a deep wave at the end. Long legs. Blue eyes. A laughing face. That was what he had first noticed. A laughing face. She tied her hair up quickly in an elastic band.
‘See you,’ she said. She did not come over, did not kiss him goodbye, just waved and was out the door.
A minute later, Simon got up and went to the window, but by then, Kirsty McLeod was halfway up the track and away. In fifteen minutes she would be at the small cluster of houses, pub, shop and quay that was Taransay Village. Other than that, the islanders were scattered in single cottages and small houses across the island, overlooking other stretches of water, different fields and tracks, and the low violet and brown hills.
Kirsty was in a rush because the weekly ferry was due in with supplies and mail, and she was an essential hand, needed to carry boxes and crates from the boat to the one small hotel-cum-pub and the shop, in both of which she worked.
Kirsty McLeod. Serrailler shook his head, smiling, and wandered into the neat, small kitchen to make coffee.
There were virtually no trees on the island, which took the winds from all corners of the earth, so he
Ten
The dawn was coming up a little later every day now but it was still the same soft, pearl-coloured light that sifted gently in through the window. He never drew the curtains and the bed faced the gentle slope of shingle that ran down to the silver water and the huge pale sky. Serrailler wondered how he could ever have woken to anything else.
He turned slightly. Her bare shoulder was towards him, her hair fanned out finely against the pillow.
She must have sensed him looking at her. She stirred slightly, murmured, turned. ‘What time –’
‘Twenty past six.’
‘Christ!’ She shoved back the duvet. ‘The boat’ll be here in half an hour, I’ve got to move. I said not to let me sleep in.’
‘I don’t call twenty past six “sleeping in”.’
But Kirsty McLeod was already on her way to the shower. Simon rolled onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head, propping himself up to look at the water, and at the heads of two seals which were bobbing close to the shore.
He had been on Taransay for six weeks and it felt like half a lifetime, remote from everything and everyone, in its own time that was somehow out of time. It had taken two days and a night of driving, a ferry and then a helicopter to get here, and it seemed as if he had fallen off the edge of the world. The last SIFT job he’d headed up had been exhausting, draining, terrifying and ultimately successful, but when he’d got back to his own CID the Chief Constable had taken one look at him and told him to take some leave.
‘Five young men were brutally murdered, one of them in front of you, Simon. You’ve been living like a rat in a sewer for weeks, you’ve been short of sleep and in some danger, and if your nerves aren’t in shreds they damn well ought to be. I’m extremely proud that you belong to us and you’ve done an amazing job, but I don’t want you back on my force until you’ve had a proper break. That’s an order.’
Sitting in the Chief’s office, he had suddenly felt all the wind go out of him, and as if he might be about to faint, throw up or burst into tears. Paula Devenish was right. He needed to get away. He had spent half an hour on the Internet tracking down this small, isolated cottage on the remotest Scottish island he could find, booked it, packed and set off. He had brought a single bag of old, rough, favourite clothes, some books and his rucksack of pencils, pens, inks and sketch pads. He had even thought of leaving behind his phone, but only for a moment – work wouldn’t call him, but family might. No one else. He had recently changed the number.
Kirsty was out of the shower, still damp, pulling on jeans, shirt and sweater which had been thrown across the back of the chair. He watched her. Thick, light brown hair with a deep wave at the end. Long legs. Blue eyes. A laughing face. That was what he had first noticed. A laughing face. She tied her hair up quickly in an elastic band.
‘See you,’ she said. She did not come over, did not kiss him goodbye, just waved and was out the door.
A minute later, Simon got up and went to the window, but by then, Kirsty McLeod was halfway up the track and away. In fifteen minutes she would be at the small cluster of houses, pub, shop and quay that was Taransay Village. Other than that, the islanders were scattered in single cottages and small houses across the island, overlooking other stretches of water, different fields and tracks, and the low violet and brown hills.
Kirsty was in a rush because the weekly ferry was due in with supplies and mail, and she was an essential hand, needed to carry boxes and crates from the boat to the one small hotel-cum-pub and the shop, in both of which she worked.
Kirsty McLeod. Serrailler shook his head, smiling, and wandered into the neat, small kitchen to make coffee.
There were virtually no trees on the island, which took the winds from all corners of the earth, so he
Similar Books
