A glance in the driver’s side wing mirror showed that Taggart’s head was still hanging out of the back window, his stupidly long tongue trailing out behind him and flapping in the wind.
The road rose, then dipped sharply, and both detectives made a sort of hurp noise as their stomachs smooshed upwards. That one had made even Logan feel queasy. It would likely have killed Tyler altogether.
“Rough road, but pretty nice around here,” Sinead remarked, as they turned a bend and saw a stretch of beach lining a body of water on the left. “I think that’s Loch Moidart. Maybe Loch Sunart. Something like that, anyway. We used to come out here when I was younger. Before Harris was born. He’s nearly as bad as Tyler on windy roads.”
“Aye. It’s nice,” Logan agreed, but he barely glanced at the scenery unfolding beside them. Instead, he stretched out his fingers, wriggled in his seat, then exhaled. “How are you doing?”
Sinead turned away from the view to look over at him. “Fine, sir. Aye. You?”
“Fine. But, I mean… How are you really doing?”
Sinead frowned. “Still fine.”
Logan kept his eyes on the road ahead. Sinead waited for him to say something more, then went back to looking out of the window.
“It’s just…”
She turned back again. Waited.
“Just what?”
“After, you know. Everything that happened. To you. Recently.”
“Oh. That.” She rubbed a hand across her mouth like she was checking how dry her lips were. “I’m fine. Not like it’s the first time something like that happened.” She smiled, but it was a poor attempt. “I seem to have a bit of a knack for being taken hostage.”
It was more than that, though. They both knew it. What had happened… The things that had been done to her… And the things, worse still, that had almost been done…
“I was talking to Maddie today,” he said.
Sinead sat up at that. “Your daughter? Wow. That’s… that’s great news! I didn’t think she was speaking to you.”
“Just barely,” Logan replied. “But she was talking. About things from before. About Owen Petrie.”
“Oh.”
“And something she said, it got me thinking,” Logan continued, slowing to let a car coming in the opposite direction squeeze past on a rare straight section of road. “I, eh, I have this tendency to assume things are fine.”
“Things are fine, sir,” Sinead insisted, but Logan pressed on, regardless.
“I think that because the immediate danger has passed, then that’s it. Trauma over. Everything back to normal.” He turned to look at her, and the look on her face told him everything he needed to know. “But that’s not how it works, is it? Not for most people.”
“I mean…” Sinead began, then she sighed. “No. That’s not how it works.”
“No,” Logan said, nodding. “Which brings me back to my earlier question. How are you really doing?”
Sinead pulled the strap of her seatbelt away from her shoulder, then replaced it in more or less the same position. She crossed her feet, decided she didn’t like it, then crossed them again the other way.
Eventually, when she had finished footering, she gave the tiniest of shrugs. “Good days and bad.”
Logan said nothing, just left the silence waiting there to be filled.
“I’ve been getting a lot of sleep paralysis,” she told him. “Wake up frozen, and think I’m back there. Think it’s happening again.”
“Have you spoken to a doctor?” Logan asked. “Could be some lingering effect of the drugs.”
“They ran tests. Reckon it’s psychological.”
“I see. Well, I mean, that’s no’ really a surprise, given everything.” He flexed his fingers on the wheel. “Still can’t believe that bastard of a constable. I wish you’d said something earlier about him. We could’ve...”
“I know. I should’ve told you,” Sinead admitted. “Although, I’ve thought about it a lot. What he did. Tried to do, anyway. And, the fact of it is, if he hadn’t been there—if he hadn’t failed to report back—they might not have found me.”
Logan gave this some thought, but couldn’t argue with the logic. “I suppose. And what’s Tyler saying about it all? The sleep paralysis and stuff, I mean.”
“Tyler doesn’t know,” Sinead admitted. “He’s had enough going on with his recovery. I don’t want to worry him. He just sleeps through. When it passes, I don’t wake him up.”
“You should tell him,” Logan said. “You can’t run a marriage on secrets and lies. Take it from someone who knows. It doesn’t work.”
“Aye. I know. It’s just… it’s been a rough year for him. The car accident. The cancer.”
“Getting stuck in a big squirrel costume.”
Sinead smirked. “Aye. That, too. We put a safety pin through the zip after he’d wrestled himself into it. Assuming he doesn’t roast alive, then I’ll talk to him when we get home.”
“Will you, though?” Logan asked.
“Yes. Definitely,” Sinead said, although it sounded more like a ‘probably’ to Logan’s ears.
“Well, in the meantime, you know where I am.”
“I do, sir. And thanks,” Sinead said, then she threw an arm forward and grasped at her seatbelt as the BMW came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road. “What is it? What happened? Did we hit something?” she asked, stretching to see over the bonnet.
“No. Sorry. Just… It’s that.” Logan indicated a signpost at a junction ahead. It listed various locations, including a ferry terminal, a natural history centre, and the Ardnamurchan Lighthouse.
“Thinking of doing some sightseeing, sir?” Sinead asked.
Logan shook his head and pointed to another sign. This one was smaller, and had been painted by hand onto a wooden board. An arrow pointed in the same direction as the other notices, while the text proclaimed:
WESTERLY WELLNESS RETREAT. ALL WELCOME.
Logan checked the clock on the car’s dash, then glanced along the road branching off on the left. “You got a phone signal?” he asked.
“Not a thing, sir, no,” Sinead replied. “But I’ve got a radio. Some rookie constable gave me his to use.”
“I think I know the one,” Logan said. “Good looking?”
“Eh, not particularly. Just a standard radio, sir,” Sinead said, and they shared a smile at the joke.
“Aye, good one,” Logan said. “Right, give a call to the station and tell Ben we’re going to be later back than expected.” He indicated left, then swung the car in that direction. “We’re going on a wee detour.”
Shona Maguire had just about finished checking in the latest visitor to the Raigmore Hospital Mortuary. The body had been deposited on the trolley in the chilled room next door, and the paperwork had been rattled through, officially logging him in the system.
It was past dinner time now. On her day off. She didn’t have to be here. The body, still bagged, could be tucked away in one of the drawers until morning. There was nothing pressing or urgent keeping her here. Nothing forcing her to stay.
But the alternative was to go home. Alone. To a house where she no longer felt safe.