by James Oswald
‘Your father hasn’t been back to that place in years. He lost interest in the shooting and fishing a long time ago. It’s all let out to the neighbouring estate now, except a couple of beats on the river I use from time to time. The house and land belong to me anyway.’
‘They do? But I thought . . .’ Again the words dry up on me. I never really thought at all.
‘Harston Magna Hall and all the farms of the estate here went to your father when your grandfather passed away. I’m the eldest, but that’s the way it’s always been.’ Aunt Felicity frowns for a moment as if lamenting the injustice of a world where the male line is all-important. ‘But Newmore came to me, as did this house and a few other things besides. I let your father use the lodge because he’s my little brother. It’s my house though, and if you need somewhere to hide, I can’t think of a better place.’
I open my mouth to protest, but I can see the logic in Aunt Felicity’s suggestion. Dropping off the radar until the heat has died down a bit might be no bad idea, and there aren’t many places further off the beaten track than the old family estate in the Highlands. Another thought occurs to me too. Newmore’s not all that far from Dundee, where Izzy was caught after the last time she ran away, certainly a lot closer than here. And she was on a train to Edinburgh the time before that. There has to be a reason she was going to Scotland more than that it’s a long way from home. Where better to start looking for her without anyone knowing I’m doing it?
‘OK. I’ll go to Newmore. Just for a while.’ I take out my phone – my old phone with the tracking app on it – and place it on the table beside my tea. A quick swipe and a couple of taps shows me that it’s not being monitored right now, but was checked just an hour ago. They’re still watching me.
‘But first I need to do something about this.’
The woods are no longer a place I feel safe; Adrian and his silent friend have ruined that part of my childhood for me. I’ve never been one to curl up in the face of my fears though, and there’s a job to do. I’ve raided Aunt Felicity’s wardrobe for the darkest outfit I can find, surprised to see that she has a taste for black jeans and men’s linen shirts in an assortment of dark colours. At least I assume they’re her shirts; in truth there’s a great deal to my aunt I know nothing about.
I do know that she’s a little bit larger around the waist than me, and her legs aren’t as long. It’s a discomfort I’m prepared to put up with as I pick a path as silently as possible through the trees back towards the village green.
There are no attackers, silent or otherwise, lurking in the dark woods. I may have put up a deer at one point, but, whatever it was, it bounded away more startled even than me. I paused then, barely breathing, straining to hear anything over the dwindling noise of broken branches and trampled undergrowth. When the dull roar of the distant A14 finally reasserted itself, I moved on.
And now I’m back in the village, staring at the lights of the Green Man. Cars line the road and people are clustered around the door despite the on-again, off-again rain. It’s not cold, so a little damp isn’t enough to drive them inside. I can hear the dull thrum of music, and as I approach through the shadows I make out the sound of a live band. That’s new, and surprising. Back when I used to drink here as regularly as school holidays allowed, the only music was a jukebox crammed with scratchy seven-inch singles from the 1970s. Some of them were OK, in a cheesy kind of way.
This band are reasonably tight, but the singer’s awful. I pause a while in the shadows, listening and cringing. It’s only when a couple stumble out into the night, him unsteady on his feet, her scowling as only a sober person in the presence of a drunkard can, that I remember why I’m here and move on. I still don’t know what Dan Penny was doing in my old local, but I’m not going to see whether he’s there again. That’s a mystery for another time.
The old post office has gone, not even a shop to mark where it once stood. The post box is still there though, and the little marker on the front of it confirms it won’t be opened again until Monday at noon. I slip the padded envelope from my jacket – well, Aunt Felicity’s jacket, but I’m keeping it now – and check the address again. My own address, in London. Inside, my fully charged phone is in standby mode, plugged into a backup battery that the manufacturer claims is good for over a week of charge. It should be still trackable by Adrian and his silent friend, but it’s not going anywhere for a while. And when it does, it will lead them a merry dance. I’ve manually transferred all the important contact numbers into my new phone, uploaded all the music I’ve collected over the years. Even downloads of some of those cheesy seventies tunes. I’ll miss that old phone though. We’ve been together through a lot.
I’m still nervous as I make my way through the shadows, back across the village green and through the woods to Folds Cottage. At one point I think I can hear voices, and I freeze for a moment before stepping close to the nearest tree. It’s not Adrian and his silent friend I can hear though. Not unless they’re into dogging.
The clock in the kitchen says half past ten when I finally make it back in. Aunt Felicity looks up from her chair by the Aga, her spectacles once more perched on the end of her nose.
‘Success?’
‘Yes. It’s posted. The battery should be good for a long while, so if they’re tracking me they’ll think I’m still in the village.’
‘Good.’ Aunt Felicity stands up and walks across the kitchen, envelops me in a warm hug, then takes a step back. ‘Black suits you.’
It’s that awkward moment when I just want to get on the road. The car’s packed, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, but there’s also so much I still want to say. I opt instead for a simple ‘Thanks, Aunt Flick. For everything.’
‘Nonsense, dear. That’s what family are for. Call me when you get there, won’t you? I’ve let the Robertsons know someone’s coming, but not who.’
Outside, the sky is clear and a few stars outshine the glare from the spotlight above the door. Aunt Felicity’s car sits on the gravel, waiting. Mine is parked up in the garage out of sight. Yet another part of the cunning plan that I can’t help thinking is far too complicated already.
‘I should take the Volvo. You’ll need this to get around.’
Aunt Felicity holds up a hand to stop me going on. ‘I’ll take your car to Bill Jenkins in the morning. He’ll fix it up, bash out all those dents and things. Won’t take him long, and while he’s at it I’ll just bully your father into ferrying me around.’
I know there’s no point arguing with her, and in truth her car’s a lot nicer than mine. Far more comfortable for the long drive ahead. I give her another quick hug, then open the door and climb in. It smells of leather and newness, and something else that doesn’t quite fit in with the ambience. I look around to the back seat, empty save for a cat carrier. Glistening black eyes stare out at me from the depths.
‘You didn’t think I was going to let you leave her behind, did you?’ Aunt Felicity leans in through the window, kisses me lightly on the cheek. ‘One other thing. There’s an old friend of mine staying at the lodge just now. Don’t worry, she’s only there for a day or two. Besides, I think you’ll like her. Take care, dear. And drive safely.’
29
When I was young, the trek north to Newmore for the season seemed to take for ever. My father tells of it being even more of an epic journey when he was that age, in the days before motorways. Then it might take two or three days to get there, and the family would stay for the whole summer. Having suffered the torment of being stuck there for weeks during the holidays, I can’t imagine how terrible that would have been. Maybe that explains why he’s as insufferable as he is.
The downside of leaving at night is that it’s much more difficult to spot whether or not someone is tailing me, but all the way from Harston Magna to the motorway I’m fairly sure I’m not being followed. Aunt Felicity’s car has cruise control, built-in s
atnav and a radio so complicated I probably should have spent the afternoon learning how to use it before setting off anywhere. For the first couple of hours, north up the A1, I’m happy enough to listen to the distant drone of the engine, the whistle of wind around the doors and the thrum of tyres on tarmac. It’s a good space to think in, to try and work out what the fuck is going on and just how I’m going to put it all right.
A couple of things occur to me somewhere around Grantham. First, it’s clear that the people who have tried to kill me so far have all been fairly amateur. That’s to be expected if the price on my head’s low, and it’s worked to my advantage since I’m still alive to have these thoughts. Second, the only way the pair of idiots from Birmingham could have found me and followed me is if the tracking information on my phone was passed on to them. That doesn’t make any sense though, if the tracking app was put there by Adrian and his silent friend, acting on behalf of Roger DeVilliers.
A few more miles and I’ve still not found a way to square that circle. DeVilliers is a piece of shit, it’s true. But he’s also my father’s oldest friend. There’s no way he’d try to have me killed, would he?
‘That depends entirely on how badly he doesn’t want his daughter to be found.’
I glance up at the rear-view mirror, seeing nothing but dark shadows in the back of the car. Even Cat is asleep, curled up in her carry cage and snoring.
‘You’re not really here, Pete.’ I fix my eyes on the road, searching for a sign that will tell me how far it is until the next service station. I need coffee if I’m going to make it all the way to Newmore without a kip.
‘None of us are really here, Con. That’s the nature of life. Doesn’t change the fact that someone’s trying to kill you.’
It’s the voice of my own thoughts, I know. Pete’s dead, buried, gone. On the other hand, I always did find it easier to talk things through with him than puzzle them out on my own.
‘So you think Izzy’s the key to this, then?’
‘I don’t think anything. I’m dead, remember.’
‘I liked you better when you were being helpful.’ A sign flashes past, the logo of a fast food chain and a number. Twelve miles.
‘OK, then. Why would DeVilliers be trying to stop anyone from finding his daughter? Why would he go to all that trouble to keep you from finding her? He’s got the resources to track her down easy, and yet he spends all that effort on keeping tabs on you instead.’
‘Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know.’ I let another mile pass under the wheels. The darkness makes a cocoon of the car, my own little sanctuary.
‘She’s got something on him. It’s the only logical explanation.’
‘Makes sense, I suppose. But what? What could make him so paranoid he’d kidnap me and drag me down to London? People like him, they’re not afraid of the law. Don’t really give a shit about public opinion either. It’s all about money, right?’
Pete says nothing, but then that’s hardly surprising since he’s not really there. A few more miles disappear behind me as I follow threads of thought, each one unravelling for lack of hard information. It’s like an investigation in its third week, when the initial excitement has worn off and the trails of evidence have all gone cold. I need to attack the problem from a different angle.
The distant glow of lights turns into a cluster of buildings, a covered footbridge over the motorway and the promise of hot coffee. Aunt Felicity’s car has barely used a quarter of a tank of fuel yet, but I need a boost. I indicate, pull off into the service station, glad to see that no other car follows me. Even by the time I’ve found a space to park, no one else has come in.
It’s late, the service station still busy but not the mad mêlée that I’d expect during the day. I locate coffee and an enormous pastry plastered in sugar and icing, pay a king’s ransom for a small bottle of water that’s probably come out of a tap in Slough, then take my swag back to the car. Cat looks up from her cage, but gives me no indication she wants to come out. I wonder how she’ll adapt to the Scottish Highlands. Who knows? Maybe she’ll meet a local wildcat and the two of them will go off together to have a family. Chance would be a fine thing.
My mind’s doing that thing it does when I’ve not had enough sleep and am relying on caffeine and sugar to get through. Flitting from thought to observation and on to moaning about the unfairness of life. I need sleep, but the ever-helpful satnav tells me it’s another 350 miles or so. It’ll be early morning before I get there.
I shove the coffee into the cup holder built into the central console, lick the last of the sugar off my fingers and then wipe them on the front of my shirt. Aunt Felicity’s shirt, if I’m being honest. Or possibly some long-forgotten boyfriend’s. A quick check around the car park and I can’t see any particularly suspicious-looking vehicles, so I set off on my journey once more. I’m a good few miles up the road before I realise why I’m wondering whether there’s broadband at Newmore; the house didn’t even have a phone the last time I was there.
I’m going to need some kind of internet access if I’m going to track down Izzy DeVilliers.
The pale dawn light has been growing ever stronger since I skirted past Edinburgh and over the shiny new Queensferry Crossing. By the time I reach Perth, the day is getting into swing, early traffic building. I don’t remember it being quite so well developed or busy when I was here last, but then that was a while ago.
Aunt Felicity’s words come back to me as I take a half-remembered turning off the A9 and head into wooded hills. I always assumed my father loved this place so much he didn’t think twice about inflicting its boredom on his children. But then I always assumed he owned it, too. Like he owned the hall, half the houses in the village, all the farms I used to visit in the hope of a glimpse of one of the young farm lads. So much of that life I just didn’t understand, because I wasn’t told and because I never asked. I can see the bubble I grew up in for what it was now, the purest distillation of privilege, yet bound with chains that said I must wear dresses, speak properly, marry a man with no chin, bear him children and beat those same terrible values into them. Well, fuck that sideways.
The trees thin out as I go further up the glen. I know I’m getting close when the road narrows to a single track, passing places marked by little white diamond-shaped signs. Or more often just the rusted metal poles on which they were once fastened. Tufts of grass grow up through the middle of the tarmac, the car rumbles over a cattle grid, and then I round a shoulder of the hill and Newmore opens up in front of me.
The lodge sits high on a rocky outcrop above the loch, painted in shades of pink by the dawn. It’s so still that the water reflects the sky, the flanks and peak of Beinn a’chruach Mhor mirrored perfectly. As I get closer, a flock of geese fly just a few feet above the surface, and for a moment it looks like there are twice as many of them in a perfectly symmetrical double V.
The track to the house takes me past the old stone steadings of the home farm, unchanged in my lifetime and quite probably my father’s before me. I remember a few adventures in there: Ben and me pretending to be pirates or cowboys and Indians or whatever politically incorrect thing was in vogue for six- and eight-year-olds with nothing better to do. Behind the steadings, there’s a light on in the old farmhouse. I can’t believe Tam Robertson is still alive, so it must be his son, George, who’s getting up early to go and do whatever it is livestock farmers do. Christ, I can’t believe how many things I can remember about this place, and there’s no denying that view is something to make you stop and look.
I park Aunt Felicity’s car next to something that looks like it was made a hundred years ago. I don’t know much about cars, but I know art nouveau, and this is Rennie Mackintosh on wheels. Aunt F.’s friend must be minted if she can afford to drive something like this. I’m not even sure what make of car it is, just old.
The air tastes clean when I climb out of the ca
r and stretch, a wonderful change from the second-hand smoke and car exhaust particulates I’ve been breathing for too many years. There’s the gentlest of breezes bringing scents of water, heather and something else I can’t quite place that nevertheless calms me. The sun is breaking through the narrow pass at the far end of the loch, but it’s the utter silence that takes my breath away. How could I have hated this place so much?
Turning to face the house itself, I remember why. Once-white harling has been turned grey by centuries of Scottish weather. The three-storey facade is built to withstand that battering wind and flaying rain rather than with any particular aesthetic in mind. The windows are small, deep-set into the walls, and the central tower is a rich man’s affectation that doesn’t sit well with the earlier building. There’s a light on over the front entrance that I don’t remember from before, and one of the two outer doors has been left open for me.
It’s been such a long drive, I almost forget Cat, quiet in her cage on the back seat of the car. I lift it out, place it on the gravel and open the front, expecting her to emerge nervously and sniff the ground before sticking close to my legs. Instead, she goes straight to the open door, tail high and stride purposeful, then disappears inside as if she’s always lived here. Closing up the car door and leaving the cage where it sits, I set off after her.
Inside, the house is both different and the same. It doesn’t smell as dusty and damp as I remember it, but the furniture is unchanged: solid, functional, more carved than crafted. The dark wood panelling in the hall absorbs what little light makes it in through the narrow windows, but I’m pleased to see a modern telephone handset on the sideboard. At least that much technology has made it here.
I glance at my watch as I step quietly across the chequerboard floor tiles and gaze up the stairs to the two landings and the glass light well high above. It’s not quite seven, early for some. Is my aunt’s friend a late sleeper? I know nothing about her at all.