Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you can spare half an hour.”
“Sure.” I wait a beat, however, because the thought occurs to me: Could this be who Effie was talking about? Don’t let him in. Did she mean this cop? Did she means all cops in general? Did she mean any man?
But it feels like I’ll get in big trouble if I don’t oblige. “Come in, Inspector,” I say, stepping aside. At the very least I’ve always wanted to say a line like that, as if I’m acting in a British murder mystery show.
He gives me a faint smile and steps over the threshold.
I take him into the kitchen. I offer him tea and he accepts, and as the kettle boils, I make an effort to gather sugar and milk into little ramekins my aunt has stacked on the shelf so I don’t offend him with too little or too much of either.
He looks around the kitchen, noting the salt at the windows, but doesn’t comment.
“So, Miss Galloway…”
“Iris.”
“Iris. I’ll be straight with you. I’m working a series of incidents on this stretch of coast between Ullapool and Lochcarron and your name came across my desk. MacRae’s report mentioned a man on your property. A man you’d had at your door the previous evening. A man you said gave his name as Alasdair and said he was staying at the castle across the bay.”
“That’s right,” I say slowly.
“How many times have you seen him since?”
The question is so direct it almost takes me off-guard. Who is this man to know how many times I’ve seen him and if I’ve seen him at all?
“Once,” I lie through my teeth. “Maybe twice. At the start of all this. He came to the door; the time MacRae knows about. I saw him out walking around the bay once or twice after. We haven’t spoken in a while.”
It comes out smoothly, which surprises me. I’ve been a great many things in my life, but I’ve not, generally, been a person who lies cleanly to police officers. I always have a tell—and that’s to say too much—so I clamp my jaw together as a reminder not to go blabbering and ruin it all.
Sinclair’s face does not change.
“You haven’t spoken with him?”
“Not really.” His brow raises and my jaw becomes unclamped. “In passing. Hello. Good morning. You know, not what I’d call speaking, speaking. Just…noises coming out of my mouth, really.”
Oh god, Iris, shut up. So much for that.
“And he hasn’t been to the cottage since the night MacRae has on record?”
“No. He’s not been in here.”
It’s not a lie lie.
“Can you describe him for me?” he asks as he takes out a notepad.
I describe a man. I describe a man who is several inches shorter than Alasdair, with short brown hair instead of black, and with hazel eyes. The description I give would fit a hundred men on this coast.
The real question is, of course…just why the fuck am I lying for him, a supposed, possible serial killer?
Because you know, deep down, he’s not, I tell myself.
I’m choosing to believe that for now.
“Mm,” Sinclair rumbles.
He takes a long sip of his tea. His eyes go to the salt line at the back window again. They stay there for a beat, then they come back to me.
“Iris. There’s something you should know, and I don’t know that the people in these parts will ever come around to telling you.”
I set my mug down. Jesus. He has my full attention now.
“There have been four incidents this summer between Lochcarron and Ullapool. Women, on the shore, alone. I’m not going to give you details because the details won’t help you. What I will tell you is that the last witness we had described a man on the shore with the victim, and the description was specific enough to be useful, and the description matched what MacRae has on file about your visitor.”
He says it flatly, letting it sit in the air between us. Meaning, he knows the description I just gave him is a load of shit.
“I’m not here to tell you who that man is,” he adds. “I’m here to tell you that if he comes to your cottage again, or if you see him on your property, or if he speaks to you in passing, I would like to know about it. Here is my card.”
He slides it across the table. I don’t pick it up.
“You think he’s the one? This Alasdair?” I wonder.
“I think he is a man we’d like to talk to. I think you are a woman living alone in an area of the Highlands where four women have either been killed or gone missing this summer. I think your great-aunt kept her doors locked her whole life and the salt on her sills for a reason, and I think I wouldn’t be doing my job if I sat here and pretended I didn’t see that salt.”