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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: DI Kelso Strang
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
'The crime czar of the Scottish small town!' Val McDermid On a clear moonlit night, DI Kelso Strang hears the spine-chilling howl of a wolf. It is not the only unsettling thing he discovers about the remote village of Inverbeg. Sean Reynolds, obsessive about rewilding his estate, is rumoured to have taken steps to hurry it on, to the anger of the local farmers. And then there are the whispers about an elderly lady, burdened with ugly secrets, who died some months before. Her best friend believes she was murdered. When fresh horror strikes Inverbeg, Strang feels that further retribution is at work, but as the ground keeps shifting under his feet he faces his biggest challenge yet.
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OLD SINS
ALINE TEMPLETON
For my friend Jenny Mayhew, who introduced me to tea and cocktails
‘Old sins cast long shadows.’
English proverb
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
FEBRUARY, 2020
That night, the Inverbeg Inn was busy as usual. On Saturdays there was almost a ritual gathering to keep the little pub in business, so the craic was always good and it drew in custom too from half-a-dozen of the little townships round about. With the nearest police station only open 9 till 5, Tuesday and Thursday, it was the old-fashioned rules that applied: you were reckoned fit to drive if you could keep the car in a straight line and turn a corner when you got to one. Though admittedly, there were quite a lot of those.
Flora Maitland always made a point of coming. The well-worn path back up to the croft might be rugged terrain, particularly in February, but as her father had always said, she was sure-footed as a mountain goat. So even at seventy she saw no reason to curtail her pleasures and she always made an evening of it to justify the effort.
She looked forward to Saturday. She’d no regrets about leaving London; here in the peace and the silence, tired at night after hard physical work, she was sleeping as she hadn’t slept for years, deeply and peacefully, but she had to admit that getting any kind of stimulating conversation out of a sheep was a bit of a challenge, so she relished the company. The natives were friendly and there was always a changing group of workers from the rewilding project on the Auchinglass Estate – young folk, often. She always got on well with the young who seemed to realise that her grey hair and wrinkles were just a clever disguise so that no one would ask the rebellious seventeen-year-old inside for ID.
Tonight she was propping up the bar in the centre of a group of them arguing with a fellow-crofter Angus Mackenzie, her neighbour and friend, about bringing the wolf back to Scotland. He was not, to put it mildly, in favour.
‘They’d threaten my livelihood, that’s what they’d do. They’re not daft – are you really saying that when they got a bit peckish they’d go after red deer? You’ve maybe noticed they’re the ones that run like the wind and have antlers, but you still think your pals wouldn’t pick up a few lamb chops on the hoof instead when they were up for a takeaway? Oh, it’s dead romantic, right enough – the grey ghosts, slinking through the trees with only the golden eyes glowing and giving a wee howl or two for effect. Just don’t try telling me this is to save the trees.’
‘But you’d get compensation,’ one lad argued. ‘And at least it would help keep the deer numbers down to give the saplings we’re planting a chance.’
Flora’s eyes glinted with mischief. ‘But there’s always the traditional way,’ she said provocatively, raising an imaginary shotgun to her shoulders. ‘Healthy food and local employment—’
One of the girls, very young, with green-streaked hair and piercings, obligingly rose to the bait. ‘No!’ she protested. ‘That’s just barbaric, killing beautiful animals for sport!’
Flora was just about to say, ‘And the wolves’ methods are more humane?’ when she caught sight of a group coming in.
Flora froze mid-word, feeling the blood draining from her face. Banquo’s ghost, she found herself thinking wildly: her moral failure appearing before her, like an apparition in human form. Immediate and present danger. She had to escape …
‘Are you all right?’ one boy said anxiously. ‘You’ve gone awful white.’
‘Oh, sorry – didn’t meant to be rude,’ the girl mumbled.
‘No, no, it’s nothing. My fault.’ She turned hastily. ‘Actually, I’ve been feeling a bit fluey. I’d probably be sensible to get on home.’
There was a finger of Scotch left in her glass. She downed it for Dutch courage, then with a brief, too-bright smile, slipped through as they stood aside to let her pass. She was aware of the concerned looks and the little buzz of conversation behind her as she reached the side door and stepped outside, zipping up her jacket.
It was bitterly cold after the cosy fug of the pub, a crystal-clear night with the ground, even at ten o’clock, already glinting with frost. The light from the windows fell in golden patches on the forecourt and there were lights in the car park but beyond that, nothing but blackness.
It took her eyes a few moments to adapt. It was the dark of the moon but the stars were showing bright – millions and millions of stars covering the sky that seemed like a bowl upturned over her head, wheeling, whirling, pressing in on her so that Flora staggered for a moment, feeling dizzy.
Panic, she told herself, stopping to take deep breaths of the icy air. She had to stop this at once, start thinking rationally. She’d a good brain; she’d made her living on that. She switched on her torch and set off up the rough path.
Flora was pretty certain she couldn’t have been recognised. She’d turned away instantly while the group was still making their way in, and surely a grey-haired elderly lady in a tired-looking green padded jacket wouldn’t be easy to identify as the defiantly hennaed, professionally immaculate manager she’d been.
She’d known someone could come looking for her, of course. She’d had the sense of trouble coming, though that wasn’t what had prompted her to end her long and financially successful career. At the beginning, when she was young and wild, the business, with its historical overtones of outwitting a greedy state, had seemed edgy and defiant and romantic – oh yes! Romantic above all. Now it was different, hideously different, and she just couldn’t live any longer with that sick feeling of disgust at what she’d allowed herself to become. With some skill, she’d managed to bow out gracefully into retirement without alarming the bosses, making the shameful decision to keep silent.
But when she heard an investigation had indeed begun, she’d realised her own peril. She had no illusions: doing the right thing, handing herself in to the authorities and throwing herself on the mercy of the court when it came to complicity, would be signing her death warrant. She must simply disappear.
Her father had just died and the croft he’d inherited from his father was hers now. She’d never talked about her background and there was only one person she’d ever told about her childhood, idyllic in retrospect. Perfect. She was ready for a quiet life; she reverted to her maiden name, stopped dying her hair and moved in. It was certainly rugged compared to what she’d been used to but in some strange way it felt as if she was sloughing off the dead skin of the past and emerging clean. She’d barely left the place since.
Surely they couldn’t have known, she told herself, as she followed the cliff path up to the croft house. If the bosses had known, she wouldn’t be here now, she’d be at the bottom of the bay there in a sack with a stone tied to her ankles. Coincidence, that’s all, she told herself. Just a passing visitor. I can lie low, keep out of the way for a bit.
She’d never liked coincidences, though. Mostly, when you looked into it, they were no such thing. What could be the connection? Then it hit her.
The present owner had been there for a while. But before that … Remembering how she’d got involved in the first place, Flora shuddered. She must be mad; she’d actually chosen to hide in plain view.
So danger had come from the direction she hadn’t thought of, deadly danger. She’d have to leave tomorrow, first thing. She’d phone Angus, ask him to check on the sheep until she could sell up. The sooner she got home to prepare the better, and she tried to speed up – she wasn’t quite such a brisk walker these days and the gradient was taxing.
The windless night was very still. She was used to the silence here, the sort of silence that was oddly unbroken by the gentle swishing of the waves below or the sudden cry of a startled bird, but tonight it almost seemed oppressive, as if it was waiting for something to shatter it. Nerves again, she told herself, but she did look back over her shoulder.
She could see the lights of the pub below, and more lights further along on the other side coming from the sprawl of the salmon farm. A few of her ewes were sleeping on the turf nearby, their fleeces a light patch against the darker outline of scrubby gorse bushes and as she looked lower down, one started up suddenly, as they so often did – did they have bad dreams? That woke her neighbour and they bundled off in the direction classified as ‘away’ in their woolly brains.
There was no other sign of movement and Flora hurried on, a bit breathless now, round the final turn in the road that skirted the drop down to the beach before the croft house came into view. It was only then she felt the sudden rush of movement behind her, heard pounding footsteps, heavy breathing.
She tried to spin round, but a blow in the small of her back knocked her off her feet. As she struggled to get up, her flailing legs were pinioned in a strong grip and she was pushed across the turf, across the rough grass, small stones grazing her face, right out over the edge. She scrabbled desperately, breaking her nails as she frantically fought for purchase on the frozen ground, but only dislodged one of the little stones that fell with her as she crashed head first down, down, down to the rocky shore.
‘That ewe – I’m a fool,’ was her last conscious thought.
They were standing waiting in the church hall where tea and sandwiches were waiting after the crematorium service, brief and basic in accordance with Flora Maitland’s wishes. Her brother, his wife and their daughter had formed a sort of receiving line ready to greet the other mourners when they came straggling in.
‘Always said she drank too much. Catches up with you sooner or later,’ William Maitland muttered. He was a big man, balding and paunchy, and his mouth was set in the downward curve it usually took when he mentioned his sister.
‘You might at least try to sound sorry,’ his daughter said, giving him a look of dislike. Plump and pouting, her hair was a harsh shade of blonde that did her no favours and the black eyeliner flick was clumsily applied. ‘You never saw her the worse for wear. She could drink anyone under the table.’
‘That’s not really an accomplishment, you know, Danielle,’ her mother Moira said gently, and William added, ‘Typical! I know you thought we’d a down on Flora but that’s exactly what made us feel she was a bad influence. Encouraging you to go the same way she did.’
Danielle glowered. ‘So what’s wrong with that? Flora was dead cool. And she was the only person who really got me, who knew how I felt. And it wasn’t just that you had a down on her for – you were pissed off that your father left the croft to her, not to you.’
William gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘Don’t know where you got that idea from. It’s more or less a bothy. Anyway, here’s people coming now.’
There were thirty or forty in the congregation, mostly older people from the farming community. The Maitlands had an appointment with Flora’s solicitor in Lochinver later that morning and William wasn’t encouraging when they lingered as they offered their condolences.
There was one exception. Danielle, standing awkwardly a little behind her parents barely listening to what was said, noticed that his attitude changed when a tall man in a smart suit came up. He made the usual noises, then said quietly, ‘This isn’t the time, but you know my position and you’ve got my contact number. Let me know when you’re ready to talk.’
‘Of course, of course,’ William said cordially. ‘Once we’ve got the details straightened out …’
‘Danielle?’ She turned. An elderly man with a shock of fluffy white hair was standing at her shoulder. ‘I’m Angus – Angus Mackenzie. Flora was my very good friend. I’m going to miss her a lot.’
There was no mistaking his sincerity and her face softened. ‘I’m going to miss her ever so much too. She was just, like, the greatest aunt ever. We’d some brilliant laughs. And it’s Danni – I really, really hate Danielle.’
He smiled at her. ‘Danni, then. She told me all about you, you know.’
‘Did she? We used to have the best times together when she was still in London – went to all these really cool places. It’s so awful – I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe she was drunk, either. I’ve seen her drink plenty, and she never showed it, even a tiny bit.’
Angus looked at her, suddenly serious. ‘To be honest, I can’t believe it, either,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘I saw her that night. She was on her first drink, then something upset her and she left suddenly. There was no reason for her even to be near the edge of the cliff. I said that to the police, you know, but they weren’t interested. I tried to suggest to your father that he could maybe take it up with them, but—’
‘Danielle!’ William Maitland called sharply, ‘Get your coat. We’ll be leaving shortly for that appointment.’ It was said loudly enough to prompt people to start finishing their drinks hastily, but Danni scowled.
‘I’m talking to Angus,’ she said defiantly.
‘I’m sure he’ll excuse you,’ her father said and Angus, with a polite nod, went on his way.
She waited until they got into the car to drive across to Lochinver before she started. ‘Dad, he thinks there’s something funny about Flora’s accident. He says he told you that, so what are you going to do?’
Even from the back seat in the car she could see red blotches appear on his neck. ‘For God’s sake, Danielle! Some old boy who’s probably senile thinks there’s something “funny” about my sister’s death – what do you think I’m going to do? Absolutely bloody nothing, that’s what. Look, I spoke to the police, I read their report. They’re satisfied, and so am I. End of. Got it?’
Danni subsided. There wasn’t a lot she could do. They hadn’t paid any attention to Angus and they wouldn’t to her either. It wasn’t as if there was anything to say except that it wasn’t like the Flora she knew to do something seriously dumb like staggering off a cliff. But of course she hadn’t actually seen her since she left London to come and live up here in the back of beyond and she was pretty old now – she could have got doddery. And what would be the point, anyway? Even supposing they did find out that it wasn’t an accident, Flora would still be dead.
The Lochinver solicitor’s office was in a bungalow looking across to the busy harbour, with the Sugar Loaf top of Suilven looming up behind it. Flora had used her father’s lawyer, Donald Mackay, who was waiting for the Maitlands with three chairs set out opposite him.
He remembered William Maitland, a big, blustering man who had been openly outraged that his father had left his meagre estate to his sister, with the exception of the ‘bairn’s part’ that Scots law obliged him to pay his other child. He’d tried to argue that the old man had lost it and didn’t know what he was doing but Mackay had given him a very dusty answer. Maitland Senior had certainly been as sharp as a tack in summing-up his children: ‘He’s a great, fat, greedy sumph. She’s maybe not always just kept to the rules, but I’ve aye had a weakness for a black sheep.’
Flora Reith, slim, sophisticated, with dark red hair and bright red nails, had sat in perfect calm, letting her brother rant on and leave, and then proceeded to deal with all the arrangements in a slickly professional way. When, sometime later, she’d come in to make her will Mackay had hardly recognised her in the grey-haired woman with roughened hands and broken nails who had gone back to her maiden name.
She’d laughed openly at his confusion. ‘I’m just a shepherdess now,’ she said. ‘Weather-beaten, exhausted, losing money and a stone heavier but I’m perfectly happy.’
The size of her estate had come as a surprise to him. Whatever it was she’d done that hadn’t obeyed the rules had obviously been profitable.
When he saw the Maitlands’ car draw up outside he went to meet them. As they shook hands and he murmured, ‘Sorry for your loss,’ William’s smile was distinctly forced.
Moira made appropriate noises as the daughter hung back, looking sulky. He smiled at her, going to shake her hand. ‘You must be Danielle. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
William stiffened. ‘I hate to think what that might have been,’ he said sharply. ‘I wouldn’t believe it all – my sister was inclined to exaggerate.’
A very unwelcome suspicion was obviously already forming in his mind as Mackay led them through to his office, so obviously that he might as well have spoken it out loud: Flora couldn’t have – could she?
Once they were seated, Mackay opened the file lying on his desk and said, ‘I’ll give you the terms in detail, of course, but I should say at the start that it’s actually a very simple will. There’s a couple of other bequests, one to a neighbour on condition that he takes on her flock of sheep, but the rest is to come to you, Danielle.’
Of the three gasps that followed the announcement, the loudest was Danielle’s. Looking stunned, she said, ‘She left it to me?’
William’s face had turned an ugly purplish-grey. ‘You mean my father’s croft, that he inherited from his father and his father before that – I’m being bypassed again?’
‘Yes, Mr Maitland. And this time there can certainly be no question about competence. Your sister was very clear about what she wanted.’
‘But for God’s sake, the girl’s barely twenty! All she’s done is waste her life on a series of short-term jobs – trying to “find herself”, for any favour! What money there was would come to her in the end, of course, when she was old enough to appreciate it – not now, surely not now! We could put it in a trust—’
‘Mr Maitland, I have no authority to do any such thing and nor, I’m afraid, do you.’
William got to his feet, pushing his chair back so roughly that it toppled. Moira, glancing nervously from her husband to her daughter, got up too, then bent down to set her husband’s chair back on its legs.
‘I’m not sitting here to listen while my sister gives me the finger from beyond the grave. She’s been a bad lot all along, Flora, and her precious niece is all set to go the same way. Giving her tainted money will just send her to hell in a handcart even faster.’
Moira put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. ‘William,’ she quavered.
‘Don’t “William” me!’ He strode across the room, then paused at the door to address his daughter.
‘We’re leaving for Glasgow now. You can come with us or you can make your own way back. You’re a woman of property now.’ He flung the door open and marched out.
Moira was looking anguished. ‘He doesn’t really mean it,’ she said to her daughter. ‘You know the way he flies off the handle. We’ll sort it out later – just come now.’ She waited for a moment, but when Danni didn’t move, she followed him.
The girl had sat, still and silent, since she’d heard the news. Mackay looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh, me? I’m fine. But if he doesn’t calm down, he’ll give himself a heart attack.’
Mackay looked at her with interest. This girl with her pierced eyebrow and heavy-handed make-up seemed to have inherited her aunt’s sangfroidalong with her estate. She was going on, ‘Do I get anything right now?’
No comment on her sudden good fortune, no gratitude to her aunt – just straight to the point. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The estate has to go to probate, as it’s called, while all the details are sorted out. It could be some months, I’m afraid.’
Danni’s face fell. ‘Oh. I should maybe have gone with them. Haven’t got the money to get back to Glasgow.’
She was, when it came right down to it, little more than a child. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll lend you what you need on the office account and claim it back later. And if you like, I’ll take you up just to have a look at the croft house before you go home.’
‘Can’t see me exactly wanting to live there, but it’d be kind of cool to have my own house, even if it’s just a bothy, like Dad said.’
‘I’ll explain the formal details more fully about what happens now. But your aunt said I was to give you this before anything else.’ He took an envelope from the file and handed it to her.
Danni took it, frowning, and opened it. The letter inside was short.
You were a great pal, kid. Have a good time with all this – you know you want to! But I’ve a wee bit of a conscience about some of the things I’ve done and about some of the things I taught you were OK. You’re like me – there’s a bit of the devil in us both, so think how it’s all going to end up before you start doing stuff or one day you’ll start hearing a funny flapping sound. That’s chickens coming home to roost. They always do.
Be careful. Be safe. Have a great life.
Your wicked aunt Flora.
Mackay watched her as she read it. He had no idea what it said, but Danni gave a little grimace, then folded it up and put it back into the envelope.
‘Can we go now?’ she said.
Admittedly, it was quite exciting when the lawyer guy gave her the key and waited in the car while she went to unlock the door to the croft house – her house – but it was pouring with rain and the sky was grey and the sea was grey too and there was a wind that cut right through you. She shivered, wondering how the aunt she’d known, who’d actually taken her clubbing as well as to some seriously fancy restaurants, could bear to live in this awful bleak place miles from anywhere She must have changed a lot.
It wasn’t a bothy, just a wee stone house. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. The first thing she thought was that nothing could be less like Flora’s flat in Putney – all minimalism and modern furniture. Apart from anything else, she must have got, like, really, really messy – there were papers lying all over the floor and drawers left open and cupboards not shut. The furniture here looked as if it had been in the place for a hundred years and not new even then. It was dark, too, with just these small windows in great thick walls.
As they’d driven to Inverbeg she’d had a picture of it in her head. She wasn’t expecting a big house, but she’d seen pictures of posh holiday homes with great kitchens and wet rooms and stuff and Flora had always liked the best. What she’d expected certainly wasn’t this dreary wee hovel. It was a crushing disappointment – dark, fusty and unwelcoming. In fact, not just unwelcoming, downright hostile, as if she shouldn’t be here. She felt the house didn’t even want her to go inside and look around. With a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold she locked it up again and went back to the car.
Mr Mackay looked surprised to see her back so quickly. ‘Seen all you want to see?’
She pulled a face. ‘Yeah. It’s in a bit of a mess.’
‘Oh, that’s right, I remember the assistant who came out to shut it up said it was very untidy. If you plan to come up and stay until you sell it, I can arrange for someone to do a clean-up.’
‘Right.’ She sat silent, chewing her lip as he drove her back to Lochinver to get a bus. She’d been high at the start and of course once everything got straightened out, she’d have a great time. But right now, she just felt depressed. She’d have to go home and get a hard time from her father – and the house had got to her, somehow. Living out here had changed Flora in some weird way and she’d better be careful it didn’t do something to her too.
CHAPTER TWO
OCTOBER 2020
It was still dark at 5.30 a.m. when Kelso Strang tiptoed through the silent house, holding his boots in his hand and leaving by the little-used front door instead of the mud room, where the two black labs would express their delight at this early visitor with their customary exuberance and wake the household. It wasn’t actually raining so far – good – but the forecast wasn’t great – bad – when you were planning to go up a mountain.
Ranald Sinclair, his host, had tried to dissuade him the night before. ‘They’re talking about a squall coming in later. You know how vicious it can get and even once you’re off the mountain it’s a long walk back to the car with sunset around half-past five just now. Tomorrow could be better.’
But Kelso didn’t want to wait. ‘With the way the weather changes around here, it could just as easily be worse, Ran,’ he pointed out. ‘And I’ve done Suilven before. If time’s running out, I can stop off in the Suileag bothy and do the last stretch in the morning, but if I waited till tomorrow I couldn’t – I’ll have to make a prompt start on Sunday to get back to the treadmill on Monday.’
‘I suppose that’s right,’ Ranald conceded. ‘Just make sure you’ve got all the gear, then. Dead embarrassing for a DCI to be calling out the Mountain Rescue. They’d never let you forget it.’
‘Trust me,’ Kelso had said, but he checked it all carefully as he packed. What he hadn’t said was that he’d made provision for a night in the bothy whatever happened.
As he drove off on the single-track road towards Lochinver he reflected on the past two days. Since his wife’s death in a traffic accident three years before he hadn’t taken a holiday. Running the Serious Rural Crime Squad – set up after the creation of the unitary force Police Scotland to be despatched to deal with any major crime in an area where there was no longer a functioning CID – had kept him busy and the idea of holidaying on his own hadn’t appealed. But recently his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Jane Borthwick, had started muttering about him taking some of the accrued leave.
‘People who start believing that they are so indispensable that they can’t take a holiday become a problem sooner or later,’ she said darkly. ‘For goodness’ sake, Kelso, take a break. I need you here, doing the job.’
He was always respectful of her rank, but they’d been working together for a long time now and he risked saying, ‘It’s almost like I’m indispensable, isn’t it?’
JB had raised an eyebrow but smiled. ‘Cheeky sod. I saw that coming before the words were out of my mouth. Even so, Kelso – take a break.’
So he’d given it some thought. He’d done a lot of hill-walking in his youth and now he felt the pull of the mountains again. He’d missed that – the wild beauty, the freedom, the physical challenge, that feeling when you reached the peak that you were standing on the top of the world. Yes, it was too long since he’d done it.
And he had a standing invitation from a mate from his army days who, as it happened, was now running a fish farm not far from dramatic Suilven, which wasn’t too demanding even when you hadn’t climbed for a while.
Ranald Sinclair and his wife Harriet had been trying to persuade him to come for a visit ever since Alexa had died but he’d kept all his old friends at arm’s length, making work his excuse for baulking at being the lone man among the friends who’d known them as a couple. Ranald, though, had been posted abroad at one stage and their wives had only met briefly, so there would be no emotionally demanding reminiscences to deal with. The invitation was immediately renewed when he asked.
And the Sinclairs’ welcome had certainly been warm. They had a charming place, an old fishing lodge with views out over the bay that had a chintzy, Country Living vibe and a dark blue Aga in the farmhouse kitchen that made it the hub of the house.
Hattie’s food might be old-fashioned in style, not featuring a lot of quinoa and couscous, but it certainly tasted good after a day in the open air. She was a typical army brat, cheerful, adaptable, and having cut her teeth as a chalet girl many years before, she was now offering ready-meals for the pods on the Auchinglass Estate that accommodated the workers on their rewilding project and tourists as well in season.
An idyllic life, Kelso had thought, if you didn’t mind the pervasive smell from the fish tanks, just round the corner from the house. At least, he had thought that at first, before he picked up on the toxic atmosphere in the marriage.
They didn’t have kids. Given what he knew of them, it was hard to believe that this had been a lifestyle choice – more likely a private sorrow – and Hattie treated the black labs like furry children, which infuriated her husband.
‘They’re gun dogs. Cost me a fortune to get them trained and you’re ruining them,’ Ranald had snapped when she laughed at the way they frolicked round Kelso when he arrived. Not the first time he’d said that, clearly.
It wasn’t so much of a problem during the day, when Kelso and Ranald were mainly outdoors, but in the evening when they’d all had a bit to drink – and Ranald was nothing if not a generous host – it had been excruciating, as everything either of them said was immediately sniped at by the other. When at last it was late enough for Kelso to yawn, talk about too much fresh air and retire, he was exhausted with the effort of not being drawn into taking one side or the other.
So much anger, in them both! After the first night, Kelso had tried to draw Ranald into confiding as they walked round the premises, but all he wanted to talk about were his plans for development, thwarted on one side by the Auchinglass Estate and by the croft on the other, owned according to Ranald by ‘a thrawn old besom’ who’d got a bit drunk and fallen from a coastal path earlier in the year.
‘Belongs to the niece now. Doesn’t look the type to settle away out here in what’s just a but and ben – thought she’d just appear to wind everything up and then be off, but now she’s started hanging round with the rougher element working at the estate and doesn’t want to sell at the moment – or not to me, anyway. If she doesn’t, it’s a real problem. We’re overstretched at the moment, but I can’t afford another man without expanding.’
They had reached the end of the shingle beach, and he pointed to the top of a cliff face.
‘Her land begins there, with access across the main road and even a couple of barns. I could build a processing unit, maybe a smokehouse, and cut out the middleman – just now I do the work and he takes the profits. The big worry is that I’m sure Sean Reynolds is talking to her. He sees Auchinglass as his little kingdom, rewilding, all the rest of that crap. It’ll be wolves before you know it, and beavers, for God’s sake – so far we’ve been spared that but you can imagine what that would do.
‘He’s been leaning on me, trying to buy me out. I told him he could shove it, of course. But he seems to be loaded and he could outbid me if she starts playing us off against each other.’
He couldn’t leave the subject alone and as a topic of conversation it palled. It wasn’t until they were walking past some wooden outbuildings that Ranald broke off. ‘Now, out there in the bay – you see? That’s the farm.’ He pointed to an area of netted cages out on the sea loch. ‘And here, these are the pools.’
The two pools, like huge rubber tyres with railings round them, were close in to shore and held a mass of the great silver fish, writhing as they competed for the brown pellets a man in yellow oilskins and boots was throwing in.
‘We’ve a refrigerated van coming tomorrow, so these’ll be taken out then,’ Ranald explained, and went on to explain at great length about the technicalities.
As Kelso made suitable noises and avoided saying that they reminded him of battery hens, he laid his plans, thankful he was only staying for three more nights. He’d spend a day on Suilven and it looked as if there might be a bit of weather coming in that would give him the excuse to camp out in the bothy; at this time of year the route wouldn’t be dangerous if you were well prepared. A quick visit to the little convenience store at the Inverbeg Inn had given him all he needed.
Now, as he reached the car park, a mile from Lochinver on the Glencanisp Lodge road, and got out, he switched on his headlamp, picked up his backpack and strode out into the darkness with a huge sense of liberation.
‘Kelso must have left very quietly this morning,’ Harriet Sinclair said. ‘The girls didn’t make a sound.’
‘Just as well. I wouldn’t have been amused if the dogs had,’ Ranald said. ‘He told me he was aiming for five-thirty.’
She was standing beside the Aga, holding a frying pan. ‘Do you want a bacon butty?’
He shook his head. ‘Had too much to eat last night.’ He patted his flat stomach; he’d kept his army posture and the physical nature of the job had kept him fit. As Hattie shrugged and put the bacon on anyway, he raised his eyebrows pointedly.
She flared up. ‘Oh, don’t start on that! I didn’t drink as much as you did last night.’
‘If you say so.’ He went over to the coffee machine, peering out of the window as he did so. ‘It’s looking all right at the moment for Kelso, though there’s clouds building out there now. He should be well into the climb – a shame if it closed in so he didn’t get the views.’
‘How long will it take him? I did it once, but I can’t remember.’
Filling his cup, Ranald gave her a disparaging look. ‘No wonder – it was hardly yesterday. Eight hours or so, other things being equal.’
Hattie flushed as she made her sandwich defiantly and sat down at the table. The dogs, lying in baskets by the Aga, moved as one to sit by her chair. ‘Will he make it back for supper, do you think?’
He didn’t sit down. ‘How would I know what the weather’s going to do? Anyway, I’ll take this through to the office. I can’t bear to sit and watch you – those dogs are drooling.’
Hattie’s eyes filled with tears. She should be used to humiliation by now – it had become the common currency of their marriage. Perhaps it would be less painful if she could learn to submit, but she’d been brought up to give as good as she got and at the start that had been all right: then she’d been able to make him back off, and the sparring had been a sort of game. Even after they came here, when there was so much to do together to get themselves set up, they’d still been close and could apologise when it went too far and make it up again in bed.
Then the kids that this place would be so perfect for hadn’t appeared. They’d gone through all the hoops until, as Ranald put it, they’d discovered it was ‘his fault’. She’d choked back her own distress to support him but the bitterness went deep and there was no way he would even discuss the subject after that, as if the disappointment had been all his. It was then that their quarrelling had become a destructive habit and recently it had got worse, much worse.
She bit into her sandwich, thick-sliced bread, greasy with the melting butter, warm and delicious. Perhaps she had let herself go a bit, but when you spent all day working in the kitchen it wasn’t easy. Anyway, around here there weren’t a lot of women in the ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’ camp.
One of the dogs nudged her knee, in a gentle, reminding sort of way and Hattie looked down at the wet patch its mouth had left on her jeans.
‘Juno!’ she said reproachfully. ‘Just wait, all right? Look at Jax – she’s being polite, so she’s getting hers first.’ She divided the last bit between them.
She hadn’t been allowed to choose their names. Ranald said he had to be able to call his dogs without explaining why they had the sort of silly name that she’d want to saddle them with and she hadn’t fought it; mostly she just called them ‘sweetie’ or ‘darling’ anyway. And yes, she was fully aware of what she was doing. They were her only consolation.
Ranald hadn’t been so blatantly rude when Kelso was there but, even so, she at least had noticed how uncomfortable he was with their endless bickering. She hadn’t known him very well, and his wife hardly at all, but he had an easy way with him that was very charming – quite good-looking too, even if the scar on his face had been a bit of a shock. Plastic surgery was brilliant nowadays, so presumably he either didn’t care or felt it made some sort of statement.
She wasn’t actually expecting him back for supper. She’d seen him returning after his visit to the store with a little camping stove and he’d come to the kitchen to tell her he might well take shelter in the bothy if darkness closed in.
‘So don’t cater for me, anyway. If I come back starving maybe I can raid the fridge for bread and cheese.’
‘I can do better than that,’ she had said, smiling. ‘There’s the microwave and there’s dozens of meals for one in the freezer, so you can even have a choice.’
‘You’re very kind. And you’re a brilliant cook – your customers are very lucky. Are you happy, being constantly tied to a hot stove?’
He looked as if he was genuinely interested. Hattie suddenly became aware that her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the cooker and her forehead was sweaty. She mopped it awkwardly with the back of her hand.
‘Oh well, it’s all right. I’ve always enjoyed cooking and it’s a good little business now. The tourist season’s pretty much over, of course, but the land clearing and tree-planting at the estate is year-round. They’ve a minimal labouring workforce and some longer-term volunteers but mostly it’s a mixture of kids who come for a week or a fortnight to volunteer – they’re OK with the stuff they can get in the store, but there’s older people who like to have something a bit more special. Usually at the end of the week once the M&S supplies they’ve brought with them have finished.’
Kelso had pulled a face. ‘Not very fair to local shops, but I suppose you can’t stop them. Those won’t be as good as your food, anyway.’
He’d smiled and gone off and she went back to the salmon wellington she was making – that was always in demand and of course it was cheap to do too. She got lots of compliments from her customers but when was the last time she’d been complimented on what she put on her own table? The most she ever got from Ranald now was a grunt that could be interpreted as satisfaction – unless he didn’t like it. He was ready enough to comment then.
She brushed the puff pastry with beaten egg and put it into the oven, then made herself a coffee with just a sliver of the lemon drizzle cake she’d made earlier and sat down with a sigh.
Could they go on like this? The thing was, Hattie couldn’t see an alternative. If she walked out on Ranald, she’d have to give up a lifestyle she enjoyed – her business, her lovely house, friends that she’d made. He’d probably insist on keeping the girls; he’d paid a lot for them, after all, and that would break Hattie’s heart.
No, there was a saying in her family, ‘Grit your teeth, tilt your chin and get on with it.’ She’d just have to grow a thicker skin. Anyway, when it came right down to it, she still loved him in a weird way. When she didn’t hate him.
Kelso Strang was making good progress and the weather so far had held up, though he could already see signs that it was starting to close in. He’d been keeping up a steady, swinging pace and now he began pressing on up through the zigzags of the gully, hoping before it did to reach the ridge between the two peaks – the spire of Meall Mheadonach and Caisteal Liath, the rounded summit that gives Suilven its ‘Sugar Loaf’ name.
He stopped as he emerged on to it, gasping in the keen fresh air that felt like swallowing icy water, breathless not only from the climb but also from the awe-inspiring view stretching out below him, almost as if he had soared like one of the golden eagles who hunted here. Below him the rivers and the lochs made a tapestry with colours that changed with the light as clouds veiled the sun. Looking south, he could see the rocky crest of Stac Pollaidh; Canisp to the north was barely distinguishable now as the squall came sweeping in.
The sky had an ominous purple tinge and the wind was strengthening all the time. He’d have to step on it to get to the top. He was protected to some degree as he went along the side of the drystone dyke but when he rounded the corner he staggered against its brutal force. He was bent double by the time he reached the cairn on the top of Caisteal Liath, and yes, it felt just as he remembered – as if you were straddling the world, freed from the bonds of earth.
He didn’t linger, though. By the minute the wind gusts were getting violent enough to blow him off that exposed summit; the views were being blotted out before his eyes and there was the promise of snow in the sleety rain, now falling fast. No chance of Meall Mheadonach now. He checked the Mountain Weather app on his phone and it was still forecasting a squall that would pass in an hour or so.
As Kelso started the descent, he was looking for shelter where he could sit it out even as he pushed on. He’d only need a cranny angled away from the wind; he had another couple of layers and a rain cover in his backpack as well as a hip flask and a bag of flapjacks Hattie had pressed on him yesterday. The weather might not be ideal, but the exhilaration of the climb had still left him on a high that would see him through till the weather changed.
‘He’s not going to make it back now,’ Ranald Sinclair said, looking out of the window. It was fully dark. ‘We may as well eat – no point in waiting any longer. The weather must have cost him at least a couple of hours.’
‘You don’t think you should phone his mobile and check he’s all right?’ Hattie suggested. ‘You never know, with weather like that.’
He gave her a look of contempt. ‘No, I don’t. He’s a big boy, he can look after himself. He said he’d go to the bothy if it got late.’
‘Yes, he said that to me as well.’ She sipped her gin and tonic, her second; he was on his third Scotch. Maybe it was Dutch courage that made her say, ‘I think he fancied the idea of getting away from us, to be honest.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘You didn’t notice that he found the way we speak to each other embarrassing?’
Ranald went red. ‘For God’s sake, he’s been married himself! Everyone has little tiffs.’
‘“Little tiffs” is what we used to have. Now it’s getting downright nasty. Something’s wrong, Ranald. What is it?’
He glared at her, his eyes bulging. ‘I can’t believe you’re making a drama out of this. Nothing’s wrong, except that I have a wife who’s got so touchy that she bristles at every word I say.’
Hattie sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. But I’m touchy because it makes me so unhappy. If Kelso’s not coming back, let’s take the chance to talk about it properly over supper—’
‘Talk about what?’ He had worked himself up into a rage now. ‘If you think I’m going to sit here all evening while you list all my failings as a husband, you can think again. Suddenly I’m not hungry any more. I’m going along to the pub.’
As he got to his feet the two dogs, stretched out asleep in front of the sitting-room stove, sat up, ears pricked, then, as he stormed out, lay down again. Hattie bent forward, her head in her hands.
That hadn’t been her best idea, had it?
As he got lower down the mountain, the snow stopped and the weather had cleared by the time he reached the turn-off to the Suileag bothy but he didn’t hesitate. Not wanting to set off on the long hike back in gathering darkness was all the excuse he needed.
It had been a good day. He’d hardly seen a soul since he set out – a group on the lower slopes, a couple he waved at across a valley. JB had been right, as she so often was: he felt the better for the break and there was something about the majesty of the mountains that put mundane concerns into perspective.
The bothy was primitive enough – bare walls, plank floor, a couple of rough tables and a sleeping platform, with a fireplace that was no more than a space left in the wall with a chimney above. There was no one else there, luckily, though there was food litter in one corner that someone had been too lazy to carry down with them. But on the other hand, some public-spirited soul had left dry wood stacked in a lean-to outside to make a fire.
Kelso got it going, unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it on the platform, then set up his little stove. Decanting two cans of baked beans with sausages into his metal mess tin and heating them up, he didn’t even feel wistful about the no doubt delicious meal he was missing at the Sinclairs’. After fresh air and exercise anything tasted wonderful and with the last of Hattie’s flapjacks and a chocolate bar he was well satisfied.
He always carried a book. There was still a little left in the hip flask so he sat down on the platform with that, to read by the light of the fire and a small camping lamp. It was no good, though; even Sebastian Faulks couldn’t stop his eyes from closing and although it was ridiculously early he gave up the struggle and crashed out.
It got cold as the night wore on and the fire went out. Kelso woke up, shivering, and looked at his watch; it was well after midnight, so he’d already had a few hours’ sleep. When he didn’t drop off again, he got up to fetch some more wood and coax the embers back into life.
It was icy cold when he opened the door, cold and very clear with all the stars out so that he could make his way round the side of the building by their pale, eerie light. Looking down there was only darkness, apart from the steel-grey glint of starlight reflected in a loch below.
He paused, just listening to the silence. It was at that moment he heard it, and in an instinctive, age-old reflex, the hairs rose on the back of his neck. It was faint and far off but unmistakable if once you have heard it – the howl of a wolf.
CHAPTER THREE
DC Livvy Murray was in a thoroughly bad mood coming off the night shift – late, of course, because by the time they’d managed to get a social worker out to pick up the kids it was way past eight o’clock in the morning. She couldn’t leave till then because, while the man who’d been beating their mother up was on his way to the nick with the lucky PC who could go off duty once he’d checked him in, she was meant to get a statement from the mother who was so drunk she couldn’t speak and certainly couldn’t be left alone with the children.
It was what was known as a ‘sticky hoose’ too, where the carpet was so filthy that it stuck to the soles of your shoes as you walked. The room stank, not just from the filthy nappies abandoned on the floor but from the messes made by the ratty little dog that bared its teeth and growled at her every time she moved.
The children, two and one, weren’t difficult, poor mites; they had sat, or slept, in front of the TV with dummies in their mouths and blank expressions. Murray suspected that this was all they ever did. The vests they were wearing were grey with dirt and their nappies were soiled; since their mother was sunk in a slack-jawed stupor she’d changed them herself. She’d had a hunt round for clean clothes but there didn’t seem to be any.
By the time blessed relief came, Murray was stinking herself. She’d have to go back to Fettes Avenue to clock out, but when she got home what she was wearing would go straight in the bin – every experienced DC wears cheap clothes – and she would stand under a hot shower with the strongest-scented soap she possessed until she couldn’t smell the place any more. Then bed – her eyes were sore and gritty with tiredness.
It was bad luck that as she was at last on her way off duty, Detective Inspector Rachel French appeared, coming from the other direction. DI French was looking like she always did – smart, together, assured. It was easy to look like that when you were tall and slim and had the sort of great hair that always looked as if you’d just come from the hairdresser. And she was a graduate who’d been fast-tracked to inspector in a couple of years. And she was competent and well-respected.
Of course she couldn’t help being everything Murray would have liked to be, and wasn’t. She told herself regularly that French hadn’t done it out of spite, just to make Murray feel inadequate, but it didn’t work. And of course it was sod’s law she would appear when Murray was at her worst – smelly and dishevelled and unhappy anyway with her newly-dyed black hair.
French stopped, making a sympathetic grimace. ‘Oh dear – tough night, was it?’
‘You could say.’
‘Getting off now, though? That’s good.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘I heard the result. Don’t let it stop you going for it again – you’re good, Livvy.’
‘Thanks, ma’am,’ she muttered. Having to sound grateful was the worst bit.
‘I know DCI Strang thinks very highly of you too. And it’ll be easier next time, trust me.’ French smiled and went on.
Murray knew it was childish to stick her tongue out at French’s retreating back, but the painful humiliation of having failed the sergeant’s exam was bad enough without knowing that French and Strang had been having pally chats about her behind her back. Strang had spoken to her, of course, and been encouraging while delicately suggesting a more dedicated approach next time might pay off; somehow that was easier to take than French’s attempts at confidence-boosting. She knew he was right.
And she was ambitious still. It was just she’d never had the habit of studying, and now she’d found a great social life here in Edinburgh – and a guy who was sort of almost a boyfriend – it was hard to turn down a night round the pub with mates in favour of a night on her own staring at a book that might have been deliberately written to bore the pants off you.
Murray gave a huge yawn. She wasn’t going to think about it now. She was going to think about buying a bacon and egg roll on her way home and hoping she wouldn’t fall asleep on her feet like a horse before she won through to her bed.
DI French, too, pulled a face DC Murray couldn’t see as she walked away. She had the depressing feeling that this had done more harm than good, but what the hell was she supposed to do?
Murray was one of her constables. If she hadn’t said anything about the sergeant’s exams, that would have been a black mark too, just something else for Livvy Murray to hold against her. The woman was the personification of the Scots motto ‘Wha daur meddle wi’ me?’ with additional spikes and a cherry on top, but if she couldn’t manage to win her over, it would be her failure – and she hated failing. She had too much baggage from her childhood with a father who took any failure on her part as a personal insult.
She was only a few weeks into the post and she was still uncertain, trying to feel her way. It had run fairly smoothly with the rest of the guys so far; much of the time was spent at her desk while they did the grunt work, but she felt it was good leadership to get to know them and Murray seemed to be the only one who’d resented her attempts.
Oh, she hadn’t been insubordinate or anything – the police force is a very hierarchical set-up – but at briefings she could sense a sort of flat resistance from Murray to what she was saying. It didn’t help with team building.
DCI Kelso Strang had been something of a mentor to her. With his responsibilities for the SRCS he was only peripherally involved in team politics and had previously been a source of good objective advice when she’d been very new and a bit shaky. She buzzed to ask if he’d time to see her.
In the broom cupboard he called his office, French edged herself on to the chair in the corner and said, ‘I was just wanting to pick your brains about a problem I’m having with one of my constables.’
He looked at her with a slight smile. ‘Let me guess. Livvy Murray.’
French looked surprised. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d even know who she was.’
‘Oh, I know Livvy, all right. And what’s more, I should tell you that JB is something of a fan.’
That was enough to give her a hollow feeling in her stomach. ‘JB is?’
‘I know! But she believes she has potential. It’s a long story – I won’t bore you with it. But I’ve worked with Livvy on three SRCS homicides now and apart from occasions when she’s gone off at a tangent and I could cheerfully have killed her, I’ve been impressed. She has original ideas, if you charge her with her a task she’ll go at it like a terrier shaking a rat to death, and she’s a learner too. I’ve great respect for how far she’s got with sheer determination – I don’t know the background details, but I think she’d a difficult start in life without the chance to learn about mental discipline.
‘She’s keen to get on, though, and failing her sergeant’s exams will be a big blow, even if I’m not convinced she took the work seriously enough. I’d happily bet on her next time round, but she’ll be really hurting meantime.’
‘Well, I can certainly make allowances for her,’ French said with a sigh. ‘The trouble is, I’m not sure she’s prepared to make allowances for me.’
Strang pulled a face. ‘Mmm. Her problem is that you look as if you’ve got everything absolutely sorted – yes, I know it doesn’t feel like that to you, but that’ll be how she sees it. It’s all about a fundamental lack of confidence.’
‘Right,’ she said slowly.
But when she’d seen Murray coming in from what had obviously been the night-shift from hell, she had tried. She’d got nowhere and that wasn’t a comfortable thought now she knew Detective Chief Superintendent Jane Borthwick might be taking a special interest in her protegée.
At first, she thought the knocking at the door was the pounding in her own head. Danni Maitland opened bleary eyes. Her mouth was gritty, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, her lips were dry. The clock on her bedside table said nine-thirty – who the hell could be coming to the cottage at this hour?
