30 Cyrus

30

It's strange how quickly anger can disappear and adrenalin can leak away, when the source of it is lying dead in a pool of his own blood. I know the signs of ‘post-adrenalin blues' – the depression and disappointment and the questioning of choices – but I feel none of that. My only concern is for Evie.

Reunited on Sean Murdoch's boat, I held her against me, listening to her sobs and smelling her hair and feeling something shred inside me.

‘I killed him,' she whispered.

‘You saved my life.'

‘All I could think about was Mama and Agnesa and those poor migrants.'

‘Shhh.'

‘And then I thought of losing you, too. And I couldn't . . . I couldn't . . .'

‘I'm fine. We're safe.'

Florence is moving about the galley of Murdoch's boat, wrapping us in blankets and brewing cups of tea. Hot and happy with relief, she opens a packet of sugared biscuits and offers them around.

‘You shouldn't have left me,' she says accusingly.

‘I'm sorry. I thought we could—'

‘Do this alone?'

‘Something like that.'

Florence explains how she found my note and rode to the Waterfront Inn. By then, Isla Collie had alerted Sean Murdoch about what had happened at the pub and they set out to find us.

‘How did he know where to look?' I ask.

‘The Watergaw has some sort of tracking device that is picked up by satellite.'

I smile at the irony of that.

Evie is still leaning against me. She sits up and pushes me in the chest.

‘What's wrong?' I ask.

‘You saved his life.'

‘He was drowning.'

‘He was going to kill us.'

‘I know.'

‘That makes no sense.'

‘Not everything does.'

She scowls at me like I'm a complete moron, before dropping her head back on my shoulder.

For the next hour we listen to the waves slapping against the hull, throwing salt spray higher and higher over the bow, blurring the air. Cliffs appear on the horizon. Two lighthouses. A harbour. Lead-grey clouds edged in silver are rolling across the sky.

A police launch meets us and provides an escort for the final few miles, directing us to a mooring near the Port Authority headquarters. The Watergaw is now under tow, but Willie Radford has stayed on board, under guard, handcuffed in a cabin, keeping Angus company on his final journey.

There are detectives and ambulance crews waiting on the dock. We are taken in separate unmarked cars to the same police station and kept in different interview rooms for the interrogations. The detectives are from Aberdeen, not St Claire. I don't know where Ogilvy has gone, but I don't see him at the station or hear his name mentioned.

After the first round of interviews, I feel like I've revealed my entire life story. I am taken over every detail of my time in Scotland, my conversations, phone calls, movements and interactions. Why did I make certain choices? Did I consider the consequences? Who gave me the authority?

Evie endures the same, but has Florence sitting in with her, making sure the detectives give her regular rest breaks and something to eat. Her hands are swabbed for shotgun residue and her clothes are taken away for testing, but they let her change into her own spare clothes because nothing at the station will fit her.

I worry about her mental state and how this will affect her. I have pulled a trigger and killed a man. In the aftermath of that shooting, I relived the moment for months, replaying it in slow motion in my mind, feeling the weight of the pistol in my hand and my finger pulling the trigger, pushing the hammer backwards, compressing a metal spring. I felt the kick of the weapon and saw the twist of his body and the look of surprise on his face. I don't want Evie to have similar nightmares. At the same time, this could help draw a line under what happened to her. Psychologists use terms like ‘closure' and ‘resolution', but I don't think it's possible to wrap things up in neat and tidy packages. Life is real and passionate and messy; and closure means something is done, when it's never done and it's never going to be done.

New interrogators arrive. Border Force has sent a team to investigate allegations of human trafficking and illegal immigration. They unpack every detail of Evie's journey to Scotland on board the Arianna II. There is talk of searching for the wreck, but the depth of the water and the passing of the years makes discovery unlikely and salvage even less so.

After Border Force comes the National Crime Agency. I'm surprised when they send Derek Posniak, my old university friend, who even dresses like a spook in a trench-coat and a small porkpie hat, tilted over his eyes. We talk in a holding cell, rather than an interview suite, without cameras and recording equipment.

‘Everything is off-the-record,' he says, lowering his voice, as though he doesn't trust anyone with this scant piece of information. The Ferryman is real, I tell him, and give him Simon Buchan's name, outlining the clues that point to his involvement. Maybe it's a condition of employment for spies that they never look surprised or act as if anything they hear is unexpected or out of the ordinary. Derek was like that. He didn't turn a hair. Could he have known already? Maybe nothing is secret in a world that trades in secrets.

‘Are you going to investigate him?' I ask.

‘Who?'

‘Simon Buchan.'

‘That's above my pay grade.'

‘But you'll pass on the information.'

‘I'll make my report to my superiors, who will report to their superiors and so on and so on.'

‘You don't sound confident.'

‘Not my job,' he replies, straightening his sleeves after shaking my hand.

‘There is a way to link Simon Buchan to this,' I say, hesitating, suddenly unsure if I can make the argument. A thought has been loitering at the edge of my consciousness like a truant schoolboy. It involves several notebooks and a hotel register, each with a famous painting on the cover. Florence has a notebook with Monet's Water Lilies and Japanese Bridge on the cover. Her friend, Natalie Hartley from the anti-slavery charity, had an almost identical book, which featured Van Gogh's Starry Night. And when Evie and I checked in to the Belhaven Inn, Maureen Collie used a guest house register with the Girl with a Pearl Earring on the cover. These were all part of the same series, produced by a stationery provider.

‘Follow the paper,' I whisper to Derek.

‘You mean the money.'

‘No. The paper.'

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Most companies and government departments choose a single supplier for their stationery and office supplies – pens, notebooks, paper, ink cartridges, staplers. Economies of scale. Bulk orders save money.'

‘I still don't understand,' says Derek.

‘Simon Buchan has a large number of business interests, some for profit, others not-for-profit. I think they all use the same stationery and office products supplier. That supplier can be your link to all of his businesses – the charities, labour hire firms, employment agencies, laundries, nail salons, restaurants, commercial kitchens, hotels, factories and construction sites. Follow the paper and you'll uncover the network.'

Derek finally looks surprised. ‘You really are an odd fish, Cyrus.'

‘Why?'

‘Other people might say they care, but you actually try to make a difference.'

‘Is that wrong?'

‘No, it's laudable and weirdly old-fashioned, but somewhat na?ve.'

‘You're a cynic.'

‘That's part of my employment package.'

Derek doffs his hat before departing, leaving behind a sense of melancholia and lost opportunities.

I'm finally allowed to see Evie. We meet in the same lounge where we spent the night after Finn Radford's suicide, eating sandwiches and iced coffee from a local café.

‘I miss Poppy,' says Evie.

‘I miss her too.'

She seems to have forgiven me for throwing myself into the North Sea and rescuing Angus Radford. Maybe she's right and I should have let him drown. She wouldn't have had to pull the trigger and face the repercussions.

‘Florence says I'm not going to be charged with anything, but I'll have to give evidence at his inquest,' says Evie, biting into a sandwich.

‘It was self-defence.'

‘I wanted to kill him.'

‘Try not to mention that to the coroner.'

‘That's what she said.'

She chews and sips her iced coffee. Later, she opens a brown paper bag and finds a chocolate brownie. ‘There's only one,' she says. ‘Want to share?'

‘You break, I choose.'

Evie breaks it apart, but immediately nibbles the biggest side. ‘Guess this one's mine,' she says, grinning, with chocolate staining her teeth. I suddenly dare to think that she's going to be OK. She'll get through this. We both will. Mutually assured survival.

‘When we get home, you have to do something for me,' says Evie. ‘But you have to promise not to laugh.'

‘OK.'

‘And not to look at my scars.'

‘OK.'

She hesitates, embarrassed.

‘What is it? You can tell me.'

‘Can you teach me how to swim?'