Page 43 of Bonetide

Ten

I’m at the kitchen table with my second coffee and a half-finished sketch of a knapweed I cut on the way back from the moor two days ago. The sketch hasn’t been going well. The petals keep coming out wrong no matter what I do, and the coffee isn’t helping.

I’m just about to go get a fresh cup when there’s a knock at my door.

Fucking hell, I think to myself, nearly jumping out of my skin. One would think that being in a cottage in the middle of nowhere would mean I wouldn’t have many visitors, but clearly that’s not the case. There’s someone knocking at my door nearly every damn day.

I stand up quietly and listen. Hear a man clear his throat from outside the door. At first, I am certain it was Alasdair, even though he promised—for reasons I can’t figure out and maybe don’t want to—he wouldn’t visit me at the cottage again, but Alasdair isn’t a man who coughs to fill the silence.

Alasdair is the silence.

I go pull back the curtain and peer through the window. There’s a cop car in my driveway, same one I saw at the Torridon Hotel a few days ago.

This can’t be good.

Automatically I think I’ve done something wrong, illegal, even, like I was caught driving on the wrong side of the road and didn’t realize it, or I didn’t know that honking at Highland cattle when they’re blocking the road is a crime.

I’m practically sweating when I open the door and see the same cop who had the conversation with the bartender.

“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant and not incredibly guilty over imaginary things.

He’s standing on the front step in plain clothes, his hands at his sides, the small respectful distance of a man who does this for a living. Up close he’s older than I thought at the pub, late forties, solid build with that older man paunch. His eyes are grey-blue and they’re taking me in, all of me. I’m suddenly very aware of how disheveled I must look with my hair pulled back in a greasy, messy bun—I’m due to wash my hair—wearing a black hoodie, lime green silky harem pants I snagged on sale, and fuzzy slippers.

“I’m Inspector Sinclair. I saw you at the Torridon a few days back. I’d hoped to catch you then but you left before I’d had the chance.”

“Ah, yes, I think I remember seeing you there.” I give him a shaky smile, trying to play it cool.

“Aye.” He gives a small nod, as if that settles something. “Sergeant MacRae down at Lochcarron sent your report up to me. You called him awhile back about a man on your property?”

Oh. “I did…”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you can spare half an hour.”

“Sure.” I wait a beat, however, because the thought occurs to me: Could this be who Effie was talking about? Don’t let him in. Did she mean this cop? Did she means all cops in general? Did she mean any man?

But it feels like I’ll get in big trouble if I don’t oblige. “Come in, Inspector,” I say, stepping aside. At the very least I’ve always wanted to say a line like that, as if I’m acting in a British murder mystery show.

He gives me a faint smile and steps over the threshold.

I take him into the kitchen. I offer him tea and he accepts, and as the kettle boils, I make an effort to gather sugar and milk into little ramekins my aunt has stacked on the shelf so I don’t offend him with too little or too much of either.

He looks around the kitchen, noting the salt at the windows, but doesn’t comment.

“So, Miss Galloway…”

“Iris.”

“Iris. I’ll be straight with you. I’m working a series of incidents on this stretch of coast between Ullapool and Lochcarron and your name came across my desk. MacRae’s report mentioned a man on your property. A man you’d had at your door the previous evening. A man you said gave his name as Alasdair and said he was staying at the castle across the bay.”

“That’s right,” I say slowly.

“How many times have you seen him since?”

The question is so direct it almost takes me off-guard. Who is this man to know how many times I’ve seen him and if I’ve seen him at all?

“Once,” I lie through my teeth. “Maybe twice. At the start of all this. He came to the door; the time MacRae knows about. I saw him out walking around the bay once or twice after. We haven’t spoken in a while.”

It comes out smoothly, which surprises me. I’ve been a great many things in my life, but I’ve not, generally, been a person who lies cleanly to police officers. I always have a tell—and that’s to say too much—so I clamp my jaw together as a reminder not to go blabbering and ruin it all.