by Jo McCready
The whole dementia thing could be a clever and convenient ruse, but RJ didn’t think so. She stood up and took one last look before leaving as quietly as she’d come in. She didn’t hear the funeral director follow her out, didn’t hear her voice as she closed the car door and drove off.
“Wait, you didn’t tell me your father’s name!” A nonchalant shrug was all that the funeral director could afford before getting back to her melancholy workload.
#
RJ was subdued when she returned from the hand over, and glad that all they’d planned to do that day was research the estate online. The website didn’t tell them anything that they didn’t already know. Clay-pigeon shooting lunches were available twice a week, once during the week and once over the weekend. Sometimes Buchanan himself was around on these days, but it wasn’t a given. Other hunting packages (accommodation provided) were available on request, and so exclusive as to not even make the website. RJ wondered about the clientele of a place like the Buchanan Estate. You just knew if there were no prices, then the cost would be prohibitive except to those for whom money was no issue. People like James Sullivan, for instance.
A knock on the door in the late afternoon had RJ opening the door to find little Kristy holding a package out to her. “This is yours,” she said before bouncing off back down the stairs, no doubt eager to try and get involved in whatever her brothers were up to.
RJ took the package inside and set it on the bed. “I dread to think.” She shook her head at the thought of the hunting clothes that lay therein.
“Don’t worry,” Stuart told her. “I didn’t choose it. I just told the powers that be what you needed it for.”
“That’s reassuring, but only slightly.” She rolled her eyes at the thought of what hideous attire awaited her.
“Here goes nothing,” she said, taking her knife from her ankle strap and slicing the end of the package open. She put her hand in and pulled out the contents, spilling them onto the bed, and was pleasantly surprised by what she found. A sage-green, long-sleeved shirt, easy to move in but not too baggy so as to interfere with the gun; a stylish shooting vest padded at the shoulder to minimize recoil; expensive-looking, long gray pants; and a pair of slender walking shoes that would no doubt be completely useless on a hike but were perfect on a country outing for the rich, upper class. It all seemed perfectly suited, but she did worry whether she might be too hot in the unusually hot summer.
Stuart seemed to know what she was thinking in that uncanny way he had. “If you give me the top and run down to the shop for a needle and some thread, I can shorten the sleeves for you.”
RJ gave him a dubious, disbelieving look.
“Honestly, it’ll look as good as new. My dad was a designer for one of the big fashion houses. I was brought up sewing and messing around with fabrics.”
“Huh. Not what I would have expected you to say,” said RJ, looking at the rugged, and currently messed up, man on the bed in front of her.
“You’d be surprised how often that skill has come in handy over the years I’ve worked for the organization.”
RJ raised her eyebrows but Stuart chose not to elaborate, so she did as she asked and went off to find a sewing kit. She figured she must be turning into the local shop’s best customer and wasn’t in the slightest surprised when she found just what she was looking for on a shelf near the back. The village did have a make-do-and-mend vibe after all.
RJ returned with the needle and thread in a few minutes and Stuart got to work.
“It makes me feel useful at least,” he said as he cut the majority of the fabric from the sleeve and started sewing.
RJ left him to it as she picked up her beeping phone. Connection found between Alexander Dunn and William Carstairs. An old, black-and-white photograph followed, showing a class of smartly dressed boys and girls. The children in the photograph didn’t look much older than Kirsty. RJ scanned the faces of the boys, zooming in close on each one. She couldn’t see a resemblance in any of the boys to either Dunn or Wullie Carstairs. She showed the picture to Stuart. He peered at the faces, then shook his head, as oblivious as she had been.
Any further info to help identify? she asked via text.
A list of names came through, followed by another picture. RJ looked at the list, located the right names, and returned to the school photo. Both men stood beside each other as boys. Unlike the others, they were smiling, or at least trying not to smile as they shared some kind of private joke. They looked, to all intents and purposes, as thick as thieves.
She opened the next photo to find Wullie Carstairs’ wedding certificate. It was publicly available online, but there had been no reason for anyone to go looking for it before now. It had certainly never occurred to her to search for it. She read through the document, drawing a sharp breath when she got to the witnesses. There, in black and white, was the name and signature of a Mr. Alexander Dunn, Student of Law.
“They know each other,” RJ told him. “They’ve always known each other. The fiscal must have been Wullie’s best man at his wedding. This just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”
“But what does it mean?” Stuart asked as he took the phone from RJ and scrutinized the document.
“It could mean anything.” RJ flopped down on the bed. “But what it does mean is that we aren’t closer to any answers. They could just be old friends, and it could have nothing to do with Sullivan’s death, or . . . or they could be working together. Something tells me it’s the latter.” She lay back on the bed, legs swung over the side, and stared at the ceiling as if the polystyrene tiles could give her some insight into what was going on.
“Saving an old friend’s skin could be reason enough for helping to cover up a couple of deaths. But do you really think so?” Stuart asked.
“They’re up to no good, I can feel it.”
“See what you can find out on your hunt tomorrow,” he said, throwing the finished garment her way.
She stood up and peeled off her t-shirt to try it on, pulling the gun vest over it. “Perfect,” she said, surprised at the neatness of his stitches. If she hadn’t watched him do it, she’d never have noticed the sleeves hadn’t been stitched with a machine. His ability to complete both arms in the short time was amazing. “How do I look?”
“Like you belong at a hunt. That Buchanan lot had better watch out.”
Chapter 19
A man was waiting for her at the entrance gates when she drove up. He wore the obligatory uniform of wax jacket and boots, but as she neared, she realized his face belonged to a much younger man than Wullie Carstairs.
“Morning, Miss,” he greeted her, tipping his hat in a move that immediately made her feel like she’d stepped back in time. “Here for the shoot? Just follow the road for about three miles. When you get to the house, they’ll show you where to park.” He pulled the gate open for her and stood aside to let her pass.
RJ thanked him and drove on. It felt strange to be welcomed onto an estate from which she had been unceremoniously escorted from only days before, an estate that had almost caused the death of her partner. If anyone had discovered evidence of their visit, she had yet to hear about it.
The now-familiar road wound through hillocks and around corners, following the shape of the land. It ended at a grand, blonde-sandstone building complete with a working fountain, resplendent with marble deer frolicking in the water. The fountain was set between a pair of staircases that led to a long terrace in front of the house. The fountain and staircase reminded her of the Sullivans’ summer home. She had thought the Sullivan house was imposing, but this was something else. The sandstone blocks of the courthouse in town had looked harsh and severe—simple-cut blocks put together in practical form. Here, the same stone had been used in a romantic and decorative way in the pillars, the window surrounds, and even in the gargoyles—the likes of which RJ had only seen on religious buildings. The gargoyles seemed to have been replaced recently, their fine features likely worn away as a
result of the sandstone’s tendency to weather. The upshot of the fine, decorative nature of the house was that it was far more imposing and grandiose than any of the buildings in town. This was where the real power in the area was housed.
The gravel crunched beneath her tires as another estate employee, dressed in the requisite uniform, directed her to a parking area to the right of the building. She pulled up in line with the cars already parked there. Stuart’s humble Saab stood out like a sore thumb alongside the Land Rover, Porsche, and Tesla that looked fresh out of the showroom.
She smoothed down her braid and put on her flat cap, looking in the rearview mirror as she adjusted the cap. When she stepped out of the car, the employee’s friendly face greeted her.
“Please follow me, Miss Black. I hope you found us okay?”
“I did, thank you. I’m staying in the area.”
“Excellent. We’re just waiting for one more couple before we get started,” he said as he led her to a group of men waiting on the front lawn.
“Gentlemen, this is Miss Riley Black.”
A wide man with a bulbous red nose held out his hand. “Marshall McDade, pleased to meet you.” RJ immediately pegged him as the owner of the Land rover.
“Terrance Stock,” said the next man, offering his hand. Tesla, RJ decided, noticing his lean physique and healthy glow that suggested a plant-based diet.
“Bertie Wainstock,” offered the next man, clasping her hand with a sweaty palm. His outfit looked as new as RJ’s. She wondered if it was his first time.
“A pleasure to meet all of you.”
A radio sprang into life, interrupting any further talk between the guests. “Main office to John one.”
The employee, now identified as John, took the radio from his belt and walked out of range of the visitors. After a few minutes, he returned and informed them that there had been a cancelation and no one else would be joining them.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” he said with a cheery smile. “Mr. McDade, Terrance, please bear with me as I run through the safety briefing, I know you’re both dab hands at this.”
He rattled through the briefing on autopilot before handing out ear protectors and unlocking a case on the back of his truck to hand them each a gun. “These are Winchester Selects Mark 2, familiarize yourself with it. We’ll be shooting in pairs—the trap will release two clays in quick succession. The shooter here”—he pointed to the left-hand mark on the ground—“will aim for the first target, and the shooter here”—he pointed to the right—“will aim for the second target. Any questions?”
The men in the little group shook their heads.
“I do,” RJ announced sheepishly. “Why are those men out there?” She nodded in the direction of the men stationed at the trees at each edge of the lawn. “We don’t need beaters for clays, so what’s their purpose?”
“We’ve got a dangerous stag loose at the moment. He shouldn’t come to an area where shooting is taking place, but we felt the need to cover all possibilities. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Miss.”
He waited patiently to see her reaction.
“Fair enough.” She shrugged and looked down at the gun in her hands before lifting it to her shoulder to test its weight.
“Right, Terrance, Miss Black, you’re up first.” He retrieved the guns from them all, loaded two of them and handed each back in turn to RJ and Terrance Stocks. They moved into position, RJ on the right side, aiming for the second clay. The others moved back behind the shooters, and two teenage boys discreetly appeared to reload the spare guns as the other two were being fired.
“Ready?” John asked in a deep voice that could be heard over their ear protectors.
Terrance turned his head to look her in the eye and nodded. She returned the nod and focused.
“Pull!” shouted Terrence.
A clay shot out, but RJ ignored it and what happened to it. A split second later, she tracked the next tray with her gun. She pulled the trigger, completely missing her target.
“Don’t fret, Miss Black. It takes practice, is all,” John reassured her in a respectful yet coddling tone.
“Oh, I’m not worried,” she said, not looking at him. “Just getting the feel of it.”
Terrance called pull again. RJ breathed, ignoring the world around her and concentrating solely on her clay target. She pulled the trigger, and it smashed to smithereens.
“Well done!”
She passed her gun back to a boy and took the loaded gun from him.
“Thank you.”
She took aim and waited for Terrance to give the word, annihilating her clay pigeon yet again. And again.
Her competitive nature didn’t allow her to hide her skill and she destroyed every one of her clay pigeons.
“You’ve done this before,” a curious Marshall McDade said as she swapped places with him to walk back towards the gun boys.
She shook her head. “Beginner’s luck.” As she turned, she noticed Wullie Carstairs watching her from the terrace. She lifted her hand in greeting, and after a pause, he returned the gesture.
McDade and Wainstock began shooting, McDade hitting most of his targets and Wainstock struggling to compete.
Terrance walked over to congratulate her on her shooting. “You did well.” He smiled.
“Thank you. I must apologize, though. I wasn’t so adept at keeping tabs on your score.”
“Oh, you knocked me out of the park, I’m afraid. And I’m pretty good myself. You’re rather accomplished for a beginner.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve fired a gun.”
“Yes, I could see that.”
Their conversation was cut short when John lifted his arm as a signal to stop shooting. A car was speeding up the drive. The black Mercedes gave no regard for its paintwork as it careened around the natural bends in the gravel driveway. The group stared in anticipation of its arrival, expecting an eccentric latecomer to their morning shoot.
The Mercedes skidded to a halt in front of the fountain. The driver looked harried and stressed, and before he could get out, the rear passenger door opened. Janice Sullivan shot out of the car. No one was more surprised to see her than RJ. James Sullivan’s widow staggered forward, her heels struggling to find purchase in the gravel. She quickly regained her footing, and her composure. “Buchanan! Get out here now. I want answers. You killed my husband! I want to know why.”
The driver stood a few feet behind her, red-faced and unsure of what to do. This would not have been in his toolbox of skills that he had picked up on the job, ferrying rich people from A to B. He looked around for help, searching beseechingly for someone who might take the crazy woman off his hands.
The shooters looked at each other in disbelief. They all knew who she was. Even those who hadn’t seen her on TV or in a magazine at the latest charity event would have guessed that she was talking, or rather screaming, about James Sullivan.
“Get out here! Get out here, you coward. I want answers.” Janice lurched to the side, but her driver caught her before she went down. She sat, her legs twisted underneath her as she clung to him and sobbed.
Wullie Carstairs approached the pair and spoke softly to Janice Sullivan, attempting to defuse the situation and comfort the obviously distressed and very drunk woman.
“He is. He is. I know he’s here somewhere,” she argued, becoming increasingly distraught. She broke away from the terrified driver and bared her teeth at Carstairs as if ready to pounce. “My husband was killed here. There was no accident. You covered it up, all of you!” She swung an arm to encompass everyone in the vicinity, almost losing her balance again. Her head swiveled and she focused on RJ for the first time, pointing in her direction. “She knows. She knows he was murdered.”
All eyes turned on RJ as she stood, open-mouthed, unable to say anything.
Chapter 20
RJ had denied knowing Janice Sullivan, but the group had be
come suspicious of her, aided in part by her excellent shooting skills. It had been unanimously, and silently, decided that dealing with the crazed woman would be RJ’s responsibility, whether she knew Janice or not.
Left with no other choice, RJ managed to get Janice Sullivan back in the Mercedes before getting in her own car and following the widow back to her hotel. The hotel looked nothing less than a castle, with its high-ceilinged rooms, wooden chandeliers, polished floors, and tartan carpeting. Stag heads and claymores decorated the walls. It was the sort of place rich tourists lapped up. Once there, RJ sent the driver away, tipped him generously, and put the poor woman to bed in a sumptuous four poster. Her room was fit for royalty. A framed notice on the wall suggested that it may have provided respite for Bonnie Prince Charlie when he had to flee after the battle of Culloden in 1746. It was hard not to smirk at the sign that probably graced every building over a certain age in the west of Scotland.
When Janice was snoring gently, RJ set a glass of water on the bedside table for when she woke. The combined effects of jet lag and the copious amounts of alcohol had led her to drift off quickly, even though it was just gone noon. Janice would be asleep for a week if there was any justice. No, scrap that. If there was any justice, she would wake up in a few hours with a raging hangover.
RJ left the hotel, exhaling heavily as she did. Just when they felt as though they were getting somewhere, hurricane Janice had to arrive and destroy everything in her path. Not that RJ didn’t sympathize but hell . . .
She headed straight to the pub on her way home, downed a much-needed whisky, then went off to tell Stuart about the day’s adventures.
“What do we do now?” she asked him. Hopefully, he could see a way out that she couldn’t.
“They don’t know for sure that you know her,” he offered. “She was off her head and clearly distressed.”
“You believe that about as much as I do. Carstairs was already suspicious when he found us on the estate. Now he knows he was right to be worried. If Janice hadn’t turned up—”