Entry Island(60)

Sime hobbled up the steps on to the porch of the summer-house cursing his stupidity. He threw open the door and called her name at the top of his voice.

He was halfway up the stairs in the darkness when the light came on, and a pale and frightened-looking Kirsty stood on the top landing, pulling on her dressing gown, eyes dilated and dark with fear.

His legs almost gave way beneath him from the relief of seeing her. Then her mouth and eyes opened wide as she saw the blood on the side of his head and the mud on his clothes, and she hurried down the few steps that separated them to catch his arm. ‘For God’s sake, Mr Mackenzie, what happened to you?’

Through his pain and relief, he felt the comfort of the warmth that came from her body, the sureness of her touch. He had not been this close to her before, breathing in her scent, and had to overcome a powerful urge to take her in his arms. ‘I was attacked,’ was all he managed to say, and he drew himself upright again. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. But you’re not. I’m going to call the nurse.’

Downstairs they heard the clatter of footsteps, and the screen door banging open. The patrolman left to guard the crime scene in the big house stood breathing hard at the foot of the stairs, gazing up at them in alarm. ‘What’s happened?’





CHAPTER TWENTY


I

The harbour was crowded for the arrival of the morning ferry. Pickup trucks with colourful Entry Island licence plates stood idling along the quayside. Men of all shapes and sizes, old and young, in baseball caps and trainers, baggy jeans and T-shirts, hung around in knots smoking and talking. The womenfolk stood apart in groups of their own, conducting quite different conversations. A forest of aerials and masts and radar pods broke the skyline behind them, fishing boats berthed along the pier rising and falling on the gentle grey swell.

Sime stood at the end of the quay beyond the yellow ticket hut, the breeze in his face, watching as the now familiar shape of the blue-and-white Ivan-Quinn ferry nosed into the harbour. He was aware of the eyes that were on him, of the lowered voices exchanging the latest gossip that was doubtless spreading like wildfire across the island in the wake of the previous night’s attack. He was not looking forward to his meeting with Crozes.

The cut on the side of his head was taped up, the contusion around it angry and inflamed. The nurse had strapped his chest tightly and the support had helped relieve the pain. She thought that he was probably just bruised, but that he should get an X-ray anyway.

He had lain then through all the hours of darkness, feeling the pain ebb away as the paracetamol she had given him took effect. Morning had brought stiffness, and an ache to muscles and joints. After an uncomfortable telephone conversation with Crozes he had taken the minibus to the harbour early and walked along the coast road and back to try to loosen up.

With the ramp down, passengers and vehicles debouched now on to the quayside, locals stepping forward to pick up boxes of groceries and other goods ordered from across the water and beyond. Crozes detached himself from the rest of his team and approached Sime, hands pushed deep into his pockets. He wore dark glasses below the peak of his baseball cap and the only real clue to his mood was in his demeanour. Sime saw Marie-Ange and Blanc glance towards him as they climbed into the minibus to await the lieutenant. The Cap aux Meules cops had brought their own vehicles and set off to resume their search for the missing Norman Morrison.

‘What the fuck were you playing at, Mackenzie?’ Crozes didn’t even look at him. He stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, staring out across the bay.

‘I just went out for some air, Lieutenant. I was only gone a few minutes.’

‘A few minutes in which he could have killed her.’

‘Then why didn’t he?’ Sime said.

Crozes turned his head to look at him for the first time. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he had the chance, but he didn’t. He came after me.’

Crozes stared at him thoughtfully. ‘You got a look at him?’

Sime blew exasperation through pursed lips. ‘Not really. He was wearing dark clothes, and a ski mask. Just like she described.’

Crozes turned away. ‘There won’t be a single person on this island who doesn’t know Mrs Cowell claimed to be attacked by a guy wearing a ski mask. Not very hard to replicate.’ He swung his head back towards Sime. ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to attack you, Sime, but it’s just one more complication we really don’t need.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any thoughts?’

Sime shrugged. ‘Not really. There’s Norman Morrison, I suppose. If he was the one who attacked her.’