‘Really?’ A bland, noncommittal response, as if they were at a dinner party discussing mortgage rates.
‘During the storm,’ she prompted. She was used to patience; the girls had taught her that.
‘Right.’
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Her voice became more forceful, demanding he tell her.
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Jane.’
That was as near an admission as she was going to get. ‘Something happened?’
‘I said I didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘I think you should.’ She said it with a friendly tone, but he could not mistake the steel beneath.
‘Maybe later.’
On the starboard side of the deck Raj groaned and threw up over the rail. McKinley cheered. Kirby’s face took on the color of freshly kneaded dough and she hung her head over the side.
There was a change in Carter, that was all too apparent, especially as Jane had known him so well, or thought she did. The story about Sian Davies, her disappearance and how it affected him seemed to be very true. He was much more intense than she remembered, much more withdrawn; like something was churning inside him waiting for release.
She didn’t think David knew about the affair, but she had changed during and since, to the extent that he must have suspected something was happening. It wasn’t planned, these things rarely are. They saw each other, on and off, for a few months in London, but never stepped over the line; not until Paris. An assignment in Europe that appeared on the face of it to concern the Department. The trip concluded in Paris and a drunken meal in their hotel ended with only one of their rooms being used that night. In the morning expecting embarrassment Jane was astonished to open her eyes and find Robert already awake. They made love again in the glistening dawn and found themselves speaking of feelings far deeper than a mere work trip coupling.
Jane found Carter to be far more sensitive than she expected, and her own emotions hoodwinked her as she told him things about herself and her life that she hadn’t even told her husband.
They had three more days in Paris, and two more glorious nights. Room service in this romantic city didn’t blink an eye as they delivered to one room one night and the other the next. It was on the last afternoon, as they talked about how they could continue when they returned home that Jane saw the darker side of Robert Carter. In retrospect, as she settled back into some kind of normality with her husband and children, she told herself Carter was just being sensible, was even being a gentleman in allowing her to escape back to reality without any baggage. It hurt all the same.
That afternoon, with bags packed, and clothes scattered around them he told her he cared for her but they should end it now. He didn’t use the clichés of not wanting to hurt her, or it being for the best. He was economical with his words, careful but decisive. Apart from working assignments, Jane hadn’t seen him since.
From his position on the quayside Nick Bayliss lifted the binoculars and watched the progress of the boat as it negotiated its way out of the harbor. He’d arrived at the hotel a little after seven, had a light breakfast of toast and coffee in Fiona’s office, received a brief but satisfying blow job, and then gone down to the harbor to scout out the best position for observing the group as they readied themselves for their trip to Kulsay.
His interest in Kulsay Island began years ago. Raised by his grandparents in a tenement on the east side of Edinburgh, his childhood had been colored by wild tales about Scottish mythology fed to him by his Glasgow-born grandfather. And the tale about the strange disappearance of the inhabitants of Kulsay was one of his favorites. His grandfather imbued and embellished the facts with mystery and intrigue, hinting at dark forces and witchcraft. They were stories that fired the young Bayliss imagination and stirred within him an insatiable curiosity about the unexplained and unexplainable.
The old man’s yarns infuriated Bayliss’s grandmother who was a staunch Catholic and thought such tales bordered on blasphemy. She was quick to counter her husband’s stories with some of her own; but these took the form of dire warnings about meddling in occult matters, designed, he was sure, to steer him away from such a course and to reinforce the need for strict Christian principals.
His grandfather died when he was eleven and left a void in his life that he filled with endless visits to the local library where he devoured any book he could find that could further perpetuate his grandfather’s storytelling legacy. The books helped ease the loss of the old man and temper the increasing dominance of the Catholic Church in his life brought about by his grandmother. He found the countless masses and enforced trips to confession repressive; they only served to pique his interest in the strange and unusual.
The older he grew the less hold the Church had over him. Born with a naturally enquiring mind, and a strong cynicism inherited directly from his grandfather, Bayliss eventually eschewed his grandmother’s church and its teachings, preferring to formulate his own beliefs, and Kulsay Island was a major piece in the philosophical jigsaw he was constructing.
When the Ministry of Defense held their investigation earlier in the year he’d gone across to the island, hoping to spy on the team the Ministry sent over there. He’d holed up in one of the deserted cottages on the south side of the island but he was discovered after a couple of days and kicked off the island without having the chance to learn anything useful. This time he’d be more careful. A small knot of excitement was forming in the pit of his stomach. Soon he would know the truth about Kulsay Island. If his grandfather’s stories were even half true, then Robert Carter and his people were in more danger than they could possibly imagine.
As he watched the small launch disappear into the distance he took the binoculars away from his eyes and walked back to the hotel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A Land Rover was waiting for them when the launch tied up at the island’s jetty. The driver, a young man in jeans and a tie-dyed tee shirt introduced himself as Mark Wallis and dropped a bunch of keys into Jane’s hand. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said.
Jane’s eyes registered surprise. ‘You’re not driving us up to the house?’
He shook his head. ‘Not in my contract,’ Wallis said easily, sweeping a blond bird’s wing of hair away from his face. ‘Meet you here, hand over the keys. That’s all I’m instructed to do.’
‘Fair enough. Do you have a map?’
He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, creased and dog-eared. ‘There you go,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘You’ll find the keys to the place on the bunch I’ve just given you.’
She unfolded the paper. Scribbled on it in pencil was a rudimentary map, showing the jetty and a torturous route of winding paths and tracks. Red ink arrows gave the directions. ‘And we’re supposed to find the place using this?’ Jane said.
‘I did. It’s more straightforward than it looks.’ Without a further word he threw her a smile and jumped aboard Cowan’s boat. Cowan cast off and went back to the wheel-house. Propellers spun, kicking up a spume of water and the craft edged away from the jetty heading out to sea.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Jane said to Kirby, who was hoisting a large backpack onto her shoulder. ‘We’re on our own.’
Kirby smiled nervously. ‘Better get this in the Land Rover,’ she said, jerking her thumb at the backpack, seemingly reluctant to talk.
‘Feeling better now?’ Jane said, pressing her.
Kirby grimaced. ‘Hollow,’ she said. ‘I mean, just how many times can you throw up in ninety minutes?’