She stood up and whistled the dog and they set off down the road.
33
Hanlon and Wemyss walked up the track to McCleod’s house. As they rounded the corner she froze: Donald’s red Nissan Micra was parked next to McCleod’s Volvo.
There was something in the cosy proximity of the cars that suggested a similar relationship of the owners. It’s my imagination. It can’t be, thought Hanlon.
‘I’m working on Islay, I’ll be round about six.’
It was five now. Your imagination is going crazy, she told herself sternly. It’s two cars, that’s all. It’s meaningless.
She felt sick.
Perhaps she got back early, perhaps Donald had come round to offer cooking tips or something. God knew McCleod needed it.
She thought of the mouse, secure in its nest, oblivious of the iron plough headed towards it, until it burst through the walls.
Perhaps it’s nothing.
She walked to the front door and knocked.
Perhaps it’s nothing.
The door opened.
McCleod. Short belted dressing gown. Naked underneath. Tousled hair. Smelling unmistakeably of sex. Shock on her face at the sight of Hanlon, then replaced by an imperturbable mask.
‘Who is it?’ called a male voice.
And Hanlon’s dreams lay in ruins.
Donald appeared, barefoot too, jeans and a T-shirt.
Betrayal. Anger. Disbelief. Jealousy. Rage. Nausea
‘Hello, Hanlon.’ He grinned. ‘Come to join in?’
34
McCleod took charge with exemplary efficiency.
‘Go and wait in there, Donald,’ she said sharply, pointing at her bedroom door. He shrugged and obeyed.
Our bed, thought Hanlon stupidly. Our bed. She felt like throwing up. I feel betrayed. Duplicity. Hanlon hated being lied to and people lied to her all the time. Usually at work: lies, half-lies and omissions. She didn’t need it in her private life. McCleod sat down on the sofa and Hanlon took the chair opposite.
Was this the meeting on Islay? What other lies? She felt a burst of anger, blazing, sharp, towards herself. How could she have been so stupid, so gullible?
‘Well, this is unexpected,’ McCleod said brightly. Then, ‘Let’s be adult about things.’
For a mad second Hanlon felt like back-handing her. She fought down the urge to wipe the irritating smile off McCleod’s face. I don’t want to be adult. I want to break your fucking nose.
Dr Morgan’s voice in her head. ‘Yes, that worked brilliantly last time, didn’t it?’
Hanlon’s phone rang, no caller ID. It would have been polite to have ignored it. Hanlon was in no mood to be polite. She wanted to make a point. A man’s voice, an English accent.
‘It’s Morag…’
‘Really?’ She actually looked at the phone in surprise. What?
Morag noted the surprise in her voice. ‘Aye, really. I’ve got an app does it,’ she explained. Of course, thought Hanlon, she knew another single woman who had the same thing on her phone, for the same reason. Morag carried on in her digitally altered man’s voice, McCleod staring at Hanlon with annoyance.
‘I remember who the dog belongs to, that policewoman…’ Hanlon felt a faint stir of alarm, like the rumble that signals the start of an avalanche. ‘I did see a car in the hills that day, driving away from the bothy, the one where they say it happened…’ Oh my God, the killer’s car. Hanlon kept her face expressionless.
‘Go on…’ her voice level.
Hanlon’s eyes went to McCleod, who was leaning forward rubbing her foot, the swollen ankle.
‘Her Volvo.’ McCleod, the killer. Not Campbell at all, not Big Jim. Her friend and lover, the woman sitting so calmly in front of her at this precise moment.
Hanlon ended the call. McCleod met her eyes.
‘Who was that?’ she said pleasantly, but with a hint of steel. Their eyes were locked together. She knows I know, thought Hanlon.
‘Nobody,’ Hanlon said. She stood up.
‘I’m going now. I need to think about things. I’ll leave you and Donald in peace.’
‘I don’t think you should,’ said McCleod, also standing up, her voice hard. ‘I really don’t think you should. Who was that on the phone, Hanlon? Donald,’ she shouted. There was real urgency in her voice now, panic too.
The chef ran out of the bedroom towards Hanlon and McCleod grabbed her arm. Good, thought Hanlon. You started it. Time for some justified violence. She drove a hard right hook into her body, real venom in the punch. God, that felt good, and McCleod staggered back, tripping over a shopping bag on the floor. She landed on her back. Donald threw a punch at Hanlon. She jerked her head out of the way and hit him hard on the nose with a straight right. He reflexively stepped back, clutching his face, then she pushed past him and ran for the door.
‘Get the shotgun!’ she heard McCleod shout as she ran outside. Shit, she thought, it’ll be to hand as well, in the wardrobe, ten feet away, not locked away in a safe. It’ll only take him a couple of seconds.
She looked around. The drive, too long to reach the road before Donald, armed with a shotgun, caught up with her in a car. She ran to the left and started scrambling up the steep slope of the small hill behind the house to put as much distance between her and the place as possible before Donald ran out.
She pushed her way upwards through the greenery, relishing the steep slope. You try it, Donald, you fat bastard, she thought, through the ferns and stumpy, lichened bushes and past bog myrtle, alder and birch trees. Clouds of midges arose around her and within a couple of minutes she was covered with sweat. She thought grimly of Donald trying to follow her. You haven’t got a chance, you fat prick. McCleod could have bounded up it like a gazelle, but thank God for that busted ankle, about the only thing she hadn’t lied to her about. No way, she thought. No way could Donald get through this.
I’m home and free.
After about five hundred metres of climbing, the foliage thinned and she could look down on the house and
