Even so, something about the silence and darkness in the chalet made him uneasy. He glanced at his watch. Still only 8.40. If they’d done their packing the night before, there was time for them to be up and about before checkout time. He didn’t want to appear to be chivvying them unreasonably.

  Even so.

  ‘They need to be out by ten,’ the woman said, as if Murray might be unaware of his own rules. ‘Not much sign of them getting ready.’

  ‘I don’t like to hassle people before I need to,’ Murray said finally. ‘If they’re not up and about in a while, I’ll see what’s going on.’ Murray offered the couple a smile. ‘I hope you all have a decent trip south. Maybe we’ll see you again next year?’

  ‘If Santorini’s not calling.’

  He left them to their packing and continued on through the site. As he reached the far side of the chalet they’d been discussing, he looked back. His discomfort was increasing, though he couldn’t pin down why. There were no lights showing and no sign of any movement. The man and woman were still standing by their car, watching him as if willing him to act. He took a few more steps, then paused and turned back.

  At the front door of the chalet he hesitated momentarily, then reached out and raised the knocker. There was no doorbell – he’d reasoned that guests wouldn’t normally want or need one – and the knocker was primarily ornamental. Even so, it made a noise that would be difficult to ignore.

  He looked along the length of the wood-built buildings. The blinds were still down in the two windows at the front of the house. Those were both bedrooms, with the third, master bedroom at the side, offering a partial view of the firth.

  He raised the knocker and gave a second sharp rap on the door. Murray glanced over his shoulder and saw he was still being watched by the couple opposite. Ignoring them, he walked round the side of the chalet. The blinds on the side window – the master bedroom, with its en suite and its views of the sea – were also down, and there was no light showing behind them. Murray looked at his watch. Getting on for nine, now.

  He reached the front of the chalet. Here, the partial view of the sea opened up to reveal the full breadth of the Moray Firth, the stone ramparts of Fort George on the far side of the water, Chanonry Point jutting into the sea to the right.

  The patio windows were standing wide open.

  The windows opened from the large living room, allowing guests to sit inside and enjoy the full view. There were no lights visible either in the living room or in the window of the kitchen beside it.

  Murray’s discomfort had intensified. He could conceive of reasons why guests might have opened the windows even at this time of day before leaving. Perhaps they’d wanted to make the most of the fine weather and enjoy a last breakfast out on the decking. Perhaps they’d eaten outside to prevent the children making more mess after they’d cleared up. Perhaps they’d just wanted one last taste of the Highland air. But why was the whole bloody place still in darkness?

  If they’d had too much to drink the night before, maybe they’d simply forgotten to close the windows. You’d have to be pretty bloody pissed not to notice, though, particularly now the nights were growing colder. If they’d left the doors wide open all night, at least Murray would have reasonable grounds for complaint.

  He climbed the steps on to the decking. ‘Hello! Anyone around?’

  There was no wind and the silence felt intense. From up here, he couldn’t even hear the wash of the sea on the beach. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the barking of a dog, but that sounded like it might be coming from another world.

  ‘Hello! It’s Murray Johnson. I’ve just come…’ He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence. Then, feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic, he peered into the gloom of the living room.

  It took him a moment to register what he was seeing, as if his brain were refusing to process it. Then he recoiled to the edge of the decking, bile rising in his throat.

  ‘Oh, my sweet Jesus.’

  Chapter Two

  This was a first.

  A first in more than one way, Alec McKay thought. The first time he could recall seeing Jock Henderson not fully enclosed in his white protective suit. The first time, at least in a very long time, that McKay had been seriously tempted to accept Henderson’s semi-ironic offering of a cigarette. Definitely the first time that both he and Henderson had been almost lost for words. They could generally find something to say, even if it was only trading half-hearted insults.

  They were sitting on a bench at the top of the cliff, a few hundred metres from the chalet. McKay had been patiently waiting for some feedback from the team of examiners who had been working on the scene all morning, making a series of calls back to the office to get the necessary processes underway. He’d decided the view out over the firth might distract his brain from what had taken place just behind him. So far, that hadn’t worked, but he’d been glad of the fresh air.

  Eventually Jock Henderson had made his ungainly way along the cliff path to join him. McKay had been expecting Henderson to summon him for a debrief back at the scene, but Henderson had clearly opted to ditch his protective clothing for the moment to join McKay out here. McKay couldn’t say he blamed him. Henderson had taken a seat beside him and then silently waved his cigarette pack in McKay’s direction. It was a long-running joke between them, but McKay had found himself hesitating for a moment before shaking his head. Henderson had nodded and lit his own cigarette. McKay had pulled out his familiar pack of gum and, with the air of a chess grandmaster making a counter-move, briefly held it under Henderson’s nose. It was as close as they were likely to get to their usual verbal sparring.

  Henderson had sat in silence for several minutes, his attention apparently focused on his cigarette. McKay watched the play of the morning sun on the water. Finally, Henderson said, ‘The bloody kiddies, though.’

  ‘Aye,’ McKay agreed.

  ‘What sort of cold-hearted bastard does something like that?’

  McKay stretched out his legs. ‘The working assumption is that it’s the kind of cold-hearted bastard currently sitting in that living room half-decapitated. Unless you’re about to tell me differently, Jock.’

  ‘We’ve seen nothing so far to contradict that idea.’

  McKay thought back to the moment, an hour or so before, when he’d taken a brief look at the crime scene. Henderson had grumbled, in his usual slightly tetchy manner, that McKay shouldn’t trouble himself, but McKay was damned if he was going to allow Henderson to tell him what to do. Apart from anything else, if McKay had showed any sign of squeamishness, Henderson would never have allowed him to forget it.

  More importantly, though, McKay had wanted a real sense of the crime scene. By the time Henderson and his team had completed their work, the room would have been rendered tidier, more sterile. It would be captured in literally forensic detail, but that would be different from the initial technicolour-reeking reality. McKay felt he needed a sense of that.

  McKay had never thought of himself as faint-hearted, and there wasn’t much he hadn’t witnessed in his police career. But a brief glimpse into that living room, standing at the patio windows, had been more than enough. He’d used the term ‘bloodbath’ once or twice over the years, but he knew now he’d really never used it appropriately. This was like nothing he’d seen. The blood was everywhere, soaking the carpet, spattering the walls, the heavy stench almost unbearable.

  There were five bodies, five sets of human remains, among the endless gore. All dead from multiple stab wounds, the apparent murder weapon still buried in the nearly severed throat of an adult male. The others were an adult female, and three children – two female, one male – of varying ages.

  The Dawson family. Paul. Maria. And the three children. Lily. Amelia. Will.

  McKay had already extracted what information he could from the site owner, Murray Johnson. The Dawsons had been staying here for two weeks, due to leave today. Johnson had had little contact with them, other than a brief welcome on their arrival.

  ‘Why would someone do something like that, though?’ Henderson asked now. ‘And to their own bloody family.’ It sounded like more than a rhetorical question, as if he was hoping that McKay might genuinely provide an answer. People always wanted to know why, McKay thought, but often there was no answer or at least nothing that came close to an explanation.

  Both men lapsed back into silence. Henderson smoked another cigarette and looked at his watch. ‘They’ll think I’ve got lost. Better be heading back.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me, Jock? Anything else I should know?’

  He could see the other man bite back his usual sarcastic response. ‘Not really. Not at this stage. It seems to be just what it looks like.’

  ‘What it looks like,’ McKay said, ‘is a glimpse into hell.’

  ‘Aye, you’re not wrong about that.’ Henderson dropped his cigarette butt into the undergrowth and ground it firmly under his heel. McKay couldn’t even be bothered to offer some caustic remark about the risk of wildfires. Henderson stood for another moment staring out to sea then, as he turned to leave, muttered again, ‘The bloody kiddies, though.’

  Chapter Three

  Henderson was a tall skinny man, who moved back along the path with all the grace of a crane with knee problems. He looked as if, at any moment, he might miss a step and topple awkwardly over the cliff edge, but somehow maintained his equilibrium long enough to make it to the rear entrance to the chalet.

  McKay closed his eyes for a moment, as if summoning some telepathic power. ‘You can come out now.’

  DS Ginny Horton stepped out from among the trees. ‘How did you know I was there?’

  ‘I’m a bloody detective, Ginny. I have the gift of being able to spot people standing ten feet away. You should have joined me and Jock.’

  ‘You seemed to be having a moment. I didn’t like to interrupt.’

  McKay gave a snort of disgust. ‘Jock was having a moment. I was just listening. Or, rather, not listening.’

  ‘Not like Jock,’ Ginny observed. ‘He’s not one for moments.’

  ‘I never imagined the undead had feelings.’

  ‘If this one doesn’t get to you,’ Ginny said pointedly, ‘I don’t know what would.’

  ‘Aye, you’re not wrong. One hell of a business. How were our friends over the way?’

  Despite his shock at the discovery, Murray Johnson had done a decent job of persuading the guests in the other chalets not to leave until the police arrived. A couple of families had ignored his request to stay put, but the majority had co-operated and were being interviewed by a team of uniformed officers.

  Ginny Horton had taken on the task of interviewing Mark and Catherine Fanning, the couple who’d first drawn Murray Johnson’s attention to the disturbance the previous night. She sat herself down on the bench beside McKay. ‘They’re a bit in shock, to be honest. I didn’t tell them what had happened, but they’d worked out it was something serious. They’d obviously got to know the Dawsons a bit – kids played together and all that – so it’s knocked them back. And of course they’re blaming themselves. Wishing they’d done something when they first heard all the noise.’

  ‘Would probably have made bugger all difference. At best, we’d have just been on the scene twelve hours earlier.’

  ‘That might have made a difference.’

  ‘You reckon? Looked to me like they’d all have died pretty instantly. And the perpetrator’s not gone anywhere in the meantime, except maybe to the fiery furnaces.’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure yet.’

  ‘You have a different view? I mean, I’m keeping an open mind till we’ve had all the pathology and forensic reports but only because that’s what they taught us back in detective school. Doesn’t seem to me that this is likely to be anything other than some crazy bastard topping his wife and kids and then plunging the knife into his own throat. The question is why.’

  ‘The Fannings reckoned they’d seen no sign of any problems. Paul and Maria Dawson seemed a perfect couple and there were no signs of any issues with the children.’

  ‘They’re always the ones to watch, though, aren’t they? The idyllic families who seem to live the perfect lovey-dovey existence. Who knows what poison is churning below the surface? What else did they tell you?’

  ‘There wasn’t a lot to add to what they’d already told Johnson. Last time they spoke to any of the Dawsons was yesterday afternoon, when Catherine Fanning had a brief chat with Maria Dawson. Again, no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Catherine Fanning had suggested they eat dinner together as it was their last night here, but Maria Dawson said her husband was expecting a visitor.’

  ‘She didn’t say what kind of visitor?’

  ‘That was all she said. Apparently, there was a car parked outside the Dawsons’ place in the earlier part of yesterday evening, but the Fannings didn’t see it arrive or leave.’

  ‘I assume they couldn’t provide any information on the car?’

  Ginny shrugged. ‘Something big. Dark coloured – maybe black or dark grey. Maybe a BMW or an Audi, something like that.’

  McKay sighed. ‘Aye, that and two quid gets me a cup of coffee. We can check whether Johnson’s got any CCTV set up here, I suppose. Was this car still there when they heard all the shouting later?’

  ‘Have a guess.’

  ‘They don’t know. What do I win?’

  ‘My undying loyalty and admiration, obviously. But, yes, you’re right. They weren’t sure. Though they thought it probably wasn’t.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder why we even bother. So what was it they heard?’

  ‘Something that started like an argument, but then got increasingly heated. Screaming, she reckoned, and probably not just one person.’

  ‘The children?’

  ‘Seems likely.’

  ‘So a lot depends on this mysterious car,’ McKay said. ‘Who was the visitor? Did they somehow contribute to whatever the argument was about? And – above all – what time did they leave? Shall we go to see what else our friend Murray Johnson has to say?’ He pushed himself to his feet, his eyes still focused on the sea, as if he were trying to erase the images he’d witnessed earlier.

  They walked back through the trees to the central track that led down through the cluster of chalets. The area around the crime scene was still busy with uniformed officers, and the site was cluttered with marked vehicles. ‘Not ideal publicity for the place,’ Horton commented.

  ‘Not in the short term,’ McKay said. ‘Next year the place’ll be packed with people wanting to see the crime scene.’

  ‘He might have more difficulty letting the scene itself.’

  ‘They’ll be flocking to stay in there. There’s no shortage of ghouls.’

  They found Murray Johnson in a small office and workshop near the entrance to the site. McKay tapped on the window and Johnson waved him to come in. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much room,’ he said, as they crowded into the small space. Another man had been sitting in the corner and now rose to greet the arrivals.

  ‘Fergus Campbell, my deputy,’ Johnson explained.

  ‘Deputy and general dogsbody. I’ll leave you to it if you need a bit of space.’

  ‘No bother, Mr Campbell. I’m sure we can all squeeze in. Might be useful to talk to you both together.’

  ‘Aye, you’ll get twice as much blether.’ Campbell lowered himself back down on to a stool in the corner.

  The office contained little more than a desk, a handful of stacked chairs and a filing cabinet. The rear of the room led through a small workshop with a workbench and a row of racks containing what McKay assumed were spare parts relating to the chalets. Johnson looked apologetic. ‘We don’t often use this place. Fergus had the workshop mainly to do running repairs on items from the chalets. I come up occasionally to deal with suppliers, but that’s about it. It’s not exactly a home from home.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage.’ McKay slid one of the chairs across to Horton, and then sat down himself, gesturing to Johnson and Campbell to do the same. ‘It’s not exactly a social call. We’ll try not to detain you any longer than we need to. I’m sure you’ve plenty on your plate.’

  ‘You can say that again. Your people reckoned it was okay for me to continue letting the other chalets? I hope that’s true because most of the new guests are already on their way.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. As long as we keep the crime scene well protected. We’ll need to be in there for a while yet. What about the people who were due to rent that?’

  ‘I’ve been in touch with them. Told them what had happened – not in any detail, just as you said, but just to say there’s been an incident which requires police investigation. Luckily, I’ve been able to find them a place at another site up the coast. Not quite as convenient, but more luxurious. I’ve taken the hit on the cost, but they’re happy enough.’

  ‘You reckon the other guests will be okay to stay with something like this in their midst?’ Horton asked.

  Johnson shrugged. ‘I’ve explained it to the ones I could get hold of. They seemed happy enough but it might be different if word gets out on the grapevine about what’s really happened.’

  ‘And it will,’ McKay growled.

  ‘We’ll just have to play it by ear, then.’ Johnson shook his head. ‘I still can’t quite believe it.’

  ‘How long have you been running this place, Mr Johnson?’

  ‘Over ten years now. Attempt to diversify from the farming. I’ve still got the farm, arable and livestock, but it’s a precarious business. This place gives a solid income for a good part of the year.’

  ‘What about the Covid lockdown?’ Horton asked. ‘That must have been tough for you.’

  ‘Bloody tough. We more or less had to shut down the place. Got some bits and pieces of support from the government, but nothing like we really needed. Just hope all this doesn’t finally pull the rug from under the place. Sorry, that probably sounds a bit insensitive.’

 

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