When she went into the house she was struck first by the smell of cooking. There was nothing usually organized about meals, no cosy gathering every evening to compare notes. Rachael had suggested a rota for washing up but even that was impractical. They ate at different times. Anne seemed to survive on scrambled egg and smoked salmon. It seemed she had a friend in the Craster smokery who kept her well supplied. And Belgian chocolates which appeared from nowhere. She was always generous about sharing them. Rachael occasionally indulged.
Grace seemed suspicious of the gesture.
Wandering through the living room Rachael saw that the table had been cleared of books and papers and was laid for dinner. For three. There was no sign of life. She called up the stairs, “Hello! I’m back,” trying to keep her voice normal, unworried.
Anne appeared. She was wearing black jeans and a sleeveless top. When the fire had been lit for a while the cottage could get very warm but the top, cream silk, ANN CLEEVES seemed a strange choice. It was too dressy. Rachael wondered if she’d been entertaining a guest.
“I cooked a casserole,” Anne said. “It’s all right. There’s veggie for you. There’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge.”
So either someone had been there, or Anne had been out for supplies.
She went on, “I thought, well, we’ve got to live here together, haven’t we? We might as well make an effort to be chums.”
“Where is Grace?”
Anne pulled a face. “Inconsiderate cow’s not back yet. I told her I’d be cooking.”
Rachael went to the window. It was almost dark. “She did leave her route and her ETA?”
“I suppose so. On the kitchen notice board Like a good girl.”
This was a dig at Rachael who had been forced to nag her again about not leaving the details of her count. And there was a note in Grace’s tiny, angular writing, giving the map reference of an area beyond the burn and her expected time of return at 8.30. It was about that time now.
Rachael relaxed a little. It was too early to panic. She went back to the window expecting to see Grace’s pale form emerge from the long bracken, like a swimmer from the sea.
“Oh well,” Anne said. “I suppose the food will keep. But I’m going to open the wine. Do you want one?”
“Not yet.” It seemed important to keep a clear head.
At nine o’clock she went out with a torch and followed the footpath as far as the burn. She crossed it by the footbridge and began to shout Grace’s name, cupping her hands, then pausing to listen. A breeze had come up. She heard the burn, and the rustling of cotton grass and of small mammals. A hare froze, dazzled by the beam of the torch. There was no human sound, no echoing flicker of torchlight. Thick clouds had covered the moon and if it hadn’t been for the water noise she would have lost her bearings completely. It would be impossible to search the area properly, even if Anne were prepared to help.
When she returned to Baikie’s Anne was on her second glass of wine.
She’d torn a chunk from a French loaf and was eating it hungrily to make a point. Her stockinged feet were stretched onto the hearth. “You realize she’s doing this on purpose,” she said. “To get at me, because I said I’d cook. Well, I’ll not wait much longer. I’m starving.”
“It’s pitch black out there now.” Rachael couldn’t keep still. She moved from the window to the kitchen door, listening, peering into the darkness.
“Don’t panic, for Christ’s sake. She’s not that late. I bet you wouldn’t worry about me. She’s not a kid, you know. She’s older than she looks. Nearly twenty-eight.”
For a moment Rachael was distracted. “How do you know?”
“She’d left her passport on the dressing table upstairs. So I looked.”
Anticipating Rachael’s disapproval she added, “Well, I was curious.
Aren’t you? We don’t know anything about her except she seems a bloody miracle worker when it comes to finding otters. If you accept her results.”
At ten o’clock Rachael went to Black Law to phone Peter Kemp.
“I didn’t know you had the keys,” Anne said.
“Dougie gave me a set after the funeral. In case of an emergency.”
She reached Peter on his mobile. He seemed to be in a busy restaurant.
There were shrill women’s voices, the clatter of plates. At least he took the call seriously. She had been afraid he would laugh at her concern.
“Just a minute,” he said. “I’ll phone you back from somewhere quieter.”
Five minutes later the phone rang, sounding very loud in the empty house. He was brisk, assertive. He had been in touch with the mountain rescue team though he didn’t think they’d do much before first light. It wasn’t as if Grace had been anywhere dangerous. Not like rock-climbing or pot-holing.
“She wasn’t a reckless type, was she?” “No,” Rachael said. “I wouldn’t have thought so.” He said it was a mild night and even if there’d been an accident she’d survive until morning, but anyway the team would soon be on its way. It was up to them to decide how to play it. A clue to his promptness came at the end of the conversation.
“The Health and Safety won’t be able to get us on this, will they? All the procedures were in order?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well then, we should be able to face it out. Whatever happens.”
What happened was that six burly men turned up in a Land Rover. They were good-looking in a rugged, muscle-bound way. Anne, who had eaten a plate of casserole, finished the wine and gone to bed, would be sorry to have missed them, Rachael thought. One of the team was the doctor who had pronounced Bella dead and taken Dougie away.
“You’re having a dramatic time of it,” he said, as if he envied her.
Perhaps that was what being a GP was about for him. It entitled him to star in his own action movie.
They went out onto the hill just before dawn. With such a detailed record of Grace’s movements they said they would easily find her. Even if she’d strayed away from her planned route there’d be no problem. The doctor carried a folded stretcher which poked out of the top of his rucksack.
Rachael watched them from her bedroom window. They didn’t invite her to go with them and she didn’t like to suggest it. The cloud was still thick and low, with a drizzle, so they soon disappeared. She must have dozed, although she was sitting upright in a chair, because she was suddenly aware of their return. She looked at her watch. They’d been gone for two hours. There were four of them, walking in single file.
The doctor still had the poles of the stretcher poking above his shoulder but she couldn’t see Grace.
She went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. Before going they had made jokes about having the tea ready on their return. The gas was so slow that she was still there when they came in. There was hardly room for them all to stand in the tiny kitchen. She could feel their heat after the walk, smell the wax on their boots.
“Did you find her?” Then this seemed a ridiculous question because Grace obviously wasn’t there. “I suppose the others are still searching.”
“We found her,” the doctor said.
“How is she?”
“She’s dead.”
It was, she thought, like Bella all over again. I know now, she thought, what it’s like to be mugged. You’re kicked. It hurts. You think it’s over, roll away, gather yourself to get up, then someone comes at you and kicks again. And all the time you know it’s your own fault.