by Jane Renshaw
‘Here?’
He smiled; nodded.
‘But... What about Uncle Jim?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d be in any danger, but what I’m also proposing is having someone stake out the Mains, as from tonight, to see if your prowler returns. And I’m having all the likely places he could be hiding out searched. Empty houses, derelict steadings – and Gavin’s going to do the rounds of the guest houses and hotels and B&Bs, while we concentrate on campsites.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Right. Eat up. We can call in at the Mains en route, pick up anything you need, explain to Jim –’
‘Hector.’
It was a strategy he’d used, she realised, from childhood – acting as if something had already been agreed, when you hadn’t even started to formulate your arguments. And before you had a chance to do so, or even to realise that no, you hadn’t agreed to this, he’d already moved on.
He looked at her, and she looked at him. He smiled.
‘You don’t really want me staying here. I’m just a big nuisance. I’ve always been just a big nuisance.’
‘What rubbish. Of course I want you to stay. Although I should warn you that there will be some consumption of Mrs MacIver’s food involved, and you’ll have to listen to Damian holding forth on various subjects of incredible tediousness – “That’s very interesting” is a much-abused phrase in this house – but on the plus side, we have a new HD television.’
A stupid little giggle came out of her mouth. ‘So I saw.’
‘You haven’t lived until you’ve watched Bargain Hunt in HD.’
49
Findlay’s hadn’t changed one bit, from the Victorian brass thumb-latch on the door to the polished mahogany counter, to the smell of grass seed and Jeye’s Fluid. Even Mr Findlay himself hardly seemed to have changed, except for more white in his hair. He was still the definition of ‘dapper’, in an immaculate green shop-coat, a perfectly sharpened maroon pencil and a tiny notepad in its top pocket.
He waved away Hector’s thanks for opening the shop up specially.
‘You remember Helen Clack.’
Mr Findlay looked at her. ‘Never! Helen Clack!’
She grinned.
She used to love coming here with Dad. She’d been particularly fascinated by all the different-sized nails and screws and things in the little drawers behind the counter – sometimes Mrs Findlay would let her go up the steps, and find the right drawer, and count out however many nails Dad was wanting.
‘How are you, lass?’
‘Oh. I’m fine. Thank you.’ It would be polite to ask him now how he was, and his wife, but that would have seemed wrong. Presumptuous. As if she was still a child, and a child didn’t ask an adult something like that.
Hector was speaking about Moir, and telling Mr Findlay that he’d defrauded Helen of a lot of money, and there was a chance that he may have followed her up here. That he may be stalking her. Hence the flier.
‘What a terrible thing,’ said Mr Findlay. ‘But the police are involved, surely?’
Helen nodded. ‘But they don’t seem to believe me – about the stalking part. I mean, I’m not a hundred per cent sure myself...’
Of course he wanted to hear all about Moir. As Hector gave him an edited summary, she moved round the shop. She was finding it hard to stay still; to concentrate. She looked out of the window, past the mops and brushes and tins of paint. The shops across the street were shut, but there was a new Indian take-away with the lights on and its door open. A group of teenagers were standing outside.
Hector’s van was parked a few yards down to the right. Chris was sitting in the cab with the window open, one tattooed arm sticking out of it, a cigarette held between thumb and finger.
‘I don’t suppose you have CCTV?’ said Hector.
‘No no.’
‘How sure are you, that this was the man?’ There was one of the fliers, she saw, lying on the counter. Hector picked it up.
‘I’m fairly certain. He made some large purchases and paid in cash, so I did take note.’
‘Can you take us through what you remember? What time was this?’
‘I’ve the till receipt here.’ Mr Findlay removed a sharply folded slip of paper from his top pocket. ‘Eleven-twenty-one. He was in the shop maybe ten minutes, no more. Came in and past the counter, without an acknowledgement, and through to the back.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘Now. What was he wearing.’ He shook his head. ‘Just ordinary clothes, I’d think, or else I would have remarked it. I left him to it for a whilie, and then I went back after him. Asked if I could help. He said he was after a camping stove, so I went through the options. He chose a Campingaz Chef. Good little stove.’
‘What sort of accent did he have?’
‘Not local. Scottish, but not local.’
‘Could you pinpoint it at all?’
He shook his head. ‘He was well spoken. Not a strong accent.’
‘Did he have a funny cough?’ said Helen. ‘Like a nervous tic?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
‘How did he seem generally?’ asked Hector. ‘What were your impressions?’
‘I can’t say I warmed to him. Tried to start up a conversation, asked him if he was camping in the area, but he just said “No” and that was the end of that. I took the stove and the canisters for it to the counter while he chose some other things, and then he paid – in cash – and left. But.’ Mr Findlay smiled from Hector to Helen, as if about to produce a sweetie for each of them. ‘I saw him again, a few minutes later, while I was helping a customer out to her car with her purchases. He drove by in a motor home. One of those smart modern ones. With “Swift” above the windscreen – would that be the make of it?’
Helen looked out of the window, as if he’d be driving past right that minute.
‘That’s extremely helpful information,’ said Hector. ‘I don’t suppose you got the registration number?’
‘I’m afraid not. All I can tell you is that it was white, and had a sort of bulbous bit above the windscreen, with, as I say, the word “Swift”. Other than that...’
‘Was there anyone with him?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Hector had taken his phone from his pocket. ‘What we need is the website for Swift motor homes...’
He put the phone on the counter, and Mr Findlay looked on in amazement as he navigated the internet until he’d found a webpage with various models of Swift motor homes on it.
‘Could it have been one of these?’
Eventually they had a shortlist of three possibilities. While Hector continued asking questions – Was the vehicle clean or dirty? Did he notice anything in the cab, anything on the dashboard or the passenger seat? What time was this, approximately? – Helen paced, across to the stand with seed packets, along the aisle, back to the window.
Flu and feeling yuchy was a distant memory: she fizzed with energy. It was like being a kid again, off on some ploy with Norrie and his brothers, pretending they were the Famous Five, following suspicious-looking men round Kirkton. Off on an adventure, and back home in time for tea.
Only with Hector.
Now he was holding the phone over something on the counter: the till receipt. He was taking a photo of it. But before she could get close enough to read it he’d picked it up, and folded it, and handed it back to Mr Findlay.
‘Can I see that?’ she said. ‘What else did he buy?’
‘Just some other camping things.’
She didn’t want to make a fuss in front of Mr Findlay, but when they were back in the van – Helen on the seat in the middle, perched between the two of them – she said, ‘Can I see your photo of that receipt?’
Hector started the engine. ‘Yes, of course – just a second.’ He had the phone to his ear. Now he spoke into it. ‘Gavin. Where are you?... Okay. I’m sending you a folder called ‘Swift Motor Homes’ – could you add the three photos in it to the Facebook post and
the flier? With text along the lines “May be driving...” Print off another couple of hundred fliers, and meet us at the campsite at Ballater in... can you do half an hour?... Okay... Right, thanks.’ He frowned down at the phone’s screen, navigating through a menu. Then he put it back in his pocket.
‘Hector.’
‘Mm?’
‘Why don’t you want me to see that receipt?’
He took the phone back out of his pocket. ‘All right. But bear in mind that it may not even have been him.’
She looked down at the screen.
Campingaz Camping Chef £78.99
Butane/propane gas canisters (2) £21.00
Polypropylene twine 50 g £4.69
Gerber LHR fixed blade knife £210.00
Subtotal £314.68
‘He bought a knife.’
Hector was pulling the van out into the street. ‘Let’s not read too much into it. And in any case –’ He shot her a smile. ‘You’re perfectly safe. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.’
She smiled back. He didn’t have to tell her that.
She knew she was safe as long as she was with him.
‘First thing tomorrow,’ he was saying across her to Chris, ‘you and Mick can get on to Alan Anderson, ask if you can check out his CCTV footage for between, say, ten and one. Any motor homes on it, try and get clear images, showing the drivers, and if possible registration numbers.’
Chris grunted.
‘But can’t the police do that?’ she said.
Hector raised his eyebrows. ‘Eventually, yes, they’ll probably get round to it.’
She glanced at the profile of this man called Chris who was presumably one of Hector’s ‘unusual’ employees: a flattened nose; cold blue eyes intent on the road ahead; bare forearms with dirty-blue tattoos of snakes and a stag with spreading antlers entwined, incongruously, in ivy leaves. He smelt strongly of cigarettes.
He was smirking.
‘What happens if we find him?’ she said.
The smirk got bigger. Hector said, ‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On where we find him, for a start.’
She was very conscious of Hector’s hands on the steering wheel; on the gear stick. She turned away, to the flow of air coming through the open window, to the street outside. At the edge of the pavement there was a bow-legged little Westie on a lead, trotting jauntily. The teenagers who’d been at the take-away were slouching along at the next corner, the girl and one of the boys jostling each other as they went.
◆◆◆
Loch Deer was a sheet of silver, the water still and clear, reflecting the low-dipping branches of the beech trees that ringed the carpark, and beyond them the pines, and beyond them the humps of Ben Aven and Tom na Creiche and Monadh Caoin.
The motor home parked up facing the water looked similar to the ones on the website, but it was a Romahome, not a Swift. There was a table set up outside the open door, and a man and a woman of about Helen’s age sitting on folding chairs. Two mountain bikes were hung on a rack attached to the side of the van.
When Hector approached them, the man stood, and said, ‘Sorry, are we not supposed to be here?’, as if Hector had ‘Landowner’ tattooed on his forehead.
He said, ‘No no, you’re fine,’ and ‘Lovely spot, isn’t it?’ And he handed them one of the fliers, and started asking about Moir.
Helen went to the water’s edge. Two mallards were bobbing about, the male’s plumage iridescent in the slanting evening light. The water made a sucking, plopping sound against the peaty bank.
Might Suzanne be here? Somewhere under all this cold water?
Hector was at her shoulder. ‘No joy.’ He was holding a map, folded into a rectangle. They’d done the rounds of the large campsites at Tarland by Deeside and Ballater, and smaller places like this, and although they’d found two Swift motor homes, one had been full of kids and the other, according to the people camped on the neighbouring pitch, belonged to a couple of pensioners.
‘He could be anywhere,’ said Helen.
Hector looked off over the water. ‘Okay. You’re driving one of those things. You’re trying not to attract attention. Do you stick in one place, or do you park up somewhere different each day? A big campsite, amongst the herd, or off the beaten track? Literally? The majority of tracks are pretty much passable just now, even for a motor home – we’ve had such a run of dry weather.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I think I would want to move around, park somewhere out of the way...’
‘And how has he been getting to the Mains? To Kirkton, if that was him in the toilets? On foot, by bike, what? Does he bring the vehicle, park nearby while he does his prowler routine...?’
‘If it’s Rob, he’ll know the area round Kirkton as well as we do. He’ll know all the good places to hide a big vehicle.’
‘Would he risk it, though? Isn’t it more likely that he’d base himself further afield – not too far, but far enough to be off the radar?’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged, watching the ducks.
For a little while there was silence. Then he said, ‘This must be very hard.’
She didn’t turn to look at him. She said, ‘Was it just that you felt sorry for me? Was that all it was? Please tell me the truth.’
As soon as the words were out, from the slight movement she sensed at her side, she realised that that hadn’t been what he’d meant at all. He’d been talking about Moir, Rob, Suzanne – not what had or had not happened between them in London.
She could feel her face heating up. And Suzanne’s voice was back in her head: Daft Doris.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’
‘What was I like?’ She tried a laugh; a glance at his face.
He smiled. ‘Those were a wonderful couple of days. I’m just sorry... well, that I wasn’t much of a gentleman about the whole thing. That it ended the way it did.’
And what on earth did he mean by that? Did he mean he was sorry it had ended at all?
‘Oh, Hector, really, it’s fine. I was an idiot. I was very young. We both were.’
Good.
That had sounded mature and sensible and sane. Philosophical, even.
But her heart was thudding, and her arms and legs felt weak again, like the flu virus was rallying, taking advantage of her stupid heart going haywire. For no reason. She knew he didn’t want her. Not then and not now.
But but but thudded her heart.
But maybe the problem had been his lifestyle. His mysterious – and presumably dodgy – job in South America. Things were different now. He was a landowner with responsibilities; with a proper home. There wasn’t any reason now why he couldn’t have a proper relationship.
So why didn’t he?
He said, ‘I was old enough to know better.’ And then: ‘Did you and Martin ever get back together?’
‘Oh God no!’ How odd, that he remembered Martin – Martin, coming to the flat, worried about her, and finding her with Hector. She herself hadn’t thought of him in years.
◆◆◆
She didn’t know how he was navigating. The track kept splitting in two, or even three, and all she could see was trees, to the sides, in front, behind them. Sitka spruce and pine and beech and birch and oak and sycamore, and the occasional line of larch. Sometimes they’d come to a clearing with a vista out across the hills, but mostly it was trees, their canopies absorbing the evening light where it didn’t fall warm on the track, or in a slanting shaft of green cutting through the murk of the understorey.
‘Would he have come this far in?’ said Helen. ‘He’d never find his way out again, surely. I mean, I know psychopaths are supposed to lurk in the undergrowth, but isn’t this taking it a bit far?’
It was wrong on all kinds of levels that she was starting to feel... not happy, exactly, about what had happened. With Moir. Rob. Whoever he was. Of course not.
But OK with it, if it had to happen to bring her here
.
‘No excessive lurking required,’ said Hector. ‘We’ve looped round the contour of the hill – another quarter of a mile or so and we’ll come out onto the road just past the Knowiemuir Crossroads. So if he came in from that side...’ He slowed to a stop, frowning out of the windscreen. And then he had his door open and was jumping down, and saying, ‘Get the cutters.’
A deer shot away from them down the track and into the forest. But there was another one, a little fawn, in the trees by the side of the track. There was something wrong with it. It was twisting and leaping about – having a fit?
No. It was caught by the neck in the running noose of a wire snare.
‘Oh God.’
Chris got down, and Helen followed him. Hector had a rug in his hands. While Chris headed for the back of the van Hector approached the deer. It froze. She could see its little chest heaving. Its mouth was white with thickened saliva; its eyes frantic.
As Hector got nearer it started to leap and twist again, and Helen put her hands to her mouth. Then the rug was over its head, and Hector was holding the struggling little body while Chris cut the wire noose.
Hector set the fawn down on its feet, and twitched away the rug, and it bolted into the trees. He took the cutters from Chris, and used them to remove the other end of the wire from a branch above his head.
‘I suppose it was meant for foxes.’ Helen’s mouth was dry. ‘Whose land is this?’
‘Ours.’ And as her face must have registered her dismay: ‘We don’t snare. But a wire snare intended for a fox would be lower, pinned to the ground. This is poachers after deer.’
‘There might be more.’ Helen walked slowly on down the track, scanning the trees.
‘There will be. I’ll get the boys to do a sweep.’
‘It’s so – barbaric.’
He was twisting the wire round his hand. ‘Poachers don’t tend to be big on animal welfare. Okay – let’s go.’
But they’d only gone another hundred yards or so when Hector stopped the van again, and put his head out of the window, and said, ‘Smell that?’