Finn caught the look the cop gave him. Blame. He’d have to get used to that

Janet Jott folded her arms. “People often get post-traumatic stress, which doesn’t necessarily manifest in the first hours, days or even weeks,” she told Finn. “It can strike at any time.” “I’m OK,” he said. “But you’ve experienced a highly extreme situation. And you are showing some signs of anger and aggression.” “Can I leave hospital or not?” Janet touched her cheek as if contemplating the options. “I think so. But I want to make an appointment to meet you again, as a follow-up. Shall we say tomorrow at 12?

“I’ll get Ingrid to remind you. My office address is on the card, as is my phone number if you want to talk before then.”

Finn picked up the card and flicked it between his fingers. Janet continued: “The police will be in touch, of course.”

“I spoke to Linklater already.” Janet nodded. “She’s very sharp. A dog with a bone, that one.”

She pulled a pen and a couple of forms out of her handbag and Finn struggled to sign them with his splinted hand.

“After the doctor gives you the once-over on her morning rounds you’re free to go. But remember, if things get on top of you at any point, please call me.”

Ducked down

They slipped out of the ward through the staff entrance then doubled back and cut through Orthopaedics to get to Ingrid’s car, parked outside ENT. Janet had told them that a young woman from the Orcadian was outside the front of the building so Finn ducked down as they left.

He sat up as they hit the road south out of Kirkwall. “Was she there?”

Ingrid nodded. “Just her?”

“Yes.”

Only one local journalist, he was lucky so far. Radio Orkney would be on the case. The big guns from the BBC and STV hadn’t made it up yet because of the airport closure, same with the tabloids. But they’d be here soon, so he didn’t have long.

Ingrid’s old Skoda chugged up the hill on the outskirts of town. They passed the Highland Park distillery, its warehouses and pagoda roofs black with the fungus that lives on alcohol fumes. Finn opened his window to fill his nostrils with the reek of it.

“Can we take the Deerness road?” he said. Ingrid glanced at him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please.”

The Deerness road was where the airport was. It was out of their way, but not by much. There were four roads out of Kirkwall, spread like a haphazard spider’s web on the map.

The high road west went past the tourist sites of Maes Howe, Stenness and Brodgar, the low road skirted the coast through Orphir with views over to Hoy. They were on the south road, heading back to Ingrid’s cottage on South Ronaldsay.

The Deerness road slunk south-east past the airport and Deer Sound, out to the remote beaches around the Gloup. “I don’t see what good it will do,” Ingrid said. “I need to see,” Finn replied.

Ingrid put her indicator on, turned left past a farm and bumped along a rough track until she hit the A road and went right. They headed downhill to the flat plain where the airfield sat.

Emergency

The road cut past landing lights, small yellow pylons standing in two lines, a robot army waiting for the order to attack.

The sky was bright, broken clouds flitting east over Inganess Bay. Finn tried to remember this place from last night, the darkness, the fog, the cold, the scream of the engines.

The Skoda was buffeted by a westerly and shuddered as Ingrid moved down through the gears for a bend.

They came over a rise and saw the airfield. The lowslung concrete cube of the arrivals and departures building, the stumpy control tower, barely poking its head above the surrounding fields, the rusted grey hangar to the side.

There were emergency vehicles all over the runway, people hanging around in hi-vis jackets. Finn pictured the propellers cutting through the cabin, tons of metal spinning hundreds of times a second, slicing through the air. The sheer dumb power of it, even in a tiny plane, made him feel weak.

Their car slowed. A burly old cop with grey hair was waving them down at the entrance to the airport. Finn glanced at the car park, just a handful of hire cars and two police vehicles.

Ingrid pulled over and wound the window down. “Ross,” she said.

“It’s yourself, Ingrid,” the officer said. He rested his hand on the roof of the car and leaned over. “And the lad.”

“It is.”

Finn caught the look the cop gave him. Blame. He’d have to get used to that. He stared at his broken hand, rubbed the splint. Felt his chest rise and fall, his ribs stretch and contract, the pain slide along them.

“Terrible business,” Ross said. Ingrid had her hands on the wheel. “Aye.”

“Terrible business,” Ross said again to himself. Ingrid nodded beyond the terminal building to the tarmac. “How’s it going?”

“All right.”

“What are you up to?”

“We’re after the missing lassie. Stopping folk, in case they’ve seen anything.”

“She’s still not turned up?”

Ross shook his head. “They thought maybe she was thrown clear, but we haven’t found anything.” He meant a body. “Well, if she was out all night, she’ll have hypothermia by now,” Ingrid said.

The cop looked at Finn. “We just don’t know, do we? We don’t know.”

Responsible

Finn was surprised to hear his own voice bounce around inside the car. “I hope you find her.” Ross paused. “Me too. There’s enough dead folk already.”

The cop thought Finn was the reason, the killer. The lad responsible for the biggest death toll on Orkney since the Vikings.

Ross looked behind the Skoda. Finn glanced in the side mirror and saw another car coming up. The cop straightened and gave two taps on their car roof. “Better get this next one, Ingrid.”

“No problem.”

“Let me know if you hear any news. And obviously if his nibs here remembers anything.”

“Of course.”

Talking about him as if he wasn’t there, treating him like a little kid. It was no more than he deserved. Finn’s face flushed. Ingrid wound the window up and drove on.

Finn craned his neck to keep the runway in sight. In between fire engines he caught glimpses of the wreckage, the crumpled face of the cockpit, the ragged edge where the fuselage was torn apart, the broken wing.

He thought about Maddie. Had she found shelter or was she lying in a ditch, frozen to death?

More on Monday.

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