The Stalker

  THE STALKER

  Sarah Alderson

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Sarah Alderson 2021

  Cover design © Andrew Davis, HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey/Trevillion Images (background), Shutterstock.com (figure and clouds)

  Sarah Alderson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008400040

  Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008400057

  Version: 2021-05-13

  Dedication

  For Vic

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter One: Day One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six: Day Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight: Day Three

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten: Day Four

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen: Day Five

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Day Six

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Eight Months Earlier — Mia

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Day Seven — Laura

  Chapter Thirty: Mia

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-One: Eight Months Earlier — Laura

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Mia

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Laura — Two Months Earlier

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Laura

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Laura

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Day One

  The island is invisible. Dark clouds hang like waterlogged blankets over the loch: I can’t tell where the horizon ends, and the sky begins. I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself to keep out the chill, damp air. I hoped it would be sunny – it’s August after all – but I suppose it is Scotland, and the weather, damp and miserable as it is, seems fitting, as if I’ve conjured it from inside my head.

  I try to remind myself why we’re here; it’s our honeymoon, albeit delayed by two months and no longer the Greek island paradise we had originally planned, booked and paid for. But, on the bright side, it’s going to be just Liam and me. We’ll be the only people on the island, staying in an eighteenth-century forge converted into a luxury holiday home. We’ll spend a whole week snuggled in front of the log fire, exploring the forests and Celtic ruins, walking the wild and windswept beaches, and trying to put the past behind us – at least that’s what I’m telling myself. I’m praying it works out that way.

  Liam finishes talking to the boatman and hurries across the pebble beach towards me. He’s tall and dark and even from this distance I can make out the arctic blue of his eyes.

  My mum thought he looked like Leonardo DiCaprio in his Titanic days. And it’s true: there is a likeness, a similar sparkle in his eye and a boyish charm. As he walks towards me across the pebble beach, I feel as if someone has called ‘action’ and I’m an actress starring in a movie. It still feels unreal to me that we’re actually married; that I’m Liam’s wife. I smile at him and he grins back, making my stomach flip. I suppose it’s normal for newlyweds to feel this way, and I sometimes wonder if the butterflies in my stomach will ever go away, because I can’t imagine it.

  ‘The man says he’ll take us over as soon as the weather eases,’ Liam says when he reaches me. The boatman has disappeared somewhere, probably to wait out the weather.

  ‘How long will that be?’ I ask, frowning up at the petulant sky.

  Liam shrugs. ‘Not long. He seemed to think it’ll clear up soon. Let’s go and grab a beer while we wait.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Liam steers us away from the water’s edge and back up the beach. There’s a pub sitting opposite the pier; one of a handful of old, stone buildings that make up the hamlet of Arduaine. Too small to be a village, Arduaine is an outcropping built to withstand the weather. The pub is short and squat, its walls thick as a jail’s. Its windows are small beady eyes, recessed deep into heavy sockets.

  ‘The Bucket of Blood?’ I say, reading the battered wooden sign nailed over the casement.

  Liam opens the door. ‘Let’s hope they serve a decent IPA,’ he laughs, as I duck under his arm and walk inside.

  The pub is cosier than its name would have us believe. A fire crackles in the grate and the burnished brass fittings glow as though they’ve absorbed centuries of polish. It’s empty, aside from a middle-aged landlord, with a complexion as weathered as the pub sign outside, and a man in his mid to late twenties who’s wearing a camouflage jacket and sitting at the far end of the bar, hunched over and nursing a pint.

  ‘Afternoon,’ the landlord says, smiling at us as we lower our hoods and approach. ‘What can I get you?’

  Liam, always affable and friendly in situations like these, immediately falls into conversation with him about the local ales on tap. I take off my jacket and start to unwind my scarf but stop suddenly, feeling eyes on me, and turn my head. The man at the end of the bar is staring right at me. I smile, trying to be polite, but his gaze remains unflinchingly cold and piercing, so I look away. I wonder what his problem is. Perhaps he doesn’t like non-locals in his pub. I wrap my scarf back around my neck, feeling a sudden chill despite the fire roaring in the grate. It feels more like winter, not at all like the dying days of summer.

  ‘Lime and soda?’ Liam asks, turning to me.

  I nod. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘I thought we could wait until we get to the island before we eat,’ Liam says.

  I nod again. I’m not hungry anyway. The doctor said it can be normal with depression to lose your appetite, and that I should wait for the anti-depressants to kick in. I started taking them a month ago though and haven’t yet felt any change, at least to my eating. I’m definitely starting to see some improvement in my mood – a crack of light is appearing in the dark. Who knows? By the end of the week maybe the horrible weight pressing down on me will have been leve
red off like a giant boulder and I’ll start to feel free of it.

  It’s not that I don’t want to be happy; that I don’t crave it. But in my memory, happiness is like the chocolate cake my mum used to make for me every birthday since I was a little girl, covered in lashings of chocolate buttercream and decorated with chocolate buttons. I can picture it in my mind’s eye – can even recall the feeling of the fork tines against my tongue and the gooey warmth as the first bite hits the roof of my mouth – but for the life of me I can’t remember what it tastes like.

  As Liam brings our drinks over to a table in the corner, I glance at him, grateful that he suggested we rebook the honeymoon that we’d had to so abruptly cancel. He thought I’d want to go somewhere hot and suggested the hotel on Santorini, but I didn’t feel up to going far from home, couldn’t imagine myself lying by a pool under a blazing hot sun. And I’ve always wanted to visit Scotland. My mum and I used to talk about it, both of us having fallen in love with the Outlander books, but we never got around to making the trip. Liam’s roots are Scottish, and he’s really into history, so he seemed happy enough with the idea when I suggested it.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says, chinking his glass against mine.

  ‘Cheers,’ I answer.

  ‘To us,’ he says, leaning across the table and kissing me. ‘I love you,’ he adds in a whisper, his lips warm against mine.

  ‘I love you too,’ I reply, kissing him back. ‘Happy honeymoon.’

  He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek and sending a shiver down my spine. He grins and I get a flash of memory of the first time I saw him. The very first thing I noticed about him then was the brilliant blue of his eyes and a smile that suggested a certain boyish recklessness and sense of adventure, as well as a level of confidence that I’d only ever aspired to. It’s what I first fell for about him.

  After taking another swallow of beer Liam jumps to his feet. ‘Just going to use the loo,’ he says, and strolls towards a door in the far corner of the pub.

  I sip my drink and glance around the room. The landlord is sitting on a stool, reading the sports pages of the Scottish Times. My gaze drifts to the man sitting at the end of the bar and to my surprise I find him staring back at me with that same piercing look, his eyes hooded and narrowed.

  ‘You heading to Shura?’ he asks in a low Scottish burr.

  I nod, recognizing the name of the island we’re going to. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You staying long?’ he grunts.

  ‘A week,’ I say, wondering why he wants to know.

  ‘You know the place is haunted?’

  ‘What?’ I ask, laughing nervously. He’s obviously pulling my leg. Yet he isn’t smiling; his expression remains sullen.

  The landlord looks up from his paper. ‘Aye,’ he says, glancing at the man before looking at me. ‘He’s not wrong. Shura’s haunted as they come.’

  I look between the two men, wondering if they’re messing around with me, teasing the newcomer, or if it’s some kind of inside joke between them; but the younger man still isn’t smiling, and the landlord’s expression is completely earnest. He nods again. ‘There was a terrible murder there.’ He glances at the younger man and then adds, ‘I mean, there’ve been lots of murders there.’

  My mouth must have fallen open because he continues in a softer tone: ‘The Vikings used to raid all around these parts.’

  ‘Oh,’ I manage to say.

  ‘There used to be a monastery out there on Shura. Easy pickings. A lot of monks got killed. Nowhere to run, you see. Or hide.’

  ‘Right …’ I say, unsure how to react.

  ‘You’ll see some ancient burial sites on the island too if you look carefully. Celtic ruins from way, way back.’

  I smile politely and nod. Liam will at least like that.

  The landlord moves to clear the man’s empty beer glass. ‘Another?’ he asks him.

  ‘Aye,’ the man replies with a scowl, before twisting around to face me with a scowl. ‘Shura’s cursed. You shouldn’t be going there.’

  I swallow drily, feeling my stomach drop away.

  ‘Come on now, let’s not scare the lass,’ the landlord admonishes, obviously seeing the anxiety on my face. ‘The island’s beautiful. You’ll have a lovely time,’ he reassures me.

  The younger man twists back around in his seat to face the bar, shoulders hunched, and the landlord goes back to his newspaper. And I’m left with my imagination, which lurches into overtime. The idea that the place is haunted is unsettling, casting a dark cloud over what’s meant to be a romantic getaway. And what does the younger man mean about the island being cursed?

  Liam walks out the bathroom just then. Immediately he reads the atmosphere in the room; the undercurrent of tension. ‘You OK?’ he asks, sitting down and throwing a suspicious look at the other two men.

  I nod, still feeling unsettled. ‘Fine. They were just telling me about the island.’

  ‘A little bit of history,’ the landlord pipes up with a smile.

  ‘Oh, anything interesting?’ Liam asks, glancing between them.

  ‘They were saying it’s haunted,’ I tell him, glancing his way to gauge his reaction.

  ‘Right,’ he says, rolling his eyes and smirking. Being a detective means that Liam deals with all sorts of horrible crimes – murders, robberies, assault – so nothing much fazes him, and definitely not the idea of ghosts.

  ‘Ignore them,’ he says to me now, taking my hand. ‘We’re on our honeymoon. And we’re going to have a great time.’

  ‘Unless of course the island is haunted,’ I joke.

  ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts,’ he answers, taking a sip of his beer.

  I sip my drink and say nothing. I’m not so sure about that.

  Chapter Two

  The island is visible now. It’s shrouded in fog though, wisps of cloud clinging to it.

  Liam helps me into the small boat with an outboard motor that will carry us over to it, making sure the straps of my life jacket are done up tight. He knows I’m afraid of water; I have been ever since I almost drowned one time. It’s something I still have nightmares about.

  Liam sees me eyeing the near-black surface of the water with uneasiness. ‘You’re all right,’ he tells me in the same tone he uses when I jolt awake screaming from a bad dream. ‘You won’t fall in, I promise. And if you do,’ he adds with a wink, ‘I’ll jump in and save you.’

  I force a smile and take a seat at the front of the boat, my right hand gripping the side white-knuckled, despite Liam’s reassurances. He sits opposite me and holds my free hand, his fingers grazing the diamond ring and the simple gold band that was once my grandmother’s.

  The boatman, wearing a bright yellow rain mac and galoshes, pulls the starting cord and the engine splutters damply to life. We set off, bouncing over the waves, and I fix my gaze on the island in the distance. My hood flies back and the wind whips my hair around my head. I close my eyes as the spray hits my face, relishing the cold scouring my skin. It’s awakening, as though it has the power to blast away my sadness.

  ‘Who owns the place?’ I hear Liam ask the boatman and I open my eyes to look in their direction.

  The boatman shrugs. ‘Mystery. No one knows. Was on the market for a few years but no one wanted to touch it on account of its history. Then it was bought a few months back,’ he grunts.

  ‘What history?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, just, you know … she’s got a dark history, Shura.’

  ‘You mean the Viking raids?’ I ask.

  The boatman glances at me with something of a puzzled expression. ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘that’ll be it.’

  I frown. It’s obvious that there’s something more to the island’s history, but no one wants to open up and say what it is. And I’m not sure I want to press and find out.

  ‘You’re the first ones to visit,’ the boatman adds, changing the subject.

  ‘Really?’ Liam asks.

  The boatman nods.
‘Aye. I should know. No other way of getting over there, ’cept by boat. And you’re the only ones I’ve taken.’

  ‘It’s our honeymoon,’ Liam tells the man. He beams at me as he says it, squeezing my hand, his thumb still rubbing the smooth gold of my wedding ring.

  ‘Congratulations,’ the boatman says to us both, but it sounds perfunctory, like he couldn’t care less. I notice he’s wearing a wedding ring too, dull and scarred and almost welded to his gnarled hand.

  ‘How long have you been married for?’ I ask him.

  ‘Forty-three years,’ he grunts, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

  I honestly believe that Liam and I will be one of the one in three couples that stays together ‘till death do us part’. Even though we didn’t get married in a church because Liam isn’t religious, we still said the traditional vows and, when I spoke that part, that was when it really sank in that we were committing to be together forever.

  I turn my attention to the island, coming into clearer view now. The forest rises up like a dark, silent army, as if the island is barricading itself to visitors, and the cliffs at the far end almost do make the place seem cursed. I wonder about the history of the place – the Viking invasions that the landlord mentioned and the dark history the boatman just hinted at – and shiver again, despite the extra wool sweater of Liam’s that I’m wearing under my jacket. I’m naturally superstitious and I can’t shake the sense of foreboding which has settled over me.

  As we continue to bounce over the water, edging nearer and nearer to what I can now make out is a slim jetty at the opposite end of the island to the cliffs, the shape of a house starts to materialise, white with dark wood timbers. It’s set a little way back from the shoreline. That must be the cottage we’re staying in – the old forge.

  In that same moment, the sun breaks through the cloud and what seemed to be an inhospitable piece of land rising out of black, unforgiving waters is suddenly transformed as if someone has waved a wand and broken a witch’s spell. The beaches shine dazzlingly white and the sunlight glitters off the water, forcing me to squint. The forest is no longer a silent, defending army, but an enchanted wood, begging to be explored. The sun breaks through further cracks in the grey cloud and it makes me think of someone tearing off wrapping paper to reveal the blue gift of the sky beneath. It’s like two different islands; one from a nightmare, the other from a fairy tale. Though a lot of fairy tales resemble nightmares when you think about it. I decide to throw off my feelings of anxiety and push the idea of the island being cursed out of my mind. This week is the start of a new chapter.