CHAPTER NINE
If Logan and Sinead had thought the road had been rough prior to taking the turn off, they were soon forced to reevaluate. The twenty-mile stretch from Salen, where they’d made the turn, to Kilchoan, which they’d reached just shy of an hour later, must surely have been the inspiration for the world’s earliest rollercoasters.
It wound, it twisted, it rose, and it plunged. It tilted at points, so it felt like the car was going to roll sideways off the crumbling tarmac to be dashed on the rocks, flattened in a field, or dumped into the water, depending on which of the three they happened to be passing at the time.
There were points where it was almost too narrow for the car, and stretches where it was wide enough for one-and-a-half vehicles.
Not two, though. Never two. Not at the same time. Not going in opposite directions.
Usually, Logan didn’t mind driving. He could switch into a sort of autopilot, letting his hands and feet do all the work and freeing up his brain to concentrate on more pressing issues.
This road, though, didn’t allow for autopilot. This road demanded full attention at all times, springing surprises from hairpin bends to kamikaze sheep every few seconds, and never the same thing twice.
Even Taggart pulled his head in and lay down on the seat as the BMW rumbled and bounced through the sharp bends and short straights, driver and passenger alike slowly turning shades of green up front.
“This is a fucking nightmare,” Logan had voiced, roughly forty minutes into the drive. “How is this allowed? People shouldn’t be driving on this.”
Sinead, for fear of projectile vomiting the moment she opened her mouth, said nothing.
They both almost sobbed with relief when, some twelve agonising minutes later, they finally saw another homemade sign indicating their destination lay just two hundred yards ahead.
“Close enough,” Logan concluded, immediately swinging the BMW into a lay-by and up onto the grassy verge beside it. “We’ll walk from here.”
“Aye, be good to stretch our legs,” Sinead said, practically falling out of the door.
The ground moved under Logan’s feet as he stepped out of the car, lurching like the deck of a ship in a storm.
“Christ,” he muttered, leaning on the BMW for support, and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his other hand.
There was a smell of cow shit languishing on the breeze. This wasn’t doing his stomach any favours, and meant that the big breaths he’d planned to get his nausea under control would probably do just the opposite.
A frantic scurrying from the back window forced him to look up from where he’d been staring at his feet and trying to assure his brain that he was on a solid surface. Taggart was attempting to throw himself out through the gap between the door and the glass, but his legs were too short to give him the launch thrust he needed.
“Right, wait. Out you come,” Logan said, shoving the dog back through the window and pulling open the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” he warned when Taggart jumped out and landed beside him. “Or do. Right now, I don’t care.”
There was a hurp from the other side of the car, and the flavour of the air became even worse. Logan swallowed back a mouthful of saliva that burned his throat all the way down.
“You alright, Detective Constable?”
A hand was thrust into the air. A thumb was raised. “Be right as rain in a minute, sir,” Sinead said.
“Good stuff,” Logan said, then he suddenly bent double, steadied his hands on his thighs, and vomited onto the dog.
Ten minutes, and one hasty clean-up job later, Logan, Sinead, and a slightly shell-shocked Taggart arrived at the entrance to the Westerly Wellness Retreat.
Or, more accurately, they arrived at the wide metal gate of a field that housed a large marquee with those words emblazoned across the side in a shade of pastel blue.
Several smaller tents had been erected around the main one like orbiting satellites. They were all tipi-style triangles, large enough to accommodate five or six people, as long as none of them had any personal space issues.
The main marquee was roughly thirty feet wide, and maybe forty along the length. Flaps had been lifted on three of the six plastic windows that lined the side facing the gate, and it didn’t look as if anyone was inside.
The whole field felt empty, in fact, with not a sound coming from any of the tents, and the sinking sensation Logan felt at the thought that this might have been a wasted trip almost made him chunder again.
The gate wasn’t locked, and swung inwards when Logan slid the bolt over. Taggart shot through the gap the moment it was wide enough, and went tearing across the field to check out the closest tent.