Ravens Gathering

by Graeme Cumming

  He shook his head. “Five minutes.”

  Tanya thought she’d need a little longer herself, but if she kept it to a minimum they might still have time before Ian came back.

  “Then I thought I’d take a walk up into the woods.”

  It took a second or two for his words to sink in. “I’m sorry?” she said at last. Not the best response in the world, but it was all she could manage under the circumstances.

  “As I said earlier, it’s been a while since I was back here. I thought I’d go and explore some of my old haunts.”

  “The woods?” She knew she sounded stupid as she said it, but she was still reeling from his sudden lack of interest. Awkwardly, she gestured down the corridor. “What about...?”

  He nodded his understanding. “I think we’ll be pushing it to get finished before your husband comes home, don’t you?”

  It was true, she supposed, but she was disappointed that Martin wasn’t champing at the bit. Most men would be. Even Ian.

  “So I thought I’d take advantage of the remaining daylight, and go for a walk in the woods.” He leaned in close to her. “Of course, you could come too if you wanted.”

  Walking wasn’t really her thing, but maybe the woods could provide some other opportunities. “I’ll need ten minutes,” she said, then she was off to her own room. She didn’t see the frown on her guest’s face as he watched her go.

  Eight

  Before moving to Ravens Gathering, Ian McLean had driven a Porsche. Life had been good to him – financially, at least. Not that he had been handed everything on a plate. He’d worked bloody hard for over thirty years, so the rewards were more than justified. Some of his colleagues balked at the idea of having such a flash car, worried about what their clients might think.

  “They’ll be suspicious that we’re making too much money at their expense,” was a typical comment.

  “No,” Ian would correct them firmly. “They’ll know that we’re earning well because we’re working hard for them. And if you’ve got clients who’re going to be jealous of you for being successful, then you really ought to be looking for a different class of client.”

  Which was true. He had worked with his clients for years, building up a strong relationship with them all. A lot of them had become friends. He’d attended weddings, christenings, birthday parties and funerals. They all knew he was looking out for their best interests. And they all knew he made his money earning commissions on products he sold them. But they also knew he’d be there providing a service even when there wasn’t a product to sell. It was the way he’d always worked, and they were happy with it. Quite a few had made a point of admiring his cars when he came to see them at home or their places of work. No envy. They were pleased for him, he could tell. After all, he’d known them long enough. He knew people, knew what made them tick, knew which buttons to press. Not that he’d abused that. He genuinely wanted the very best for his clients. Sometimes they just needed a little more convincing.

  So the Porsche had been a measure of his success. To be fair, it had also been a chance to let his hair down while he still had some. Like a lot of people, he had come to the realisation that life is the wrong way round. In his teens and twenties, he didn’t have the life experience to make the best of his youthfulness. At that time, he’d had the energy and vitality to do anything he wanted to. He just hadn’t had the confidence or the experience to know that he could. He also didn’t have the money. As he’d aged, and gained the confidence and knowledge that would allow him to do those things, his body had seemed less willing, and he was under no illusion; he knew his looks were fading.

  Sports cars are for the young, he’d thought. Yet he hadn’t been able to afford anything decent until he reached his mid-forties. Not that he felt old. A combination of squash and running kept him in good shape. He ate healthily – well, most of the time. And his enthusiasm for business kept his mind sharp. But he also felt that the time would come soon enough when getting in and out of something low-slung would become a major operation. His own reactions to seeing older blokes driving around in fast cars informed him as well. It may have been vanity, but he didn’t want to be laughed at by younger men who saw him behind the wheel of something shiny, red and sporty.

  So at forty-seven, he’d taken the plunge. His hair was only just starting to show signs of grey, and you had to look closely to see it. Which wasn’t likely to happen while you were travelling at fifty miles per hour and more. A few more years, though, and it would be too late. In his eyes at least.

  Funnily enough, that had been around the time he’d met Tanya. He’d only had the car a couple of months when she came into his life. Not that the car had influenced her – at the outset, at least. She hadn’t known he’d got it the first few times they met.

  It had been a good time. Business was booming, he was starting to claim some time for himself – holidays, weekend breaks, trying out new sports – and he was enjoying the life of a bachelor after seventeen years of marriage. The divorce had been messy, but he’d managed not to give too much away. Financially, anyway. The kids were a different matter. They hated him even now, and had made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with him. He hadn’t been a good father, and he knew it. That didn’t make their reaction any easier to bear, but he could understand it. Fortunately, work kept him distracted most of the time.

  And Tanya had certainly helped to keep him distracted when he wasn’t at work. She was nineteen years younger than him, but he hadn’t seen that as an obstacle, and she gave no indication that it bothered her. The constraints of family life had meant that passion and excitement had been in short supply for most of his marriage. With Tanya, rationing wasn’t an option. He was bewitched. Still was, even though things had changed.

  The Porsche had gone, replaced with a Land Rover. Olive green with a long wheelbase, it was ideal for the farm and for country living generally. If the truth be known, having passed into his fifties, and aware that the amount of grey was beginning to outstrip the brown hair, he also felt it was a more appropriate vehicle to be seen in. Not that Tanya had viewed it that way. She liked the sports cars, and refused to give up her Merc. He hadn’t pushed that. Frankly, he had just been grateful that she’d given in and agreed to the move north.

  There were plenty of other changes too. Tanya’s attitude towards him in recent months was a worry. In the grand scheme of things, he knew that was probably his biggest concern. But the more pressing issue at present was keeping their finances afloat.

  When they moved up here, the move into property development had seemed an ideal opportunity. Property prices had been rising rapidly for a few years. His own house on the Woodstock Road had doubled in value in just three years. With prices being significantly higher in the south, he could get a lot more for his money if he came north. An old friend from university had let him know about Forest Farm. He worked for the local council planning department and had been aware of several proposals being bandied about for change of use. It seemed the Sullivans had sold most of the agricultural land off, and were getting desperate to sell the rest. Mark had known Ian was looking to get out of his own business and thought this might be just what he was looking for.

  “Property’s going up and up, the banks and building societies can’t lend money fast enough, and I’m on the inside to help you get the planning permission through. What can go wrong?”

  Good question. And the answer, as it turned out, was “quite a lot”. Mark had been offered a better job with a different council, so Ian’s inside man had gone. To be fair to him, Mark had still given Ian advice on how to get his applications through successfully. Nevertheless, the process had taken a lot longer than expected, so it was eighteen months after they moved to the farm before they were granted the permissions they needed.

  On the plus side, property prices were still racing upwards. On the minus side, that meant they had already lost some potential growth. At the same time, the major house building firms wer
e pulling out all the stops, and were throwing up housing estates all over the place. Fortunately, none were being built near Ravens Gathering. But it did mean that the majors were sub-contracting all the builders, joiners, plumbers and other assorted tradesmen to work on their projects. So finding contractors to work on The Barns development was also harder than Ian had anticipated.

  Eventually, though, work began, and within six months they had built and sold three houses. Buoyed up by this success, Ian ploughed all of the sale proceeds into starting the next tranche of houses.

  He had sold the first three houses for £50,000 each. Within a few months, one of the houses was back on the market for £65,000. A part of him wished he’d hung on to them for a few months longer. But he knew he’d made a good profit. More importantly, he knew the potential profit on the next few would be even greater. So he borrowed extra money so he could build some more. After all, interest rates were low, and the profits would more than outweigh the costs.

  But then interest rates started to rise. Within a few short months, the rate he was paying on the loan had risen from just under 9% to 16%. The house that had been on the market for £65,000 was withdrawn. The couple who had bought it had clearly hoped to make a quick killing, and realised that wasn’t going to happen.

  Five of the new houses were completed by the spring of 1989. Two sold for £45,000 each, a long way short of the £65,000-£70,000 he had been hoping for only six months earlier. It allowed him to repay a part of the loan, but the margin wasn’t high enough to make a big dent.

  Then all enquiries dried up. Interest rates were still rising and property prices were tumbling, two factors inextricably linked. And Ian and Tanya were left with a rising debt and assets they couldn’t sell.

  It was no wonder Tanya was pissed off with him. He’d persuaded her to move up here, away from the attractions of the south. London, with its theatres and clubs and restaurants. Major international airports – very important to Tanya. Even the temperature seemed to be warmer back in Oxford. That alone was bad enough. But now he’d added insult to injury by making such a mess of the housing development. He blamed himself unreservedly. The fact that so many other people had fallen into similar traps – including the major house builders – was of no consequence to him. His decisions had got them into this position, and he wasn’t going to point the finger at anyone else. What he needed to do now was find a way out of it.

  Part of the solution required breathing space, though, which was why he had been at the bank today. This bank had advanced the loan for the development. They hadn’t yet made any noises to suggest they were concerned about it. The chances were that they had other debts that were more of a worry to them. From their point of view, at least this was secured against the farm. That, of course, was the concern for Ian. So he had called the meeting today because he knew it would look better for him if he was being proactive. By demonstrating to them that he was working on a solution, they would be less likely to focus on him, and more likely to start digging where they were getting no feedback. Banks liked to know their money was safe.

  Using his years of experience in the financial services arena, Ian had presented a very effective case to the bank. His reason for being there, he explained, was to reassure them. He pointed to the repayments he had made so far, including the fairly substantial capital amounts paid after the sale of the houses. He outlined the marketing plans he was pursuing, and the partnership agreement he had made with the builders as a means of reducing his overheads. Everything was set out on paper, and a copy had been left with the lending manager to put on his file. His presentation had been professional and confident, although he had taken several very deep breaths before entering the branch.

  For the first half of the hour-long drive home, he had replayed the meeting in his head over and over. He knew he couldn’t have done a better job. He just hoped it had been good enough.

  The second half hour was filled with thoughts of what lay waiting for him when he arrived home. He’d phoned Tanya to let her know how the meeting had gone. His assumption that she would be pleased he was keeping her informed was obviously misplaced. It seemed that it only served as a reminder of the situation he had dragged them into. His years of dealing with people meant that he was able to anticipate most reactions. Clearly, he still had a blind spot where his wife was concerned. What he did understand was that talking to her about it was like prodding and poking at a wound. Or, perhaps more accurately, at a wounded animal – and probably one that was only too happy to claw and bite you in response.

  His intention had been to spend a little more time in Nottingham after his meeting at the bank, and he had told her he expected to be back around five-thirty. Rather foolishly, he now realised, he had thought he should buy her a gift. The idea was to let her know that he was still thinking about her, even if he was busy trying to sort out the finances. From her heated comments over the phone, it was clear that the gift would be considered an unnecessary expense. So he had abandoned his plans, and simply headed for home.

  When the kitchen door wouldn’t open, he briefly wondered if she had decided to lock him out in a fit of anger. But his key went in easily enough, and he let himself into the house.

  The empty mug on the table was unusual. Tanya normally liked the table to be clear, so she tended to leave them in the sink, or put them straight into the dishwasher. It didn’t alarm Ian, though.

  He called out as he walked through the house, but there was no response. It was puzzling, because her car was in the yard, and she rarely went anywhere without it. The idea of Tanya walking into the village was so improbable it didn’t cross his mind.

  In a way, her absence was a blessing. He was convinced there would be more confrontation, and having had the tension that came with preparing for and presenting a case to the bank, he didn’t really want any more right now. So he headed for the bedroom, undoing his tie, and sliding his jacket off. It had been a stressful day. For now he’d have a shower, then grab a scotch and unwind. If she wasn’t back in half an hour, then he’d worry about her.

  Nine

  They had left by the kitchen door again, and walked through the yard. Beyond the gateway, the track went by at a near right angle. If you followed it to the right, after a quarter of a mile you would reach the village’s main street. Turning left, you passed between several old farm buildings – barns and stores. Once past those, the track opened out, merging into another yard area that was concreted over. A tractor stood idly up against a barn. Tanya had never seen it used, and suspected the Sullivans had left it behind for the simple reason that it didn’t work any more. She had asked Ian about it, but his response had been vague. She guessed he didn’t know any better than she did whether it worked or not.

  This second yard was bordered by post and rail fencing. At a point that was in line with the track, the fence was broken by a five bar gate, which was secured with a heavy chain and padlock. At the side of it was a stile.

  “Still a public footpath then.” It was more of an observation than a question, so Tanya’s response was only a slight nod.

  Martin led the way, pausing only to make sure she climbed over the stile safely. It wasn’t in bad condition, but he must have recognised that she was hardly a regular rambler. Perhaps the near-pristine condition of her walking boots had been a giveaway, she thought to herself. They had only been on her feet once before, when Ian had insisted on giving her a complete tour of the land they owned. She’d sported blisters for several days afterwards, and refused to accompany him again.

  As they made their way up the footpath, she was aware of the – to her – unnatural sensation of wearing the boots again. They were flatter than she was used to, and her feet seemed to move a little more freely inside them. She began to wonder whether she would have been better to let Martin go on his own, and save herself the possibility of further discomfort. Especially as he seemed very focused on the walk and his destination, and not on her company. At the same time, sh
e didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of simply telling him she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want to seem either indecisive or a wimp. So she kept up with him, surprised to find that she was having to take two strides to his one.

  In the past, Ian had tried to persuade her to take up running. She had responded that she couldn’t see the point. Whenever she saw anyone running, they never looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Ian had tried to explain that, for him at least, it was the sense of achievement that created the buzz, not the running itself. He had also said that, when he was running long distances, he found it helpful to have someone with him to talk to. The conversation took his mind off the running, and the time passed more rapidly. The memory of these words gave her hope.

  “So, Martin, would I be right in thinking you’ve been working abroad?”

  “Yes.”

  It took a moment for her to realise that was it. When she’d met Ian, she had been working in sales. Using her sales training, she identified her mistake: she’d asked him a closed question. She tried one that was more open.

  “Where have you worked, then?”

  “Here and there.” Only marginally more helpful.

  “But obviously sunnier climes,” she prompted.

  They had covered a couple of hundred yards, and now the path led into the woods themselves.

  “Sunnier than here,” Martin agreed. His eyes were on the route ahead. All of the attention he had paid to her earlier was gone now. She was starting to feel as if she had been duped, though what his game was, she didn’t know.

  “Are you trying to be deliberately obtuse?” she asked in frustration.

  He glanced across at her and grinned. For a moment she saw the playful flirtatiousness that had attracted her in the first place.

  “Not deliberately,” he assured her. “Just a habit.”

  “Why?”