Everything’s closing in,” he said. “We can handle it.” He stared at her. “Is there a ‘we’?”

The silence was heavy in the house. Finn lay in bed in the dark with Amy’s head on his chest. Maybe he should do it now, tell her it was over, then at least she would be free of all this, able to escape from whatever he was heading into. But he didn’t, he just held her until her breath slackened and she fell asleep. He waited a long time in that position, staring at the ceiling, the wind birling outside the house, the odd squall of rain slapping the window. He didn’t hear anything from Ingrid’s room.

He slipped his arm out from underneath Amy’s embrace and got dressed. At the front door he picked up a torch and left, pulling the door behind him.

The three lighthouses on the Pentland Firth blinked out of synch to his right as he walked. He stopped and watched them.

The Skerries, Duncansby Head and Stroma, unable to get their act together and flash in unison no matter how long he stared.

The moss under his feet was spongy and wet from the rain but the skies were clear now, so many more stars than you saw down south, so much more of the universe on show. Just in case he needed perspective.

Movement

He came round the back of the visitor centre. The curtains were pulled shut on the Lewis home, but he went up close and saw the blue flicker of the television screen in the living room, traces of movement filtering through at the edge of the window.

He went to the front door and unlocked it. The sound of the Yale clicking round filled his ears. He was two steps inside when she emerged from the connecting doorway to the house. He shone the torch in her face and she squinted and held a hand up.

“Sorry,” he said, playing the beam over the floor. “Thank Christ,” she said when she saw him. Her voice was ragged, wobbly. Maybe she’d been crying. She’d definitely been drinking. She swayed over and threw her arms around him as he closed the door.

“I’ve been so worried,” she said. She kissed him on the mouth and he responded without enthusiasm. She pulled away. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing.”

“Have the police spoken to you again?” “Should they have?”

“Just wondering.”

“Scared I would give you up?” She slid a hand down his shirt. “Of course not.” He went past her into the front room. The television was on, Sky News. Looked like something about supermarkets at the moment, business news, profits falling.

“I could see the television light from outside,” he said.

“I can’t just sit here in the dark.” He nodded at the television. “The black box audio is interesting.”

She stepped towards him. “I know it doesn’t sound good but there’s nothing I didn’t already tell you.”

“The tabloids are after me. I’m amazed they haven’t found Ingrid’s place yet.” Maddie looked at the screen, now clips of a football match. “I saw the reporters at the memorial.”

“I was there.”

“How was it?”

“I got beaten up by someone’s widow.” “Whose?”

Finn dug the order of service out of his pocket and threw it at her. “Take your pick.”

Maddie scanned the piece of paper, looking at the names, soaking them in just like Finn had done. Perhaps they were the same, him and her.

“My girlfriend’s here,” Finn said. Maddie still had the piece of paper in her hand. “And?”

“I don’t know,” Finn said. “I don’t know anything any more.”

Sighing

He reached for the order of service and she handed it back. He slumped on the sofa with a heavy sound, sighing like he’d been punched.

He wished it was as simple as being punched, then he could just recover and get on with life.

“Everything’s closing in,” he said. “We can handle it.” He stared at her. “Is there a ‘we’?”

She put a hand on his. “Of course.” He slipped his hand out from under. “You have to give yourself up.” “No.”

He gestured at the television, now showing a politician he vaguely recognised.

“You have to. You didn’t kill Kev, right?”

“You know I didn’t.”

“Then this is insane.”

She rolled her eyes as if having to explain rocket science to a chimp. “But I have his money. They won’t believe I didn’t do it.”

“But forensics...”

“They don’t care anything about forensic evidence if they have a murdered husband and a wife with a bag of money yelling at a pilot that she can’t go back because of what she’s done. Especially if the plane crashes and kills half the people on board.” “Eight.”

“What?”

“Eight people died. Out of eleven. That’s more than half.” She looked confused. “You mean seven.”

“Didn’t you hear? Sean Bayliss died from his head wounds. A stroke.”

Finn thought of Sally’s cold skin under his touch. “Jesus,” Maddie said.

The smell of alcohol on her was ripe. It made him think of the two of them in the bedroom the night before. “Is there any of that gin left?” he said, getting up.

“I’ve moved on to brandy.”

“That’ll do.”

He followed her to the drinks cabinet, the television throwing jerky light across the room. It was their story on now, Linklater at the press conference. Maddie glanced at it and kept walking but Finn stopped and stared.

The sound was off and the banner across the bottom read “Murder Hunt in Orkney”.

Shimmering

He took a large tumbler of brandy from her and scooped most of it straight off. Loved the burn. He swallowed the rest of it as she watched him.

When he lowered the glass Linklater had gone from the screen, replaced by some footage of the wrecked plane, then the same Facebook picture of Maddie, pouting selfie in a club, shimmering dress, make-up, big hair.

He looked from the screen to the real woman in front of him, the light playing across her body as she unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor, keeping her eyes on him the whole time, undoing her jeans and pushing them down, stepping out of them and walking towards him, taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

He glanced behind at the television, trying to get a glimpse of Maddie before all this happened, but she was gone.

More tomorrow.

Crash Land is published by Faber, paperback priced £7.99. dougjohnstone.co.uk