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Shona saw again the young woman’s mermaid hair and ruined face. She sighed. ‘Where do you think she went into the water? Pathologist reckons three weeks.’
‘Well.’ Tommy got up from the table and, cupping the mug of tea in his hands, crossed to the OS map of the Solway Firth pinned to wall. ‘It’s hard to say. If she was swept up the channel, then maybe as far away as Ireland or the Isle of Man. Remember thon fella reported missing in Douglas last year?’
Shona nodded. An elderly man, dementia, left his house on the Isle of Man to post a letter. His body washed up weeks later in the Solway.
‘She could have fallen from a vessel or the Stranraer ferry,’ said Tommy, his fingers skimming over sea and sands, the faded blue and the thin contour lines, as if divining hidden paths.
‘Doubt it. No mis per report. No one’s looking for her, Tommy.’ Shona came to stand by his shoulder.
‘So, we found her here.’ He tapped the sandbank in the middle of the firth. ‘The spring tides run high over the south side of Midtown Bank. She was in the water for about three weeks?’
Shona nodded.
‘It’s just a guess, mind,’ he warned her. ‘I’d say she went in the water either here, in the Wampool Estuary,’ he pointed to an area of the north Cumbrian coast, ‘or further up the River Esk. Or even the Sark.’ He traced a blue line, fed by smaller rivers, that crossed the Scottish border at Gretna and meandered off into the lowland hills.
Shona sighed. ‘This is not to go any further, Tommy, but it’s looking like an unlawful death. A deposition site would probably need road access. But would a body really travel all the way downriver from Gretna and not be seen?’
‘In three weeks? Aye, it could. The spring tides scour out that river a fair way upstream.’
‘So, she could even have been thrown from a bridge?’ It was Shona’s turn to study the map, placing her finger over the River Usk where it was crossed by the M6 motorway. There were cameras everywhere on that stretch. It was an unlikely choice to dispose of a body, even in the dead of night.
‘The lassie was wrapped up in green netting, wasn’t she? What if she didn’t pick it up in the firth?’ He pointed to a bridge crossing the River Sark in the outskirts of Gretna. ‘This wee industrial park here. It recycles fishing gear. Cockle bags, seine netting and the like. Plenty of kit lying about since the government got so concerned about low catch weights and banned some of the fishing. What if she was already wrapped up in it before she went in the water?’
‘You mean to disguise the body?’
‘Aye. Or to weight it down,’
‘It’s a possibility.’ Shona nodded slowly. ‘Worth checking out. Thanks, Tommy.’
Shona washed up the cups and hung them back on their hooks. ‘Becca been to see you this evening?’ she said as casually as she could, but Tommy looked at her shrewdly.
‘No. Nor your Robert neither.’ He slid the compass rose back into the case and spun the floating needle, checking its accuracy. ‘They haven’t gone far. They’ll find their way back, don’t you worry. You on call for us this weekend?’ Shona nodded. Tommy continued, ‘Go home, it’ll all be fine.’
Shona smiled her goodbye to him.
Outside the lifeboat station the tide was on the turn, creeping in over mud and cockleshell beach, lapping up beside the Wee Pier, a granite runway built in the eighteenth century by the Kirkness fisherfolk. Shona sat down on the ancient stones, her legs dangling over the side, toes reaching down to the newmade waves. Her breath came slower, her shoulders relaxed. Tommy was right. Rob would sort himself out, one way or another, and Becca was a teenager and as changeable as the weather. There were bound to be storms. When she got home Rob and Becca would probably be sitting side by side on the sofa hooting at some awful comedy, everything else forgotten.
Shona pulled out her phone. After hesitating for a moment, she scrolled past Becca and Rob’s numbers and made a call. It went straight to voicemail.
‘Hello, Dan, it’s DI Shona Oliver here. Can you meet me in Gretna first thing Monday morning, eight a.m.? I’ll text you the address. I’ve got a lead you might be interested in.’ She had time before her first meeting. No one at Cornwall Mount need know about her detour.
She dusted off her jeans and took a last look around the bay before heading back along the waterfront. The wind had dropped enough for a cloud of midges to gather round her. She swept her hand back and forward in front of her face.
Fifty metres from the Royal Arms she saw a flash of Becca’s red jacket moving between the tables outside the front of the pub. A car had pulled up, music spilling from its open windows. Becca walked to the driver’s side. A boy in the back leaned forward and handed her something. Shona saw her daughter’s laugh turn to a frown, then she threw the folded paper back. A hand shot out, grabbing her arm.
As Becca struggled
to free herself, Shona let out a shout. She broke into a run. The other rear-seat passenger turned, his mouth forming a perfect circle as he saw Shona sprinting along the seafront. The distance between them was rapidly diminishing – in three seconds she’d have them. Just as the car took off, Becca managed to jerk her arm free.
When Shona reached her daughter, she was rubbing her wrist and glaring after the vehicle already making the turn up the hill and out of the village.
‘Are you all right?’ Shona caught hold of her daughter. Becca was trembling, her long dark hair falling over her eyes, blinking back angry tears. She shook off her mother, walked to her table, picked up a glass of dark liquid and downed it in one.
‘It’s just Coke,’ she said indignantly to a horrified Shona before flopping down on the bench. ‘Want to check the glass?’
Shona took the glass from her outstretched hand. She fought the impulse to lift it to her nose and smell it. The table was littered with empty pint mugs and tumblers. Shona placed the glass amongst them and sat down next to Becca.
‘Some people from school were here,’ Becca said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘Paula, Callum’s girlfriend, lets us buy soft drinks and use the free Wi-Fi.’
