DEAD MONEY

by TERESA HUNTER

  Sandy led me directly upstairs to the room I would be sleeping in, pointing out the bathroom on the way out. He opened a window to let fresh air in. The cottage smelled musty after being locked up for some time. He looked tired, as he said goodnight and closed the door behind him, leaving me alone.

  I woke the next morning, to the sound of waves lapping rhythmically beside the harbour wall, and opened my eyes to find the sun streaming into the bedroom. It was a pretty room, so unlike the work of a man. All floral curtains and quilts, with china knick-knacks. The decor reminded me of Sally and Timmy’s home Wisteria Cottage. There was a wrought iron fireplace and neat marble mantel. At each side of the bed was a small round table, covered by tablecloths in matching floral material, with ruffled skirts in layers.

  The bathroom, too, oozed Victoriana. Unmistakeably, this cottage had been decorated by a woman. It wasn’t hard to guess by whom. I wondered, if they had ever shared the bed I had been sleeping in.

  Sandy was already up and a delicious smell of bacon wafted from the kitchen.

  “I take it you can manage a full Scottish breakfast?”

  “That rather depends what’s included.”

  “Pretty much the same as an English breakfast, only much much tastier.”

  “Naturally,” I laughed and followed him from the kitchen into a tiny dining room at the front of the house. He placed the breakfast on the table at a window looking out onto the harbour. This was my first view of the sea and the cobbled quay.

  “It’s lovely.”

  “The view or the breakfast?”

  “Both….and the cottage.”

  “Glad you like it,” he said, raising a fork to his mouth.

  An oak fireplace dominated the room, which was again decorated in a pretty cottage-style.

  “We bought it 20 years ago. It was madness really. I was qualifying. We had no money. Couldn’t afford a place in Edinburgh. Came here and fell in love with it, I suppose.”

  “You… and your wife?”

  His face darkened slightly, but he nodded and quickly changed the subject.

  “I’m hoping to take the boat out later. Not far. Just a quick spin. Will you join me?”

  “I’m no sailor.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “What’s she called….the boat?”

  He hesitated before replying, blushing slightly, ‘True love’.”

  “High Society,” I referred to the romantic movie.

  “It wasn’t my idea,” he added, shiftily.

  “No.” I wanted to say “You must miss her,” or something equally crass, but said instead, “I love old films.”

  “Me, too,” he replied, and we discussed our favourite classics for the rest of the meal.

  After breakfast, I strolled round the harbour, while he disappeared to his boat. The sun was hot, although the wind cool, but I was warm enough in my Burberry. The harbour was lined with fishermen’s cottages, painted in different colours. Many were white, but some were deep blues and a few pink. Boats bobbed at their moorings like eager puppies waiting for someone to take them for a run. The fishing fleet was in, its catch long dispatched south. But the quayside remained a muddle of nets, oilskins, baskets and ropes.

  There were a couple of small shops, with very little in them, a pub, the Kilberry, and a hotel. It had the aura of another world, caught in a different time warp, set apart, remote. As I wandered enjoying the sun, and the lingering smells left by the departed fish, a slight cloud hovered. I couldn’t help wondering, what I was doing there, why Sandy had brought me? The cottage, the harbour, the boat; it had been their special place.

  Towering above the village, on higher ground, was a church with a striking tower. I climbed up to it and turned the handle. The door opened.

  It was starkly beautiful inside, but in a dour sombre way. It was the first time I had entered a Church of Scotland place of worship. It seemed dark and Calvinistic, cold and empty. I thought of Sister Robert’s bustling Stella Maris and was glad to step out again into the sunshine.

  The water was surprisingly calm, as I idled back along the dock, staring out into the middle of Loch Fyne. Such tranquil water, like it had never known a storm.

  I heard Sandy’s voice as I approached the grocer. He was walking backwards out of it, his arms full of a box of stores. He would have bumped straight into me, had I not averted the crash.

  “Goodbye, then, Mary,” he shouted at the shopkeeper inside, oblivious to the accident he nearly caused. “Ah, there you are, Julia. Lunch.” He tapped the side of the box. I peaked inside. There were sandwiches, a meat pie, scones, cake and fruit.

  “Shall we head off, then?” I followed him along the quay, until we reached the True Love.

  He jumped aboard, put the box down, and reached to help me step aboard. The boat rocked as I did so and he caught my weight, steadying me in his arms. Then he smiled and released me. I saw another figure at the helm, already working on the ropes. A young lad, who looked about 17.

  “This is Joe, Julia. Joe, meet Julia. I’ll need someone to help me crew, because I can see you won’t be much help. Put these on.”

  He threw me a body warmer, waterproof and life jacket. They were a struggle to get on. When I’d finished, I sat down on a long ledge-bench and leaned over the side. The boat began to move away from its mooring, slowly at first, then gaining pace. Before long we were moving swiftly, the wind behind us, the warm sun on my face. Sandy and Joe worked at the sails. I watched them both switching the steering between them, as they moved to adjust the sails, working together as a team.

  And as I watched them an overwhelming sense of being free and being alive flooded through me. The dark thoughts and worries, which had haunted me for weeks, began to dissolve. Nothing seemed to matter outside this boat and outside this loch. If there was a heaven, this had to be it.

  After about half an hour, they slowed the pace and we drifted, slowly and effortlessly.

  “Time for lunch I think, don’t you?” Sandy said.

  “If you don’t mind Mr Ross, I’ll go downstairs for a snooze,” Joe, the soul of discretion, headed for the cabin below.

  “Late night?” Sandy grinned.

  “Very,” said Joe, raising a hand to his head.

  Sandy handed me a sandwich and piece of pie.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said dreamily.

  “I thought you’d like it. It keeps me sane.”

  “Your hideaway.”

  “Exactly.”

  We ate in silence for a bit.

  “I’m glad you could come.”

  “Me too.”

  I put my feet up on the bench and leaned back against him. He wrapped two arms around me, holding a sandwich in his left hand, which he bit into intermittently. I felt warm and safe. He began gently stroking my right ear-lobe. Tingles ran through me. We stayed like that, eating our lunch, for perhaps half an hour. No words passed between us, just our bodies close together. His hand moved from my ear, slowly, to touch my neck, and afterwards, to tenderly stroke my hair.

  Then, he kissed my head and got up.

  “Let’s have some coffee and then we can have some fun.” He banged the cabin door, and Joe emerged, stuffing a sandwich in his mouth.

  The boat was moving again, but not like before. This time it raced furiously across the water. I loved the speed, the excitement and the sense of danger. Not since I was a child, when I found myself astride a runaway horse, had I screamed and laughed so much, simultaneously. I thought my lungs would burst. There were moments, when the stunts seemed a step too reckless, unless the intention was to tip me into the loch.

  The boat bucked and reared on the water, as we flew across the waves, with me clinging for grim life on the sides. Just when I thought I was getting to grips with the speed, Sandy would swing the vessel round on a pinhead and race off in another direction, leaving me winded and clinging on even tighter.

  After a while, he handed the steering wheel over to Joe and came and sat be
side me again.

  “Having fun?” he shouted, above the wind.

  “I thought actuaries were supposed to be risk-averse?”

  “We are, very cautious people,” he laughed. Joe gradually reined the speed in, and began turning us around.

  “It’s getting late,” Sandy said, getting up to help him. “It’ll be cold when the sun goes. We’d better go back,”

  He returned to the wheel and the pace dropped to an easy cruise, leaving me to soak up what was left of the sun. I relaxed, closing my eyes, but, time and again, I found my eyelids peaking open and my gaze drawn towards him. What was it Churchill had said of Russia? A riddle, wrapped in a puzzle, inside an enigma. This man was certainly full of surprises.

  As we neared the harbour, it became busy with other boats coming and going. A larger boat was making time on us, its wash buffeting us, and making it harder for Sandy to stay his course.

  As it passed, the crew waved and cheered loud hellos in our direction. I waved back, but Sandy and Joe looked the other way. And then I saw him. Tom Kelly. And I saw the name ‘The Sea Witch’ blazoned across the bow.

  “Did you see, that was Tom Kelly?” I shouted at Sandy.

  But it was Joe who yelled back.

  “No doubt back from their latest drugs pick up.”

  I looked from one to the other.

  “He moors his boat here too,” Sandy’s face was a mask, exactly as it had been when Timmy had told him about a visitor to Upton Grey, with a tattoo of a boat called the Sea Witch.

  “What do you mean, Joe, about drugs?” I asked.

  “It’s well known, according to local gossip, anyway.”

  “Sandy?” I turned back to him.

  “Who knows,” he shrugged, like he didn’t care.

  “Is this why you brought me here, to see all this?” I felt anger rising. He hadn’t wanted my company at all this weekend. He was manipulating me.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I brought you here to have a nice weekend, I thought it would do us both good. I should have known it was a mistake.”

  His words stung, I was confused ….hurt. The mood soured.

  “What is going on here?” I asked slowly, trying to sound calm.

  “You’re the award-winning investigative journalist. Work it out yourself.” And with those words he went below deck. It might have been the wind, but the door slammed shut after him, with an almighty crash.

  Joe brought the boat safely to its moorings. It was getting late, the sun weakening, and the wind gaining strength. A chill shivered down my spine. Sandy did not reappear until we anchored. He came back on deck, handed me the keys, and told me to let myself into the house.

  “Joe and I have things to do,” he said, helping me ashore. The magic spell was broken.

  Chapter 36

  3.30pm Saturday, November 10,

  Loch Fyne

  Back in the cottage, I headed straight for the bath, and submerged myself in an ocean of hot, soapy water. Tom Kelly a drug runner? Could it be true? And if so, why? He didn’t need the money. The Kelly’s were wealthy and he had his own business interests.

  But were they wealthy anymore? The brewery had been in decline for years, if Ludgate was to be believed. The accounts I studied confirmed seriously declining fortunes for at least five years. Perhaps the money had all gone, trying to keep the business afloat.

  If that was so, where did Tom Kelly get the money to set up his nightclub empire? Was that where the drugs came in? And if Tom Kelly was into drugs, what else was he dabbling in behind the façade of legitimate business. Another thought struck. How much of all this did Pitcher know? And what had Ken Strachan known? Strachan’s diary had spoken of killing two birds with one stone. Was this what he was referring to?

  I tossed these thoughts around getting nowhere, until I realised the water had cooled. I wrapped a towel round to dry, and stood gazing in the mirror above the taps. Sandy’s things were scattered around the sink. I picked up his razor and ran my finger along the long thin handle. I imagined him standing there shaving. A tingle ran down my spine.

  “Get a grip,” I muttered, leaving the bathroom, to finish drying in the bedroom.

  Once dressed, in fresh blouse and jeans, I headed downstairs and had a scout round the kitchen. Sandy hadn’t mentioned dinner, but it seemed unlikely there was anywhere along the harbour capable of producing a decent meal, so I decided I to put supper together. It could be my gesture of appeasement after our cold parting.

  I found some fresh steak in the fridge, he must have brought from Edinburgh. There was a very old plait of garlic hanging from the wall. No sweat, garlic keeps, and with the bottle of burgundy, I took from the wine rack, I could make a decent sauce.

  I was thumbing the steak when my mobile rang.

  “How’s love’s young dream?” it was Pitcher.

  “Shut it,” I might be 400 miles from London, but I could still speak the language.

  “Going well is it?”

  “That’s no business of yours.”

  “Remember the deal, my business is your business. Anyway, thought you might like to know, I’m coming North myself tomorrow.”

  “I’m supposed to find that even moderately interesting?”

  “That depends. Are you flying straight back?”

  “Undecided.”

  “Humour me with a date.”

  “Not if you were the last man on earth.”

  “Hurtful, but faint heart never won fair lady. I was going to offer to take you to Tom Kelly’s club on Monday night. There’s a little show on there. Hot ticket I’m told.”

  “Ahh…”

  “Thought that would tempt you.”

  “Pitcher, have you heard anything about the Kelly’s and drugs?”

  “One day, along came a beautiful prince, and woke sleeping beauty with a kiss.”

  “You are infuriating.”

  “OK, call me Monday, babe.”

  I let the “babe” go, hit “call end” without saying goodbye and went back to preparing dinner.

  The food was cooking nicely when Sandy finally appeared, looking cold. His face brightened, as he breathed in the aroma of succulent steaks on the hob.

  “Hmmm, something smells good,” he said joining me in the kitchen, but his expression quickly changed when he saw the empty bottle.

  “That’s my best bottle of burgundy. It cost me….” he gasped.

  “The steak will taste all the nicer for it.”

  He pulled me firmly towards him and for the first time kissed me full on the lips. Our earlier exchange, if not forgotten, forgiven.

  “I was going to take you out.”

  “So why did you buy the fillet steak?”

  His eyes glinted.

  “In case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “In case, we wanted to stay in.”

  He moved away from me.

  “I’ll go and change,” and he left me to finish the meal.

  By the time I went through to the dining room to set the table, a wood fire was blazing in the fireplace, as was another in the small lounge. He must have lit them before going upstairs.

  I poured myself a glass of wine, and one for Sandy, while I waited for him to return. It wasn’t long before I heard his foot on the stairs. He picked up the glass I had poured and stood by the fire.

  “Hmmm,” he savoured, the wine. “It’s so nice to get into a bath, and soak away all your…”

  “Worries and troubles,” I finished for him.

  He laughed.

  “If only it could do that.”

  We were quiet for a moment, before he began again.

  “Look, about earlier…” I placed a silencing finger over his lips.

  “We both have a short fuse.”

  “We do,” he smiled. “I didn’t use to. I used to be so easy going.”

  “It comes with age…”

  “And responsibilities,” he added.

  I nodded.“Hungry? Dinner’s
nearly ready,” he followed me back into the kitchen.

  “Here take these.”I handed him dishes with vegetables and potatoes, while I carried plates of steak through to the dining room. Before sitting down, he put on some music. This time, Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. Surely, he couldn’t have spoken to Pitcher?

  “Pitcher called when you were out.” I said, as he joined me at the table. “He’s invited me to Kelly’s club on Monday evening.”

  His expression flickered. “You be careful…”

  “He said there was a show on. A hot ticket.”

  “I dread to think,” he said drily, wiping his fingers on his serviette.

  “About this afternoon…”

  He threw his serviette onto the table.

  “Look, I don’t want to talk about all this now. For just one evening, I want to forget about it. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No, no of course not,” I placed my hand over his.

  “I know Tom Kelly keeps his boat here, but so what? Is that good reason for us to stay away?”

  “No, no, of course not,” I repeated. “It’s just ….if what Joe said this afternoon is true… it changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “Not for me it doesn’t.”

  “I mean, it’s not just a cosy, white-collar crime any more, is it?”

  “Cosy white-collar crime?” he looked at me in disbelief. “Strachan is dead. Livingstone is dead, a girl is missing. When was this ever a cosy white-collar crime?”

  “Strachan is dead. Livingstone is dead…” I repeated, as a terrifying penny was about to drop. “Jesus, what about you? Are you in any danger?”

  His face broke into a reassuring smile. “The only thing I’m in danger of is wringing your neck, which I will do if you don’t change the subject.”

  After dinner we went for a walk around the harbour, stopping for a quick drink in the Kilberry. Half-a-dozen or so of the locals were standing at the bar. Sandy seemed to know them all, and chatted with them easily. I felt several eyes giving me the full scrutiny.

  He introduced me to the landlady, Mrs McDonald, a matronly woman, who looked warm and kindly, but not a lady to cross. She looked from me to Sandy in a way which made me think I might possibly be the first woman he had brought here since his divorce.