Requiem (31 page)

The next hours were both vivid and dreamlike. Sometimes Nick felt alive and sick with fear, at other times he felt oddly apathetic and detached, as if someone had put the whole thing on film and slowed the projector. For the most part he simply felt ill, his mouth dry, his stomach light and jittery.

Halfway down the glen, they were met by a couple of police vehicles which disgorged men and dogs.

At the edge of the woods where the track looped towards the house, people grouped together again, smoking and whispering quietly, waiting for fresh instructions. Messages from the house brought reports from the other search parties: nothing had been found. The police took the opportunity to put questions to Nick. Gathering around him, their voices deferential but firm, they asked if Alusha always went for walks and how long she generally stayed out and if there was any reason why she should have gone for a longer walk than usual. It occurred to Nick that they were looking for a motive for her to have kept walking – a marital row, an unhappy marriage, a lover waiting at the end of the drive. It was all so ridiculous he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He answered in monosyllables, if only to prevent himself from letting his rage show, and more than once they had to prompt him for a reply.

It was her illness that impressed them more than anything else. When it came to using police time, illness obviously ranked a long way above marital tiffs. He didn’t tell them quite how ill she was. Apart from anything else, he didn’t think it was any of their business.

It began to rain, a thin spiky inconsequential rain, then, all too quickly, a more determined rain that spattered against his face and trickled down his neck. He gulped some coffee – unlaced – smoked two cigarettes in quick succession and endured Duncan’s well-meaning assurances.

Everything was dreamlike, then all of a sudden he awoke again. The urgency flooded back into him and he pushed forward and began to argue with the police for an immediate return to the glen. The inspector, a soft-spoken man, listened with attention but not, apparently, conviction. There was no indication she had gone up the glen, was there? the inspector argued. It wasn’t very likely, was it, not on such a stormy day. Wouldn’t she have stayed closer to home? Particularly since she was so unwell.

Forcing himself into a state of exaggerated calm, Nick repeated stubbornly: ‘We
must
search the glen!’

‘The main paths have already been covered, have they not, Mr Mackenzie? Would we not do better to – ’

‘The upper glen – no one’s been there!’

‘Why do you think she might have gone up there, Mr Mackenzie?’

‘
Because
– ’ But he was beyond speech, beyond explanation, his mind a nightmare of half-realized fears and confusions. Catching himself on the point of losing control, he withdrew some way into the darkness and paced back and forth, smoking hard. Just when he thought he’d got himself into some sort of shape, the inspector announced his plans for the search. It would be concentrated on the area around the house and would slowly expand outwards. The denser sections of forest and undergrowth would be left until daylight.

The wind eased abruptly, and a heavier rain began to fall, a drenching pervasive rain that drummed on the roofs of the cars and kicked at the ground, so that people made for the shelter of the trees.

Nick’s vision of Alusha shifted agonizingly: he saw the rain seeping into her clothes, saturating her already cold skin, freezing her slowly to death.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. Striding away, he jumped into Duncan’s car, rammed it into reverse, and, twisting the wheel savagely, executed a tight turn.

As he jammed the accelerator down and shot off up the glen he was aware of someone swinging into the back seat and slamming the door shut behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

‘Duncan?’

‘No. It’s me, Alistair Campbell.’

Nick considered telling the man, whoever he was, to bugger off, then thought better of it. He might be useful.

The car bumped and leapt up the rough road. Nick didn’t slow until he reached the point just below Macinley’s Rock where his earlier search had ended. Then he parked and set off briskly up the main track, sweeping the undergrowth with his torch-beam. As if by some previous agreement, the other man cut down to the path by the side of the river and walked in parallel, so that the dull glint of his light was visible through the trees.

Above Macinley’s Rock, Nick saw the other man’s light fall behind as it flickered slowly round the sides of the Great Pool. Eventually it came back onto the path and gradually drew level until they were once again in parallel. The wind had dwindled further and now the forest resounded to the steady drum and patter of the rain.

Half a mile later the other man’s light rose to meet him as the lower path left the river and converged with the main track. The two men met without speaking and fell into step one behind the other.

To the right the forest thickened: they had reached a dense stand of pines. Nick paused. The stand continued for perhaps half a mile. Beyond it there was nothing but open moor and grazing sheep. It was just possible she had got this far – it had occurred to him that the morphine might have made her feel unusually energetic – but no further. Quite apart from the distance and the climb, she didn’t like the darkness of the pine forest any more than she liked the bleakness of the open moor.

Desperate for a smoke, he stepped into the shelter of the trees and reached inside his jacket. His packet was empty. The other man, watchful as some shadowy manservant, stepped forward and held out a packet which he illuminated with his torch. Nick stole a glance at him in the flare of the match, but didn’t recognize him.

Their cigarettes lit, the two men started back down the track.

Campbell spoke. ‘I could cross the river just by the pool there an’ follow down the other bank.’

‘No.’ The path was rough on the opposite side, the bank very steep. It wasn’t a possibility.

‘She couldna’ manage that, then?’

‘No.’

‘Not so good at the walkin’?’

‘No.’

‘Ma sister’s lad’s the same. Canna’ hardly manage to leave the house.’

What the hell was he talking about? Nick grunted negatively and hurried on, swinging his torch-beam purposefully from side to side. The rain dropped over the beam and cut across it like a curtain. He called Alusha’s name, and got the constant patter of the rain in return.

‘It’s the same malady, you know.’

Christ, Nick thought savagely, what a time for obtuse social chat. He walked even faster, determined to shake the other man off.

‘It’s a chemical,’ the man persisted, matching his pace effortlessly to Nick’s. ‘They were usin’ it all over against the beauty moth. The lad, he got a dose of it in June, just before your wife. He’s not been right since.’

Despite everything, a small memory triggered in Nick’s mind. A letter, something he’d received months ago – other cases, the name Campbell.

There was something else though, something about the man’s voice, something familiar which he couldn’t quite place.

‘Not the same thing,’ Nick snapped with finality.

Now it was Campbell’s turn to be silent. Eventually he murmured: ‘If you say so.’

Suddenly Nick felt a jolt of recognition. The voice, the accent. Even the place.
God
. He swung his torch full onto Campbell. The face was square, with wet hair plastered down onto his forehead. The features were unfamiliar, but the build – oxlike and unusually tall –
yes
.

‘You.’

Campbell raised a hand against the light.

‘Christ! Christ!’ Nick shook with rage. ‘It
is
you!’

Campbell lowered his hand. ‘I have to say that I canna’ entirely deny the fact. But I’ve not touched a fish in this pool, not since June, an’ that’s the truth, Mr Mackenzie.’

‘Get the hell out of my sight!’ Nick turned on his heel and strode off, enraged by the intrusion, furious at the diversion. He went fast, swinging his torch rapidly, shouting Alusha’s name until his voice descended into feeble infuriating croaks. It was some time before he glanced back over his shoulder. No sign of a light on the track. Then he saw it, down on the river path once more, a soft pinprick flattened and blurred by the rain.

He pressed on, suddenly aware of how long he’d been out of contact with Duncan and the main search party. Reaching the car, he jumped in and started up. Campbell could damned well walk back. Yet something made him switch off and get out again.

There was no sign of a light. He yelled Campbell’s name.

There was only the rushing of the water and the drumming of the rain, then a voice came echoing back. From above, from beyond the invisible bulk of Macinley’s Rock.

Nick bawled: ‘Hurry.’

The voice came again, rising above the deathly splatter of the rain. A long call that sounded like: ‘
Here. O-v-e-r h-e-r-e
.’

Nick didn’t move. He was gripped by an indescribable fear.

He waited, dreading the words, yet needing to hear them again.

They came once more, as he knew they would.

‘
O-v-e-r h-e-r-e
.’

Finally he moved. Each step felt more unreal than the last; his body no longer belonged to him. He broke into an uneven stride, half run half walk, and made his way panting up the track until, abreast of Macinley’s Rock, he began to climb down the slope towards the water. Hitting rock, he stumbled and fell, landing heavily on his hip and dropping the torch. Picking it up again, he remembered, by a great effort of will, to shine the beam in front of him. He blundered through undergrowth, past massive stones and across a mossy bank until, finally, he reached the edge of the pool.

‘
Here
.’ The harsh cry was unexpectedly close.

Nick shone the torch around, then down. The beam caught Campbell’s huddled form, crouched at the pool edge. He was cradling a bundle which lay half in, half out of the water.

Campbell raised his head. His face was contorted into a terrible grimace. The bundle unfolded from his lap. First an arm, then a white face fell back over Campbell’s knees.

Burning rage came over Nick like a hot sea, his brain exploded with pain.

‘
Get off her, get off! You bastard! You bastard!
’

He was aware of screaming, aware of the other man moving away, aware, finally, of dropping to his knees and pulling Alusha onto his lap.

Then the heat left him as suddenly as it had come, cooled by the ice of Alusha’s skin.

T
HE BEAUTY MOTH
didn’t live up to its name. Small, little more than an inch from wingtip to wingtip, a uniform and rather drab brown, it had no great claims to beauty although, when Daisy put her nose closer to the glass of the sample box, she saw that the upper wings were marked with an attractive and intricate tortoiseshell pattern.

She commented: ‘It doesn’t look big enough to eat a whole forest.’

The bugman shuffled his feet. ‘Well, the moth itself
doesn’t
, of course,’ he said with a quick smile. ‘It’s the larva that’s the gobbler.’ He pointed to a striped caterpillar impaled on the next pin.

They walked back to the bugman’s office, which was situated in a modernish wing of the Edwardian country house that was the headquarters of the forestry research station. The office windows, partially obscured by stacks of files and papers, looked out onto a dense shrubbery and, beyond, to the tall forest that surrounded the grounds.

Daisy asked: ‘What would a forest manager do then, if he had a bad outbreak of pine beauty moth?’

The bugman settled in his chair. He was a bearded Welshman with the confident easy-going manner that comes from knowing his stuff and having the happy occasion to impart it. ‘You’d have to spray the forest,’ he said. ‘There’d be no way round that. But we’re developing virus applications that are absolutely specific to the moth and therefore very much safer – ’

‘Developing? They’re not in use then?’

‘Ah.’ He gave a sight of regret. ‘Still too expensive.’

‘So a private contractor would still use an insecticide?’

‘At the moment – yes.’

‘And what would he use? Can you give me a list of the most likely chemicals?’

The bugman looked surprised. ‘A list? Well, I could try. But really, there’s only one in common use.’

‘Only one?’ Daisy echoed, adjusting rapidly to the likelihood of disappointment.

The bugman rasped a hand over his beard and puckered his lip, as if considering the possibility that he might have overlooked something. ‘Aerial application, you said? No – there’s really only one.’

Fenitrothion. He said the word slowly in case she wanted to copy it down. But there was no need. Fenitrothion was well known. It was an organophosphate that had been around for some time. If it had killed and maimed people on a regular basis the news would have seeped out by now. As it was, it didn’t even rate a mention on Catch’s ‘dirty dozen’ of the most dangerous chemicals. Although it was always possible that, despite everything, they had all been missing something.

‘And there’s really nothing else?’