Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (24 page)

"And drinking again by the looks of things," said Sarah.

Mark dumped the laptop case down and hung his jacket up on the back of the door. "I needed to get my edge back," he said. "Sitting in the library in Edinburgh isn't the same as visiting the places these atrocities happened."

"All the while you commit your own atrocities," said Sarah, heading into the living room.

Mark followed her in. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"Your daughter will remember the fact that you've not been around," said Sarah.

"No, she won't," said Mark. "She barely recognises me."

Sarah slumped down on the sofa, sitting Beth on her knee and making baby noises at her. "You need to spend time with her," she said.

"I will," said Mark. "Once this draft is finished and it's with my editor, then I'll have bags of time."

Sarah scowled at him, her eyes almost disappearing into their sockets. "No, you won't," she said. "You'll be onto the next idea. You'll no doubt already be trying to sell it."

Mark couldn't believe what he was hearing. He felt like he'd been to hell and back up there and this was the thanks he was getting. "You don't know what I've had to deal with," he said.

"Ten pints of real ale," she said, "and then some whisky, by the looks of things."

"If you must know," said Mark, "I was at the Ruthven midsummer ceilidh."

Sarah laughed at him, then put Beth down beside her. "
Research purposes
?" she shouted. "You got off your skull for
research purposes
? I hope you kept your receipts to claim them against tax."

Mark gritted his teeth. "I'm not having this argument," he said.

He walked into the hall and calmly entered the study, before slamming his fist off the table and trying hard to resist screaming. Things had been bad with Sarah, but this was just getting worse and worse.

No wonder he'd slept with Elizabeth.

He let out a sigh and took in the tiny box room, a crude reminder of the room that they'd first coupled in, all those years ago. This room didn't have a bed in it, but the desk and the chest of drawers were similar enough. He shook his head and looked up to the skylight, the sky above a dark grey, typical for an Edinburgh June.

He really didn't know what to do. Part of him was torn apart by guilt at last night with Elizabeth. On the other hand, Sarah didn't seem to care that he had returned to Edinburgh.

He could quite easily live in that castle with Ruthven and her daughters.

Mark fished his phone out of his pocket. He stared at the display for an age before dialling the castle.

It rang and rang.

As he waited, he thought through what he wanted to say. Finding out what had happened would be a start. Hearing that she'd enjoyed the experience would be good. He'd thrown her note in a bin on the train. He'd replayed their parting conversation countless times in his head.

He gave up and tossed the phone on the desk. He crept out into the hall to retrieve his laptop and get to work.

Hopefully, Sarah would have been defused in the time it took for him to do some writing.

By three o'clock the following afternoon, Mark hadn't spoken to another person in almost twenty-four hours.

Sarah had kept away from him all night then he'd walked down to the National Library first thing, entering without having to speak to anyone. He'd even stooped to machine coffee, just to avoid conversation at the snack counter.

He hadn't thought about Elizabeth in nearly six hours, since the last time he'd tried phoning her.
 

Not that he'd been thinking about anyone - his head had been down all day, focusing on work. He was in the middle of the contemporary accounts of the Duke of Sutherland - one of the most notorious figures in the Clearances. One of Kay's throwaway comments had raised some minor inconsistencies in his head that he was now straightening out. Her hand grenades, as he now thought of them. He'd almost managed to remove it from his mind as a problem. He decided to leave it and head for a break.

Trudging down to the refectory beneath the library, he carried his laptop and notebook, leaving enough of his possessions behind to make his seat still looked occupied.

He recognised a few familiar faces in the canteen. The first words he emitted that day were ordering a cup of tea, accompanied by a chocolate biscuit and a banana. He retrieved a copy of the
Scotsman
from the rack.

He slumped down in a chair in the darkest corner of the large room and nibbled at the biscuit, covering himself in crumbs. He took a sip of the tea and opened the paper, wondering if he would see anything about John's death - it would surely be the biggest news story in Scotland that day. Sadly, it was relegated to the seventh page due to a resurgent attack from the NO campaign in the battle for the referendum, and some freak floods in the USA. He flicked through the paper to see if there was any ancillary reporting on the incident, but nothing.

His eyes drifted to the Highlands section.

There was a half-page feature on the Ruthven ceilidh. Mark's heart was thudding in his chest - there was a picture of Elizabeth looking stunning, speaking into a microphone. Luckily, he wasn't in the shot. The caption underneath read 'the reclusive Lady Ruthven addresses the crowd'. He was in the photo at the bottom, dancing in a corner looking wasted. He hoped Sarah didn't see it - she was a Guardian reader when she bothered. He shut it and closed his eyes, ashamed and disgusted by his behaviour.

No matter how much of a nightmare Sarah was, he shouldn't be acting like this. If he was going to sleep around, the only fair option would be to split up. He couldn't bring himself to do that.

It was a bad patch, that was all.

The sigh he let out revealed his answer. Maybe he needed to go away again, think things through. Somewhere like Anstruther, Duns or Lockerbie, quaint little lowland Scottish towns with few distractions, spend time writing and then some more thinking through what the hell he was up to.

He finished the cup of tea and headed back upstairs, taking the newspaper and banana with him. If nothing else, he should really photocopy the articles.

Finding his table again, he slumped in his chair, unable to take his eyes off the article about John's death. It hadn't sunk in yet, but he had been avoiding thinking about it.
 

He should have gone back to Edinburgh before the ceilidh and he should have reported the disappearance to the police. John might have been lying in agony for hours. The news article had scant information, Highland news seeming days out of sync with happenings in the mainstream UK.

He took a deep breath and went into the Scottish History section of the library, hopeful of losing himself in work and banishing thoughts of guilt, adultery and inaction. He lost himself as his ideas wandered and twisted through his mind.

When he came to, he was standing far from his desk, holding a book covering the history of many Highland families, among them the Ruthven clan. He returned to the table, and flicked to the index, disappointed when he saw so few entries for the Ruthvens.

Over the next half hour, he read through each entry, taking copious notes. All he learned was they lost their estate in 1822. They had owned the land around the castle, including the banks of the loch system and the entirety of the village. The annual ceilidh dated back to the time when the family owned the village and the building that became the hotel, a village hall later expanded and extended. Frustratingly, the book didn't mention how or why the family lost their land.

Mark sighed and closed the book. He opened the newspaper and stared at the photo of Elizabeth long and hard, desperately trying to remember what he'd done. He flicked through the rest of the paper, through the TV listings and football, neither of which he ever looked at.

His eye stopped at an article. It reported two men who had disappeared in the Highlands over the previous fortnight.

His jaw dropped - he recognised them from the ceilidh.

Mark stood on George IV Bridge, outside the library, on the phone to a police call centre in the Highlands. He was stuck in the queue while a detective was found. He felt that, in some small way, this was his stab at redemption for the craven way he'd acted over the disappearances of Kay and John.

"DS Lorimer," came the male voice, sounding bored, tired and harassed. "You've got a lead on the two disappearances, right?"

Mark introduced himself. "I saw the photos of the men in the
Scotsman
," he said. "I saw both of them at a ceilidh in the village of Ruthven."

"That's in Aberdeenshire, pal," said Lorimer. "That's not my patch so I'll need to pass you to a colleague."

"The Ruthven that's near Kinbrace," said Mark.

"Kin-where?"

"It's on the Far North Line," said Mark. "It's definitely your patch."

"Hold on a minute, pal," said Lorimer. Mark heard the ruffling of paper, presumably a map. "Well, wouldn't you know? Turns out you're right. Didn't know there was a Ruthven up there. Says there's one in Angus as well."

"There's an annual ceilidh in the village," said Mark. "I was at it a couple of days ago and I saw both of your missing persons there."

"You sure about this?" asked Lorimer.

"I am," said Mark.

"Hmmm," said Lorimer. He paused for a bit while he ruffled the map some more. "They're both quite a way from where they went missing. One of them was Fort Augustus, the other was on the Black Isle."

"You've got roads up there," said Mark, losing patience with him.

"No need for that, pal," said Lorimer. He exhaled down the line. "Looks like another pair of disappearances in early June. We get them every few years and nobody can pin them to anything."

Mark frowned. "Are you serious?"

"Aye," said Lorimer. "We usually get a couple of guys reported missing around about the middle of June. The 12
th
or 13
th
. If your pair are alive, then they're not part of that."

Mark jotted it down on his notebook - the fact that there were disappearances every year spooked him. "How far apart would these generally be?" he asked.

"Oh, you're talking anywhere north of Glasgow or Perth," said Lorimer. "It's not every year, mind. Anyway, I've got a call waiting, pal, so I'll give you a ring back if we need a statement. Meanwhile, I'll get a couple of big lumps to mooch around Ruthven, providing they can actually find the place."

Mark hung up and slumped against the wall, watching the foot and road traffic trundle by. He didn't know what to think.

Two vanishings every year.

Why wasn't it common knowledge?

Why didn't they have campaigns?

He figured the figures were probably small enough they wouldn't break any statistics.

He made a snap decision and headed up to the newspaper archives, looking out copies of the
Scotsman
, the
Press & Journal
and the
Herald
from mid-June going back a few years. Right enough, there were instances around about that time, pretty much every second year.

Two men had been reported missing and turned up at the ceilidh. It fit a pattern, according to DS Lorimer. What was going on?

An hour later, Mark collected a wad of prints from the machine and returned to his desk. He looked through chunks of twenty days around the 12
th
from each of the last ten years, then repeated it for every five years going back to 1910.

Sure enough, DS Lorimer's pattern emerged. Disappearances on the 12
th
or 13
th
of June. Every second year.

Then something caught his eye. Elizabeth. And again. His fingers fumbled the page as he checked the date on the front. 1975. How was that possible? She looked exactly the same as she did now. His shaking hands struggled as he sifted through the rest of the pile - 1958, 1932, 1910. Elizabeth's face smiled out from every single one, the faces around her ageing as she stayed the same.

He remembered the book he'd bought in Inverness - he'd thought that she looked exactly like her, what, grandmother? Great-grandmother?

How could she not age?

"Where are you going?" asked Sarah, her eyes aflame.

"I need to head back up north," said Mark, throwing fresh clothes into his bag.

"But you've just got home," said Sarah.

"I know," said Mark, zipping the rucksack up. He walked over and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I need you to stay safe."

Sarah pushed his hands away. "Safe? Safe? I hope you're being safe with the girl you're seeing up there."

"There's no girl," said Mark. A blatant lie. It was sort of true - if he was correct, then Elizabeth was at least a hundred years old and certainly no girl. "I need to go and sort something out."

"Sort what out?" asked Sarah.

"I…"

He didn't know. He would get up there and ... what? What was he going to achieve?

Elizabeth was ancient - she hadn't changed since the early part of the previous century. How was that even possible?

"Sort what out, Mark?" asked Sarah.

Mark closed his eyes. "I just need you to stay here and be safe," he said.

She folded her arms. "Safe from your drinking?"

"Sarah, I'm serious," said Mark. "There's something strange happening and I need to figure it out."

"Mark, you can be honest with me," said Sarah. "What is going on?"

"Just believe me," said Mark. "Keep Beth safe. Okay?"

He reached down to kiss her - for the first time in months she didn't flinch. They kissed for a long while, Mark feeling ready to take things a stage further. Panic struck him again. He broke off.

"I really need to go," he said. "I'll be back."

Sarah nodded - tears slid down her cheek. "You'd better not be lying to me," she said.

Mark picked up the rucksack and hurried out of the bedroom.

The traffic at Perth was hell.

Mark was sitting static in traffic, the M90 blocked in both directions. He'd managed to avoid thinking too much, instead just concentrating on the driving. Occasionally, his thoughts had turned to what had happened, but each time came up blank.