Page 17 of Bonetide

The knock comes again. Lighter this time.

Then his voice.

“Iris? It’s Alasdair. Your neighbor. Are you all right?”

I close my eyes. Oh god. It really is him.

“I was driving past on the road…I saw you running. I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

I don’t say anything.

“Iris?” His voice is quieter. “I’ll go if you want me to. I just needed to know you were all right.”

Something tells me not to answer him. I keep my breathing as quiet as I can, I count the seconds in my head. After a long pause, I hear his footsteps move away from the front step, down the stone path, on the gravel.

Then nothing.

I count to a hundred. Slowly. Mississippi style. Then I get up slowly, my hips and shins already screaming at me for attempting to run in wellies, and creep to the front window to look out.

The path is empty. The road beyond it is empty. There’s no car, no man.

I open the door and step outside, just to the threshold, and look at the gravel.

There are no tire tracks.

The road in to my cottage is unpaved for the last quarter-mile. It rained overnight. Anything that drove down it in the last two days would have left tracks. I can see the marks of my car’s tires from yesterday. I can see a single scuff where I walked out to the bins this morning. There’s no sign of anyone ese.

I stand on my doorstep looking at the empty road, and I remember, distinctly, that I never heard a car.

I close the door and lock it, then go back to the kitchen. I sit down at the table and try to think. I’m a single woman new to the area living alone in an isolated cottage. I’m exactly the type of person to go missing in any parts, let alone these parts.

I reach over to the junk drawer and pull out the information pack that the solicitor gave me on the first day and scan through it until I see the number I want: non-emergency police.

Sergeant MacRae arrives in just under an hour, which is impressive given that he had to come from Lochcarron. He’s a big man, fifties, reddish sandy-hair going to grey, the kind of physical solidity that Highland country sergeants seem to be issued at the academy. He drinks the tea I make him and doesn’t complain when I add too much milk. He listens carefully. He doesn’t write anything down at first, just lets me talk. When I’m done, he nods slowly.

“And this man…” he says. “The same one who came to the door last night?”

“Same one. Or, I think same one. I haven’t seen his face. He said his name was Alasdair. He said he was staying at the castle.”

MacRae frowns slightly. “Across the bay on that spit right there, that castle you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Aye. Right.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He gets up. I follow him outside. He walks the property, from the slope behind the cottage, all the way up to the thicket, and into it for a few minutes. I stay at the front door, arms crossed against the afternoon breeze, holding my breath until suddenly I’m gasping, hoping he’ll walk right out of it soon. What if he doesn’t? What if I’ve led him right into the arms of the serial killer?

But he comes back down the slope eventually, my basket in one large hand and a few of the dropped flowers gathered into it. He hands the basket to me. That was kind of him.

“Anything?” I ask, taking it and giving the flowers a quick glance. Only a few foxgloves are bruised, but those are a dime a dozen here.

“Nothing fresh. Not that I can see. The ground in the thicket’s churned up, but that could be by deer as much as anything. There’s a deer track runs through there. Some of them get to be pretty big out here.”

“There were bones.”

“Aye. Saw them.”

“Yeah, but they were placed there.”