back to her. ‘They said there were weeds up to this height. Heneghan and Conway had to part them with their hands to see what was lying here.’
Tony took his camera bag from his shoulder and took out his Canon EOS-1D, fixing on a flash as he listened to Rachel.
‘Her legs were here . . . and here, this one tucked under the other . . .’
Winter was photographing nothing except memories and dirt but his mind’s eye was well practised in capturing death’s final throes even long after life had been extinguished. The lack of a body and the gap of nearly twenty years didn’t stop his imagination from running riot.
He saw the weathered red jacket, faded from its original candy red the same way Lily’s blood had lost its vital colour after leaking from her battered skull. He saw her dark blonde hair flecked with blood and dirt as she lay back on a pillow of snow, her head battered, one eye gone and the other shrinking in fright, her mouth wide open, screaming for help that never came, pleading for mercy that wasn’t offered.
She was so young, forever young, laid out on a snowy altar with the monks of Inchmahome standing over her weeping. He saw her skin and flesh, a winter feast for the island’s wildlife, its surfaces pulled back to expose everything below, her body shrivelling day by day as it lay lonely and abandoned.
Tony fired off shot after shot, his finger hammering at the shutter release even though the girl, her jacket, her blood and her battered skull fragments had long since gone. Rachel looked up at him, seeing him lost in his moment and knowing what he was seeing through his lens. She had seen the collection of gory photographs that filled a wall of his flat in Charing Cross and wondered if this image of what-had-been would find a place among them. His fascination being what it was, she knew it could fit in his collection even if the substance of it existed only in his mind. She realised it already had a place in hers.
‘You feel it?’ she asked.
Her words broke the trance Winter had drifted into, causing the murdered girl to fade from his sight, her beseeching mouth and pleading eye the last things to disappear as the flame from his final flash shot petered out.
‘Yes, I feel it.’
His camera arm fell to his side, his job done. Rachel took his free hand and gently led him away from the murder scene and back towards the jetty, every step guarded by Inchmahome’s mournful monks as they saw their uninvited guests safely off the island again.
CHAPTER 11
Monday 19 November
He looked smaller but she knew he couldn’t be. It had been only a week since she’d last seen him but it was the first time since he’d moved into this bloody place. Could a man really shrink in a week? Rachel took advantage of being able to watch him, knowing that he didn’t yet realise she was there. They’d told her it would be better if she left it a bit before she went to see him, give him time to settle in without being embarrassed about her seeing him there. So she’d waited, much as it hurt. Christ, he looked sad. People around him chatted away but it seemed as if he’d rather be anywhere else. He appeared older too. There was no getting away from it. Maybe he had done for a while and she just hadn’t seen it but now the bloody home was showing it up.
Someone was saying something to him and he looked up, confused, as if he hadn’t heard them properly. She hoped that’s all it was. He was shrugging at the man who’d been speaking to him and turned away. She’d seen that faraway look sometimes when he was still at home with her mum – seen it but not noticed it.
Deep breath. Now go speak to him.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she managed as brightly as she could.
There it was: the half-second deliberation as he looked up and didn’t immediately recognise who she was. That part of a second could range from almost instant to drawn out, every extra tenth of it meaning so much and so little.
He knew her now though and the
Tony took his camera bag from his shoulder and took out his Canon EOS-1D, fixing on a flash as he listened to Rachel.
‘Her legs were here . . . and here, this one tucked under the other . . .’
Winter was photographing nothing except memories and dirt but his mind’s eye was well practised in capturing death’s final throes even long after life had been extinguished. The lack of a body and the gap of nearly twenty years didn’t stop his imagination from running riot.
He saw the weathered red jacket, faded from its original candy red the same way Lily’s blood had lost its vital colour after leaking from her battered skull. He saw her dark blonde hair flecked with blood and dirt as she lay back on a pillow of snow, her head battered, one eye gone and the other shrinking in fright, her mouth wide open, screaming for help that never came, pleading for mercy that wasn’t offered.
She was so young, forever young, laid out on a snowy altar with the monks of Inchmahome standing over her weeping. He saw her skin and flesh, a winter feast for the island’s wildlife, its surfaces pulled back to expose everything below, her body shrivelling day by day as it lay lonely and abandoned.
Tony fired off shot after shot, his finger hammering at the shutter release even though the girl, her jacket, her blood and her battered skull fragments had long since gone. Rachel looked up at him, seeing him lost in his moment and knowing what he was seeing through his lens. She had seen the collection of gory photographs that filled a wall of his flat in Charing Cross and wondered if this image of what-had-been would find a place among them. His fascination being what it was, she knew it could fit in his collection even if the substance of it existed only in his mind. She realised it already had a place in hers.
‘You feel it?’ she asked.
Her words broke the trance Winter had drifted into, causing the murdered girl to fade from his sight, her beseeching mouth and pleading eye the last things to disappear as the flame from his final flash shot petered out.
‘Yes, I feel it.’
His camera arm fell to his side, his job done. Rachel took his free hand and gently led him away from the murder scene and back towards the jetty, every step guarded by Inchmahome’s mournful monks as they saw their uninvited guests safely off the island again.
CHAPTER 11
Monday 19 November
He looked smaller but she knew he couldn’t be. It had been only a week since she’d last seen him but it was the first time since he’d moved into this bloody place. Could a man really shrink in a week? Rachel took advantage of being able to watch him, knowing that he didn’t yet realise she was there. They’d told her it would be better if she left it a bit before she went to see him, give him time to settle in without being embarrassed about her seeing him there. So she’d waited, much as it hurt. Christ, he looked sad. People around him chatted away but it seemed as if he’d rather be anywhere else. He appeared older too. There was no getting away from it. Maybe he had done for a while and she just hadn’t seen it but now the bloody home was showing it up.
Someone was saying something to him and he looked up, confused, as if he hadn’t heard them properly. She hoped that’s all it was. He was shrugging at the man who’d been speaking to him and turned away. She’d seen that faraway look sometimes when he was still at home with her mum – seen it but not noticed it.
Deep breath. Now go speak to him.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she managed as brightly as she could.
There it was: the half-second deliberation as he looked up and didn’t immediately recognise who she was. That part of a second could range from almost instant to drawn out, every extra tenth of it meaning so much and so little.
He knew her now though and the
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