Coffin Road

Chapter twenty-nine

Bran is running around the cottage like a daftie, chasing imaginary rabbits, or something else unseen. He seems infected by my excitement. Although, in truth, excitement does not do justice to how I feel. I am both elated and devastated. I know who I am, and I know what happened on Eilean Mòr. And I remember only too vividly what occurred that same night when the storm finally capsized my damaged boat. Although nothing of what followed, until I was washed up on Luskentyre beach. I know that I am extraordinarily fortunate to be alive.

But it is all, simply, too much. I cannot process everything at once. My brain is suffering from information overload and telling me, ‘Enough!’ Like too much light, returning memory is blinding me. I can see the big picture in silhouette, but most of the detail is still burned out.

My name is Tom Fleming. I am a neuroscientist, and I used to work at the Geddes Institute of Environmental Sciences, until I was kicked out for conducting experiments that didn’t please their sponsors, the giant Swiss agrochem company, Ergo. My wife is suing me for divorce. Or was. Now, presumably, she is treading water until I am declared legally dead after disappearing off my yacht in the Firth of Forth.

And Karen. I close my eyes. My little girl. I can see her now. That shining, happy face gazing up at me with unglazed affection. Love. Dependency. How I adored her. And still do. Despite the sulky, sullen teenager she became. I recall her final words to me before I faked my suicide. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. And I wish I could just rewind time, and do it all again. This time differently.

I open my eyes and remember the message she left for my brother Michael, not realising it was me who had friended her on Facebook. The only way I could maintain even the most tenuous of contacts without her knowing. Watching over her from an anonymous distance. Uncle Michael, I think dad might still be alive. Please get in touch. Somehow she knows I am not dead. I left that note with Chris, but he is not due to give it to her until she turns eighteen, when all of this is over.

But there are more pressing things. Sam is dead, and his killer is on the loose, almost certainly the same person who tried to stab me to death that night in the cottage. Impossible to express the relief I feel in knowing it was not me who murdered Sam. But equally impossible to shut out the guilt. Because I am responsible for his death as surely as if it were I who had killed him. In spite of the breach of security, I know that I must contact Deloit and tell him what has happened.

I sit at the kitchen table and draw the laptop towards me.

My hands are shaking as I swipe the touch pad and waken it from sleep to open up the mailer.

To my surprise, there is an email waiting for me in the inbox. I frown and click to open it. In the moments that follow, I genuinely believe my heart has stopped. Before suddenly it kick-starts back to life and begins hammering against my ribs like someone with a sledgehammer trying to break out.

The email contains a single photograph. It is Karen. She is in the back of a vehicle of some kind, legs pulled up to her chest, and I can see bindings around her ankles. Her arms are behind her, and there is a broad slash of grey duct tape across her mouth. Tears have streaked black mascara down her cheeks, and her eyes are wide, staring at the camera, filled with fear. The message below it reads, A fair exchange. Eilean Mòr, tonight.

It is unsigned, but even before I look at the address of the sender, I know who it came from. And a chill of utter disabling despair forks through me.

‘Hello? Anyone home?’ Jon’s voice startles me, and I look up as the door from the boot room opens to reveal Jon and Sally crammed into the small space among the waterproofs and wellingtons. Bran goes barking excitedly to greet them.

Sally looks at me, concerned, and I cannot imagine how I must look to prompt her question. ‘What’s happened?’

But I turn my eyes towards her husband. ‘Jon, do you still have a boat at Rodel?’

He nods. ‘Only just. We were planning to take her south next week. Our time here is up.’

But I barely absorb what he says, just the affirmative nod of his head. I stand up. ‘I need you to take me out to the Flannan Isles.’

He is startled. ‘When?’

‘Now.’