“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.
She double-checked the data on her screen, then clicked the button to submit the form, finalising the last of the paperwork.
That done, she swung down off her stool, necked the last few dregs of a Bombay Bad Boy flavoured Pot Noodle like a Viking quaffing a tankard of ale, then headed to the sink to scrub up.
The water spluttered out at first, cold to the touch, then rapidly becoming hot enough to blister skin. She waited until the steam was rising, then swung the tap a little to the right, mixing in a stream of cold water to bring the temperature back to a tolerable level.
She deployed the soap next—three big pumps from the dispenser, twenty seconds of scrubbing her hands and fingers from every conceivable angle, then into the water they went.
She was well into the process when she raised her head and looked into the mirror fixed to the wall above the sink.
There was a man there. Behind her. A few feet back. Half-hidden by the steam so she could barely make out his scarred face, his wide, lidless eyes, and the oxygen mask expanding and contracting on his mouth.
He lunged at her. Grabbed for her with withered hands and twisted features. She turned, arms raised, a scream building in her chest.
And then he was gone. Evaporated, like a ghost in the steam.
Shona chastised herself. “Idiot.”
She turned back to the sink and finished scrubbing up. Turned off the taps. Dried her hands. Studiously avoided looking in the mirror, for fear of what she might see.
Or what she might remember.
She instructed Alexa to, “Play the mortuary playlist,” and waited for the first track—Axel F from the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack—to kick in. Then, she got herself gloved up, threw open the double doors to the mortuary like she was a sheriff entering a Wild West saloon, and set to work.