The cliffs rose up black and formidable, tilting overhead, and she braced herself for impact on all those jagged outcrops and their razor-sharp crusting of shells.
But the expected pain of impact never came. Instead she felt something soft and warm. Another body in the water. Hands grasping her and suddenly, unexpectedly, lifting her up over the rocks.
The next impact was hard, but giving, and she found herself sprawling on the little patch of silver sand, her footsteps still visible and filling with water. Only there was another set of footprints now. Bigger. The treads of stout walking boots pressed into the softness. Coughing the water from her lungs, half choking, and shivering with the cold, she had only the vaguest impression of her rescuer leaning over her, before a heavy warm jacket seemed somehow to wrap itself around her, and the shadow of whoever had pulled her from the water was gone.
Niamh managed to haul herself to her knees and looked up. But caught only the fleeting glimpse of movement above her on the rocks. Whoever it was had vanished, leaving her their jacket. But she was still barefoot, and knew that somehow she had to get back to the house before hypothermia took her.
The climb back up the cliff without footwear was treacherous, and she was thankful for all the years of running barefoot along the shore as a child. Still, she moved carefully. Some of these rocks were sharp-edged and could slice open the tender soles of her feet with a single slip. Obversely and unexpectedly, bare feet and flexible toes gave her a better grip. She was more sure-footed. And it was, finally, with great relief that she pulled herself up on to the soft bog grass along the top of the cliff.
She lay on her back breathing hard for several minutes, her rescuer’s thermal jacket wrapped around her. Her feet ached, from the cold and the pain of the climb, and above her she saw twilight wash itself darker across the sky, the first stars twinkling faintly beyond fast-moving broken cloud.
Eventually she summoned the strength to pull herself back to her feet and went hobbling off across the moor towards the house, where lights on a timer lit up its interior against the night. All the way, peaty black mud oozed between her toes, and she fought to understand what had just happened.
Someone had climbed down to push her off the cliff. Someone intent on killing her. Only the fortuitous collision with a grassy outcrop had sent her spinning beyond the reach of the rocks below, and certain death. But, then, the sea too had been set to claim her, to drag her down and drown her, or smash her against the rocks. Before strong hands had plucked her free of it and dumped her unceremoniously on the beach. Leaving no trace, except for footprints in the sand, and this weatherproof jacket that she wrapped tightly around her now.
Once inside the house, she slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, fumbling with the latch to do what she never did, and lock it. The warm air in the hall made her realize just how cold she was. Her first instinct was to go and stand below a hot shower to raise her core temperature. But first she went through all the pockets of this jacket she had been gifted. They were empty, and the jacket itself seemed new, barely worn.
She hung it up where she normally hung her parka and ran through the bedroom to the bathroom, wriggling out of her sodden jeans and T-shirt, discarding her underwear, to stand finally beneath the spray of hot water in the shower. Eyes closed. Breathing slowly and deeply. Still shivering, but more from shock than cold. She opened her eyes and turned her head to look at the bruising that already blackened her shoulder. The skin was grazed and broken, but not bleeding. Her parka had protected her from worse injury. She revolved her arm on the axis of her shoulder, and although it was painful she was pretty sure it was not broken.
The full realization of just how lucky she had been broke over her like the water from the shower, and her legs very nearly buckled beneath her.
She staggered from below its powerful spray to wrap a thick towelling robe around her and return to the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed and examined her feet, each in turn. They were bruised and grazed, and she rubbed antiseptic cream into the broken skin before wrapping several of her toes in fine bandaging. She would live.
A tiny burst of ironic laughter escaped her lips. Aye, you’ll live, her mother used to say to her when she cut a knee or skinned an elbow. Right now she was only alive because someone’s attempt to kill her had failed. Because someone else had pulled her from the Minch and saved her from drowning, or worse.
Why had one not seen the other? Or were they both one and the same person? If so, why try to kill her with one hand, and then save her with the other? None of it made sense.
She lay back on the bed, trembling now from neither shock nor cold. But from fear. And she wondered if she would sleep a wink tonight.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Although the library did not open until 10 a.m., Gunn had been briefed that staff would be there half an hour before. He and Braque were standing outside in Cromwell Street and saw that there were lights on beyond the windows. But the door was locked, and the Closed sign turned out.
Brown marble tiles lined the frontage beneath the painted stonework, and Braque noticed that there appeared to be letters missing above the windows. EABHAR ANN read the Gaelic in gold letters fixed to the wall on the left. IBR RY read the English to the right. Gunn banged on the door with the flat of his hand until a young lady with long brown hair came to peer through the glass. He pressed his warrant card up against the window and then waited patiently until the library assistant let them in.
‘Morning, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘We need to speak to the librarian.’
The assistant led them through the empty library to the reception desk, which also welcomed visitors in Gaelic. Failte. And asked them to wait. There were three computers around the desk, and an array of printers and faxes behind it. They were in the heart of the children’s section, bedecked with triangular red and white flags hanging from the ceiling. A row of five computer terminals sat on desks pushed up against the back wall. Braque and Gunn exchanged glances.
Within a minute, the librarian swept through a door at the back. An attractive lady in her middle years, dressed in a grey suit and black blouse, her hair cut short, the colour of brushed steel shot through with black. She spoke with an accent Gunn found hard to identify. German, or Eastern European, perhaps.
‘How can I help you?’
Braque let Gunn do the talking.
‘Ma’am, we’re interested to identify a person or persons who may have used computers in this library to access the internet and send emails.’
The librarian smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘Detective, we have hundreds of people using our computers.’
‘But you keep some kind of record of who they are?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘So if we provided you with IP addresses for the computers, and the date and times they were being used, you would be able to tell me who was using them?’
‘Only if they were a member.’
Gunn frowned. ‘Of?’
‘The library of course.’ It seemed perfectly obvious to the librarian. ‘A member provides us with their library card, which has a bar code, and a record of use is entered into our system. Name, address, which computer, and when it was being used.’