“Maybe I should go put it back in the car,” Tyler suggested. He was holding the gun like it was a deadly snake that might wrap itself around his throat at any moment. “I don’t want to accidentally shoot anyone.”
“Well, then don’t point it at anyone, or pull the trigger,” Logan suggested, then a triumphant, “Aha!” followed the click of the key turning in the lock. “Right, wait here. Eyes and ears peeled. If I shout, you come running.”
“With or without the gun?”
“With.”
Tyler bit his lip. “Should I be running with a gun? Is that not asking for trouble?”
“Just bloody…” Logan sighed, shook his head, then tried again. “Just come if I shout,” he said, then he edged open the door and stepped into the base of the lighthouse.
Had he been going for stealth, then that was right out the window, thanks to the shrill creaking of the door’s hinges, aged by the rain and the salty sea air.
It was a long way to the top, but anyone up there would know someone was coming, so Logan decided it was best to get ahead of the situation and announce his presence.
“Mr Rigg. It’s Detective Chief Inspector Jack Logan of Police Scotland Major Investigations Team,” he shouted, his voice booming up the steps and echoing around inside the narrow stone tube. “I must warn you that I have armed officers standing by with me, ready to move in.”
He shot a look back over his shoulder to where Tyler was holding the shotgun like it was smeared in human excrement, and hoped that Bernie—if he was up there—didn’t call his bluff.
“I’m coming up, Mr Rigg. Stay calm, and do not be alarmed.”
“Be careful, boss,” Tyler whispered.
Logan eyed the gun once again, briefly considered taking it with him, then decided against it. “Aye, you too.”
The climb started well enough. The first few steps of the spiral staircase passed uneventfully. The next thirty to forty were harder going.
By the time he’d passed a hundred or so, Logan’s thighs and calves were burning, his breath squeaked in and out like a chronic asthmatic in the grip of a panic attack, and the sweat was coming off him in buckets.
“Christ Almighty,” he wheezed. Between the exertion and the spiral effect, his head was spinning, and there was still plenty of climb left to do.
He spent a few seconds getting his breathing under control, then called up again. “Mr Rigg? Bernie. Can you hear me? I need you to respond if you can hear me.”
Only the echo of his own voice answered him. He swore quietly but passionately, then set off again, his big feet slapping on each step as he heaved himself onwards and upwards.
A few steps from the top, the staircase became a steep ladder that led up to the lamp that crowned the tower’s top.
Logan could hear nothing but the wind swirling around outside, rattling the panes of glass in their frames.
Well, that and his own body fighting for oxygen and, if he listened closely enough, praying for a swift and merciful death.
Even before he’d popped his head up through the hatch, he knew there was nobody up there. And, sure enough, when he dragged his gasping, sweating carcass up those final few steps, he found the circular lamp area empty.
Well, almost. A small pile of empty beer cans, Coke bottles, sandwich wrappers, and crisp bags had been pushed to one side. A couple of the bottles were filled with an amber liquid. Piss, presumably. Someone had been here, and they’d dug in for the long haul.
He felt the bottle, and could detect just a lingering hint of warmth in the plastic. Recent, then. Within the last hour, maybe.
A door led out onto a circular balcony that ran around the top of the lighthouse. Logan stepped out and was accosted by the wind. He hadn’t noticed it down at ground level, but up here, fully exposed, it blew in off the water and rose up from the jagged shoreline below, dragging waves so they crashed against the rocks.
“Where are you, you bastard?” Logan said, but the words were snatched from his lips even as they formed in the air.
He looked back at the debris stashed on the other side of the glass. He’d been here recently, and for a while, too. And now, he wasn’t. Just before they’d arrived, he’d left.
Hell of a coincidence.
Logan gazed out at the islands nestled on the horizon, shafts of sunlight cutting through the clouds like the fingers of God. On another day, at another time, he could stand up there for hours, just savouring that view.
Not today, though. Not now.
He had just turned away when he caught a glimpse of movement down beside the big red foghorn that stood on the shore. It was attached to the top of a white stone box about the size of a large shed, and for a moment, Logan had thought he’d seen something darting out of sight around the front, where it faced the water.