Dark Waters Read online

  G. R. Halliday

  * * *

  DARK WATER

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33: Four years earlier

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39: January 1980

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97: One month earlier

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  G. R. Halliday was born in Edinburgh and grew up near Stirling in Scotland. He spent his childhood obsessing over the unexplained mysteries his father investigated, which proved excellent inspiration for his crime writing. His debut novel From the Shadows was shortlisted for the McIlvanney Debut Prize 2019. G. R. Halliday now lives in the rural Highlands outside of Inverness, where he is able to pursue his favourite pastimes of mountain climbing and swimming in the sea, before returning home to his band of semi-feral cats. Dark Waters is his second novel.

  Follow G. R. Halliday on Twitter @gr_halliday.

  Also by G. R. Halliday

  From the Shadows

  For Alisa

  CHAPTER 1

  When she still had all of her arms and legs, Annabelle liked to drive. And it was while she was on one of her drives that she made the first mistake.

  Her iPhone. She’d left it on the passenger seat of her BMW, instead of taking the time to slide it properly into its little holder on the dashboard. It lay beside the copy of Heat magazine and the touring map of northern Scotland she’d bought at the services outside Stirling. She’d stopped for petrol and a fast-food breakfast, an indifferent ham sandwich and a coffee in a paper cup. Afterwards she’d folded the cardboard packaging and the cup and slid them carefully into the recycling bin, rather than leaving them on the table for the tired-looking waitress to clean away. Annabelle was twenty-two years old and tried her best to be a nice girl.

  Before she got back in the car she thought about calling Miss Albright, who lived in the flat on the other side of the landing from her in London. She was ninety but in truth it wasn’t really Miss Albright she was concerned about. It was Mr Pepper, Miss Albright’s dog. A Pomeranian. Black with a pink tongue. Because Miss Albright couldn’t leave her flat often Mr Pepper spent much of his time inside. Most days Annabelle would cross the corridor to take him out for a walk. Usually he’d be waiting for her at the door, growling slightly with anticipation. Stupid as it sounded, she thought Mr Pepper might be less anxious if Miss Albright could reassure him somehow that Annabelle would be back soon. Everything with her divorced parents felt broken and complicated, the exact opposite to how she felt around Miss Albright and Mr Pepper, who both always seemed so pleased to see her.

  She looked at the time on her iPhone. 7.05 a.m. Miss Albright would still be in bed. Annabelle resolved to call her that afternoon and decided instead to take a first selfie in Scotland. Fifteen selfies, actually. A selection to get the right feel. Head at the right angle, the correct pout on her red-painted lips, brown hair framing her face in the right way. Taking in the word BRAT printed in red on her white T-shirt (long-sleeved, as always). The blue BMW M4 her dad had given her as a very late twenty-first birthday present behind her. In the distance the first mountains of the Highlands, dusted with spring snow.

  After a quarter of an hour fiddling with the photo filters, she decided the image was as good as it would get. She typed, ‘Look ugly today but who cares! Heading beyond the wall!! Road trip to the frozen north xx.’ It sounded spontaneous enough when she read it back. She posted it to Instagram, the only social media app she used regularly, then flicked through some of the pictures. People smiling, looking beautiful and having fun. She had hardly met any of her Instagram friends in real life, but maybe they would see her picture, maybe they would notice her like she was noticing them?

  Maybe he’ll notice too and feel jealous you’ve come to Scotland without him knowing? Annabelle dismissed the ridiculous thought. He was in the police and acted like he was forty. Probably didn’t even know what Instagram was. The last thing she wanted was to hear from him anyway. After what happened. This trip had nothing to do with him. There was no doubt it felt scary coming all this way on her own. But when did she need an excuse to drive? Driving fast was the only time she felt OK.

  An hour later she could still taste the salt and grease from the ham, stuck to her lips. But at least the coffee kept her sharp as she drove north on the A9. It had been six hours overnight on various motorways from London to Stirling. Not bad going. In the end it took another two and a half to Inverness. This was good too.

  It was still morning when the road dropped down off the moor and she could take in the city of Inverness for the first time, tucked in at the edge of the water – the Moray Firth, according to the satnav. Straight ahead a large bridge spanned the water; Annabelle wanted to drive on over it. Instead the satnav told her to turn left at the first roundabout she came to. Reluctantly she did as she was told and drove through the outskirts of the city. A grim industrial estate that didn’t fit with
her image of what the Highlands should look like at all. Nothing tartan, nothing like Outlander.

  Her disappointment abated ten minutes later when she exited the other side of the city and rejoined the water. The wide river was directly beside the road, and in the distance she saw a row of dark mountains and felt a flutter of excitement. The wild mountains of the west, Glen Affric, the most beautiful glen in Scotland. She’d read about the famous drive down Glen Affric online, but she was heading for a lesser-known road. And the satnav told her it was only twenty-five miles to her destination. Half an hour later the mountains were so close they seemed to loom over her. She passed through a run-down village and finally stopped when she saw the sign: GLEN TURRIT.

  It was here, at the start of this lonely glen, that she made her second mistake.

  The gate that blocked the road was closed but not properly secured. The last person through had draped the chain loosely around the wooden post but not clicked the padlock shut. Annabelle held the lock in one hand and glanced around at the steep wooded slopes rising on either side of the road. According to a sign by the gate this road was STRICTLY PRIVATE. She knew from online forums it had been built to service a huge hydroelectric dam constructed in the 1950s. The single-track road hugged the river that wound down the glen for miles and eventually ran across the top of the dam. Then continued on, for over twenty miles, to another locked gate near Strathcarron. Close to the Isle of Skye on the west coast.

  When Annabelle was making the hasty plans for her trip she’d stumbled on a post that said it was sometimes possible to pay the keyholders at each end of the road to open the gate. ‘Twenty quid each should do it,’ the post had read. ‘And it would be cheap at twenty times that price. When else are you getting your own private racetrack through a Highland glen?’

  A single-track road with towering dark mountains on either side, and not another vehicle within thirty miles. It was like being in the perfect car advert – she pictured a disciplined driver, dressed in a suit, piloting his vehicle across miles of empty tarmac in an otherworldly vision of car perfection. She could feel the sweat standing out on her palms at the idea. Rural driving was amazing when you watched the lads on Top Gear bantering, but the reality was always different. She recalled the trip to Cornwall for Dad’s wedding a few months back, stuck behind caravans and people carriers.

  This was going to be different. She glanced around again at the thick forest by the side of the road. Still holding the padlock in her hand. The place seemed completely deserted, the scale and loneliness intimidating compared to the bustle of her usual city life. Patches of snow were still visible high up on the mountains, but the sun was warm enough for Annabelle to stand there in just her long-sleeved T-shirt and black leggings. She hadn’t fully believed the road actually existed until now, and what were the chances of finding the gate open? It was like she was meant to race down that road.

  The drive was perfect. The open road, the wide blue sky overhead and the mountains topped with snow. Those delicate tight bends through the woodland beside the river. For once Annabelle could really push the car. Blast through the turns, hammer down on the throttle and hear the engine blaring, then stand on the brakes before the next turn. She wasn’t aware of the nervous smile that kept breaking through the tight expression of concentration on her face, nor the feeling that everything else, everything she didn’t want to think about, could be left behind her. Like the dust rising up off the road and drifting in the morning sunlight.

  Finally, after long twisting miles, the road straightened out as the valley widened. The mountains retreated from the road. As she sped over a slight hump, feeling the car momentarily rise then fall as the speedometer crept close to a hundred, the grey wall of the dam became visible in the distance.

  The perfect morning sunlight fell on the road, lit the heather on the open moorlands to a muted mustard colour.

  Annabelle took a deep breath and smiled again. She slowed the car a little. It was like being at the centre of a vast amphitheatre, the mountains the walls around the arena, the skies above the spectators.

  It occurred to her that she really should take a photo. She glanced at the holder on the dashboard, saw it was empty and remembered she’d dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.

  She looked up at the open road ahead. It was needle-straight for at least the next mile, nothing coming in the opposite direction. She eased her foot off the throttle a little more, then reached across to the passenger seat and felt around for the phone. Her hands found glossy paper instead. She glanced at the seat. The phone had worked its way under the magazine.

  She looked up again. Ahead there was a huge tree by the side of the road, virtually the only one in the open moorland of the valley. The road was still empty though, still straight. Reassured, she reached again to push the magazine aside. Glanced at the passenger seat, saw the phone and made a grab for it.

  ‘Gotcha!’ Annabelle straightened up and turned back to the windscreen.

  The little girl was standing in the middle of the single-track road.

  Time slowed. Annabelle took the girl in with almost freeze-framed clarity. Her white T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts, her skinny arms and legs sticking out. Bare feet on the tarmac. Blonde hair, pale skin and blue eyes locked onto Annabelle’s with a strange kind of certainty.

  Annabelle didn’t have time to touch the brake. Instinctively she jerked the steering wheel down hard to the left.

  The BMW rocketed off the road at seventy miles an hour. Annabelle stared at the thick tree with its rough folded bark. The half-second before the impact stretched into infinity; it seemed she even had the chance to ask herself, Why did the girl have to step out here? Why right beside the only tree in the valley?

  Annabelle didn’t know it until much later, but she had made her biggest mistake a long time before. By choosing that model of car in that particular shade of blue.

  Time sped up, the car met solid wood, and everything was black.

  CHAPTER 2

  DI Monica Kennedy was watching the opposite side of the busy Burger King restaurant in a retail park in Inverness. A young woman sitting alone at a table was staring hard at a boy, her son presumably, who was strapped into a buggy beside her. His little fists clenched across his green T-shirt, his head down. As she observed the interaction Monica felt a familiar sense of disquiet rising from the pit of her stomach. The feeling that something wasn’t right, that somehow it was her responsibility to step in. The kind of notion that had drawn her to the police. It had got her into trouble more than once.

  ‘Can I have more sauce for my chips?’ She turned at the sound of her four-year-old daughter’s voice cutting through the babble of the other diners. She realised she’d been staring across the room for the better part of a minute. She blinked and took Lucy in – curly blonde hair, blue eyes.

  ‘Of course, honey.’ Monica reached for a sachet of tomato ketchup and handed it to her, trying hard to resist glancing back at the mother and her son. The boy, aged about three, had looked well dressed, well cared for. No obvious signs of violence or neglect. You’re so edgy these days. Can’t stop yourself sniffing out trouble, can you? Even when you’re supposed to be spending time with Lucy. This had been her daughter’s Sunday treat, a trip to the cinema (The Secret Life of Pets) then Burger King.

  At least I didn’t immediately return Hately’s call, Monica argued in her defence. Her boss, Detective Superintendent Fred Hately, had left a message while she was in the cinema asking her to call back as soon as possible. This wouldn’t have been unusual, except Monica had been off the Major Investigation Team for almost half a year. Taking a break to spend more time with her daughter after an investigation had nearly ended in tragedy for both of them. Hately had agreed to her request for a secondment and she had been placed in the traffic department. This was the first time he had contacted her outside office hours in months, and she felt the knot tighten in her stomach. The call could only mean bad news.

  ‘
They said at the nursery we shouldn’t eat too much ketchup or salt,’ Lucy piped up as she squeezed the sauce out onto her chips.

  ‘That sounds like good advice.’

  ‘Why are salt and ketchup bad?’ Lucy asked, screwing her face up with puzzled interest, a characteristic expression.

  When Monica glanced back over, the woman was still staring hard at the child in the buggy, whispering something to him. Monica realised that he was holding a small toy tight between his hands. A teddy bear. She noticed he was twisting it by the neck, apparently unconsciously. Monica noted that the woman was smartly dressed in boots, jeans and a grey sweater. No obvious signs that she was under major psychological pressure.

  ‘Did that boy do something naughty?’ Lucy had noticed her mum’s interest.

  ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’

  Lucy pushed her tray away. ‘I’m finished.’

  Monica nodded and stood up. A couple of diners turned to look at her. She was over six feet tall in her flattest shoes and had the pallid complexion of a corpse. Her face framed by shoulder-length dark hair, she was wearing a long grey tweed coat, threadbare in places. She rarely went unnoticed.

  She stepped round the table, helped Lucy into her jacket and zipped it up. On their way out of the restaurant Monica couldn’t stop herself from having a final glance at the mother and son. The boy was staring straight ahead, his cute round face set in a scowl. His mum was scrolling through her phone, now seemingly oblivious to the child beside her. You see, it was nothing, just a little family argument. It’s your paranoia making things much worse than they are. As the thoughts rose, Monica looked down at Lucy. To check that her daughter was there beside her, even as she felt that small hand tight in her own.

  When they were safely back out in the Volvo, Monica finally returned Hately’s call.

  ‘Kennedy?’ His normally assertive Glaswegian voice sounded almost rattled when he answered after two rings. Monica glanced in the rear-view mirror at Lucy; her head was down and she was staring at a book open on her lap. Outside, a family ran laughing from their car through the open doors of the cinema, feeling the first spits of the cold May rain that was now hitting the Volvo’s windscreen. Her mind served up a distant fragment of childhood memory: her, her mum and dad, running together from a storm. And somehow that family under those grey skies carried a sense of what was coming Monica’s way. ‘A male body’s come in. A bad one. DI Simpson is down south on a case. You’re my best investigator. I can’t hand something like this to DC Crawford, he’s too inexperienced. Do you think you’re ready?’