The Hunted
Page 6
The gamekeeper got out and unlocked the formidable iron structure with a key from a heavy chain. He swung one side open with a deep squeak, the hinges desperate for a quenching drench in oil.
He held it open and ushered them through. “Don’t come back on the estate again. It’s not safe.”
“We won’t,” RJ assured him. “Don’t worry about us, we won’t make that mistake again, will we, darling?” she asked her ‘husband’.
“You know me, darling, I never make the same mistake twice,” he said with a tight smile, then turned to the gamekeeper. “Thanks for seeing us back.”
The man ignored him as he locked the gate and returned to the Land Rover.
They stood and watched as he turned the car around and headed back up the road. The minute they’d stepped through the gate, they had ceased to exist for him, his gaze never landing on them as he went back to wherever he had come from. It was difficult to fathom whether this physical evidence lay in direct contradiction to whatever was going on in his head. They had certainly raised suspicions with their presence.
Well, there wasn’t much they could do about that now.
They turned around and started the short walk back to the pub and their cabin.
“Did you see how rattled he was when I mentioned Sullivan?”
“I did. Easily explained if he did find him after a fall, though. I’ve seen plenty of fatal injuries, none of them easy to get over. If he found him with his skull bashed in like the death certificate suggested, then—”
“If it had been only an accident, he wouldn’t have been so keen to get us off the estate.”
“What, you don’t buy the story about the stag?” Stuart asked.
“No, do you?”
“I don’t.”
“They’re hiding something up there that they don’t want anyone to know about.”
“It’s a pretty big place to hide something. It’d be like searching for a needle in a haystack if we went back.”
RJ shook her head. “If it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, then he wouldn’t have been as keen to see us off. We’d never have just stumbled across whatever it is. No, this is something different. Something obvious.” RJ racked her brain as she walked, matching her pace with Stuart’s long strides.
“The employee who died . . . Surely if they had any problems with him, they’d just fire him. Why would they kill him? They wouldn’t go to such efforts for an employee; they’d just get rid of them.” Mulling it over, she scratched at a red midge bite that appeared on her arm in a sudden itch. She hadn’t noticed any while they were out but they must have kicked some up from the long grass. “What do we know about the land owner?”
“Jeffrey Buchanan, land’s been in the family for hundreds of years. Clean as a whistle, no criminal history, nothing notable about the guy at all.”
“Not having a record doesn’t prove anything. He’s got enough money to get away with a lot of things—maybe even murder.”
“There are no links between him and Sullivan, we’ve checked,” Stuart said.
“There must be something. Sullivan wouldn’t have transferred all that money for nothing. There’s something there. We just aren’t seeing it.”
“Well, I don’t think we’re going to come up with anything by trying to get on the estate again. We’ll need to come up with another way in.”
They reached the gate at the side of the pub, and RJ looped her hand over to lift the latch, pulling it open just enough for them to pass through. As they walked in, they saw two little boys, mirror images of one another, clambering up the furthest oak tree at the back of the property near the fence. Kirsty was scrambling at the bottom, trying—and failing—to find her way up. She was too short to reach the bough the boys must have used to pull themselves up into the higher branches.
“You’re too wee, away and play with your dollies,” one of the boys shouted.
“Silly, wee girl,” shouted the other.
Dejected, Kirsty turned and walked back in the direction of her home. As she neared RJ and Stuart, they noticed her eyes brimming with tears. The girl put her head down in embarrassment, lifting her hand as she passed them and hurried into the back of the pub.
RJ stared after her as her patchwork skirt swished out of sight into the doorway.
“And we think we’ve got problems,” she said to Stuart with a sigh.
Chapter 8
She sat at the mouth of the cave, cleaning her weapons, when the unknown man and woman stepped into view. She was confident that the darkness behind her would provide enough cover to conceal her, but she still shuffled back slowly into the gloom. The last thing she needed was to attract attention to herself. It was a testament to her skills that she had survived out here for so long, and she wasn’t about to let a false sense of security undermine that. The pair didn’t look like they could do her any harm, but if she was forced to kill them it would bring the others out in their droves.
She’d need to get off the estate soon, but there was still too much movement, too many threats. She’d seen and heard the patrols that searched for her day and night. These two didn’t feel like a threat, but it was best to be cautious. Besides, she still had a couple of things to take care of. Nothing was going to stop her from carrying out her duty.
Nothing and no one.
From her cover of darkness, she watched as a car left the big house and made its way towards the couple. She watched as they stood talking to the driver. She watched as they got in and drove away. She watched until the vehicle was completely out of sight before she shuffled towards the light and resumed cleaning her weapons, surveying the tranquil countryside below her shelter.
Chapter 9
The car door groaned in protest as RJ pushed it open and stepped out into the hot sun beating down on the entire country.
She and Stuart had decided to divide and conquer, with her maintaining the ruse that they were looking for property while Stuart went to check out the archives of local papers in the library.
The old, rusty gray Ford she had just emerged from was not what she’d expected when the estate agent had picked her up that morning. It should have given her a clue as to its driver, who had surprised her even more. Scott Allen of Scott Allen & Son would not have instilled much confidence if she had actually been looking for property. His tweed suit, wool tie, and ruddy complexion gave the impression of a farmer rather than any form of property advisor. The car told her business wasn’t exactly booming, and it made her think she’d made a mistake in arranging the appointment. There hadn’t been much choice in the area, however, and her reasons for looking at property were purely spurious.
Upon entering the car, RJ smelled the sweat wafting off Mr. Allen, despite the early hour.
“I apologize in advance, Ms. Black. The car doesn’t have any air-conditioning. We’ll need to keep the windows rolled down.”
“That’s fine by me,” RJ reassured him. Why on earth was he wearing such inappropriate clothing in a car with no air-con in the middle of a heatwave?
Two hours later, she was glad to escape the cloying bouquet of body odor as she stood frowning up at a large country house on a hill.
“This is way out of my price range, Scott. I can see that just by looking at it. I mean, what is it fifteen, twenty bedrooms?”
“Twenty-two. And, yes, yes. You’re completely right, of course,” he blustered, getting redder by the minute. “But I wanted to show you what you could get if you increased the budget. I know the owners are willing to look at offers. They’ve had this on the market for nearly three years, so you have an advantage with this one.”
“It’s massive, Scott, much too big for what we had in mind. So far, all you’ve shown me is a rundown barn that needs a complete overhaul, the land on the side of the hill from earlier that we can afford but can’t afford to build a house on, and now this. It’s all out of our budget.” RJ raked a hand through her hair. This process was so exasperating, and she didn’t
even want to buy a property.
“All great options, in their own unique ways, for an artistic retreat, if you could just stretch your budget a little,” Scott suggested, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart and squinting hopefully in her direction. A bead of sweat dribbled down his neck and under the collar of his shirt.
“I’ll be honest, Scott. I’m not even going to go in the front door. It’s not what we’re looking for.” She turned around to look at the view. “I do love the views, though. I think my husband and I would consider a parcel of land if we could make the construction costs work. I’d need to crunch the numbers.”
“There’s not much land in the area that comes up for sale,” he told her reluctantly. “We were lucky to get access to the plot I showed you earlier. I understand the earthworks on that one would likely be cost-prohibitive because of the slope, but there aren’t many options within your current budget.”
“Seems like the Buchanan Estate pretty much takes up most of the available land.” She made herself sound dejected in the hopes that she could get him talking.
“Oh, yes, that it does. They’re always acquiring more land and adding to it. You might have to go further out or change your target area. The land on the fringes of the estate will never come up for sale. If you were looking ten years ago, it might be a different story, but people around here know that Buchanan will give them the best prices. They wouldn’t even consider selling it to someone else. You haven’t chosen the easiest area in which to find a property.”
RJ pursed her lips. “Hmm, maybe. Can you take another look and see what else you can come up with? We can up the budget if needed, but not double, mind.” She gave him a pointed look. “See what you can arrange for a week from today and get back to me.”
On the journey back to the pub, RJ had to breathe through her mouth, face towards the window and the fresh country air. Once at the pub, she turned to shake hands with Scott Allen. Finding his palm sweaty, she dreaded to think of the state of his shirt under his heavy suit jacket. She herself was hot even though she had dressed sensibly in a short-sleeved summer dress. Breathing a sigh of relief, she entered the pub and ordered a pint of cider, and once Tracy had pulled her a refreshing pint of liquid gold, she settled at one of the tables to the side of the bar.
Socks sat on the end of the bar, systematically cleaning each paw. Each time the door opened, he stopped and looked up to see who was joining him. RJ did the same, minus the foot washing.
So far, the postman, a crisp delivery, and the resident old codger in the corner were the only other visitors. Three p.m. didn’t bring much of a crowd out in the sticks, it seemed.
RJ sipped her pint and looked around the room. It looked like it hadn’t changed since the place opened. Dark beams crowded the already low ceiling, the walls a dull beige, which may have at one time been white. The carpet must have been installed in the seventies, the deep-red flower pattern difficult to make out among years of grime caused by dirty feet, spilled drinks, and who knew what else. Each time the door opened, it brought in a draft that swirled round the room, emphasizing the musty smell of sweat and stale alcohol that characterized every old pub the world over. The smell of smoke was so absorbed into its very bones that even now, years after the smoking ban, the faint scent of smoke could still be noticed. RJ doubted Tracy would ever get rid of the ingrained odor, even if she ripped out the carpet and painted.
Tracy stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. She put down her cloth and looked over at RJ. “Just going to check the pumps. I’ll be five minutes. Ten if I need to change a keg. If you want anything, just help yourself.” She disappeared out the back, leaving RJ alone with the old geezer, who looked well on his way to becoming very merry.
Stuart was still at the library in Oban, checking the archives of local newspapers to see if he could find out anything new about the estate, its proprietor, or the deaths that had occurred there. She hadn’t heard anything from him since he’d set out that morning.
It still surprised RJ how many newspapers, especially the smaller ones, didn’t have their back issues online. It was an added expense these small firms just couldn’t afford. It had surprised her even more that these places still had local papers—so many had found it difficult to stay afloat in this day and age. But they prevailed, which was evident in the small bundle of today’s papers set out at the end of the bar. Their feline guard stood watch over the precious parcel, yet no one had been interested enough to attempt to grab one from under Socks’ ready protection.
The door swung open again, bringing with it the smells of the pub. Socks lifted his head for a moment before resuming his ablutions, this time turning his attention to his fluffy tail.
RJ peered over her glass to see the gamekeeper they had met yesterday walk in and up to the bar, settling onto one of the high, well-worn, velvet-cushioned stools there. Seemingly blind to her presence, he waited, tapping the beermat impatiently on the newly shined surface.
“She’s in the back,” the geezer in the corner offered.
The gamekeeper looked round to where the voice had come from and tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Cheers, Bert.”
He got up from his perch and walked around to the other side of the bar. He ducked down and fumbled under the counter, coming up with a short glass, which he held up to the optics and poured a double measure. Next, he grabbed a glass from behind him and expertly began to pull his own pint. It was then that he noticed RJ watching him.
She raised her fingers and waved, coupled with a weak and conceivably believable, embarrassed smile.
He stared at her for a moment, his beer mid-flow. Regaining his composure, he managed to tap it off without spilling a drop. He turned to put his money in the till, counting out his change as if he knew the price by heart—he probably did—and walked back round to the right side of the bar.
RJ stared at his back, trying to decide whether to approach him. Before she could decide, he banged his empty pint glass down on the bar, the foam running down the insides to meet at the bottom. The whisky glass followed soon and he twisted away from RJ’s view, taking quick strides back out the way he had come. The door swung on its hinges as he left.
Tracy popped her head out from the door to the stairs. “Who was that?”
“Wullie Carstairs. Put the money in the till,” answered the old man, lifting his drink to point towards the cash register behind the bar.
“Oh, right.” She disappeared again.
That was useful. Now RJ knew the gamekeeper’s name: William Carstairs, or Wullie rather. And she also knew he drank in the pub, although that was pretty obvious, seeing as it was the only pub for miles.
RJ got up and moved to a stool at the bar, waiting for Tracy. Tracy looked worn out and she still had a whole night ahead of her, but the smile she offered RJ was friendly and warm.
“Are you comfortable enough up in your cabin?”
“Yes, it’s been great, thanks. Nice place you’ve got here.”
Tracy beamed.
“Do you always do that?” RJ asked. “Let the customers sort themselves out?”
“No choice sometimes. It’s only me here for the main part. They’re a pretty trustworthy lot ’round here anyway.”
“The man that was just in looked a bit stressed. Lucky he could just help himself, seemed to be in a rush.”
“Wullie? Oh, aye, Wullie’s been coming’ here since I was a wee girl, when my parents owned the place. He’s got a lot on his mind lately, has Wullie,” she said, picking up a rag and re-polishing the bar top that she had already rendered sparkling.
“Oh? That’s a shame. He seems like such a nice man. Stuart and I met him when we were out walking the other day. He told us about the rogue stag and wanted to make sure we were safe, so he gave us a lift back.”
“Aye, that stag’s the least of it,” said Tracy, shaking her head. “They’ve had no end of bother up at the estate lately.”
“Bother?” RJ enquired.
She leaned back on the counter behind the bar and stared off into space. After a few minutes, she came out of her daze, carrying on the conversation as if there had been no interruption to the flow of conversation.
“An’, no doubt, you’ll have heard about James Sullivan?”
“I did hear something but didn’t realize it had happened so close until we met . . . Wullie.”
“Aye, that was on the estate as well. You would think it would slow down business, but there seem to be more foreign hunters going up there now than there ever was. Like they say, maybe there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Wullie’s got his work cut out for him and no chance to deal with everything that’s happened. Am not surprised he’s stressed.”
Suddenly, Socks looked up, jumped off the bar and scampered away. Tracy’s twin boys exploded through the front door, raced into the back, and clattered up the stairs to their home.
Kirsty followed a minute later, smiling at her mother and dumping her bag down before going over for a kiss.
“How was your day, love?”
“Fine, Mum. Billy Davidson brought in birthday cake and Daniel spewed everywhere. It was gross. Mrs. Mitchell had to get the jannie to clean it up. It was stinking. Can I take cake in when it’s ma birthday?”
“We’ll see,” said Tracy, slipping Kirsty’s too-big backpack back over her shoulders and pointing her in the direction of the stairs.