The Time and the Place

by Jane Renshaw

  ‘Well that’s a relief,’ she smiled back.

  He stood for a long time, just looking at her. Because she thought it was what he wanted, she reached out to his jeans, but he pulled away.

  ‘Don’t you –’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake! It’s exhausting, Kaz, it really is, propping up your fragile fucking ego the whole fucking time! Yes, I find you attractive – I’d hardly be with you if I didn’t – but not right after we’ve been discussing acne treatments, all right?’ He ran a hand down her shin. ‘Not when you’re lying there with hair sprouting off you like a yeti!’ But then – huge relief! – he winked at her. ‘But ask me again tonight with the lights out and you’ll maybe get a different answer.’

  She managed, just about, to smile.

  She felt like she was always walking a tightrope and always slipping off it, and he was always having to catch her. No wonder she exhausted him. He was probably going to get sick of her sooner rather than later. And then what would she do?

  She wouldn’t go home, tonight, to the Christmas soiree. She would just stay here. It wasn’t worth the risk of him finding out.

  15

  Claire hadn’t thought vehicles like this were still on the roads. It was an ancient, primitive Land Rover, with ‘Pitfourie Estate’ in yellow on the sludgy green bodywork. As Hector accelerated onto the A93 it felt like it was going to fall apart, rattling and shaking and whining like an elderly animal. And it was freezing, even though there was no frost today. The sky was a heavy, bruised greyish-purple, the trees wet and dispirited-looking, and many of the houses they passed had an evening look, yellow light glowing in their windows, although it wasn’t even midday. Often you’d get a whiff of woodsmoke, and she imagined people hunkered down for the day, sitting reading the Saturday papers by the fire.

  The little man sitting between Claire and Hector, whom Hector had introduced as Norrie Hewitt, sucked in a breath.

  ‘Aye, she’s loupit –’

  ‘She being the frost,’ Hector interrupted him to translate. ‘Loupit – there’s no real equivalent – literally it’s leapt.’

  ‘The frost has got up and gone,’ Norrie suggested.

  Claire smiled. That was rather charming.

  ‘The pond’s still frozen,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Aye.’ Norrie nodded. ‘It’ll nae thaw any time soon. There’s sna – snow in the air. My grunnie used to say you could taste it.’

  ‘Mm, although I prefer to rely on the BBC forecast,’ said Hector, his eyes on the road. ‘Which is predicting heavy falls over the next few days.’ He glanced at Claire. ‘We’re paying a visit to the garage we use in Ballater while you’re shopping, to get a set of winter tyres for your car.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you. But you must tell me how much they cost so I can reimburse you.’

  He shook his head. ‘We supply them to all the Estate employees.’

  ‘Well, okay, thank you... But do you need to know what car I have?’

  ‘It’s a Honda Jazz, isn’t it?’

  ‘Uh – yes...’

  ‘You’re going to have to get used to everyone knowing your business. Gavin Jenkins is the nosy parker in this instance. He or Mick can bring you some chains, a shovel and so on. I’m assuming you’re not equipped for driving in snow? Have you driven in snow much, in fact?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Might be an idea if I came out with you and gave you a lesson or two.’

  Norrie was still looking straight ahead, but at this Claire saw him smile to himself.

  Hector seemed oblivious. ‘And rather than driving your own car, when there’s a lot of snow on the ground, you can use one of the Land Rovers.’ He must have correctly interpreted Claire’s expression, because as he slowed for a bend, he laughed. ‘One of the newer models with heating that works. We’re only in this today because we need to collect the tyres. I’ll drop you at Ritchie’s and pick you up in, say, half an hour?’

  He had texted her that morning to say he was taking her to a shop in Ballater to buy ‘suitable clothing for the climate’. This had kind of messed up her schedule for the day, as she needed to go for a run – she had to keep in some kind of shape – and it was going to take her God knew how long to pluck those pheasants and do all the other prep for the dinner party. She also wanted to have a nap at some point because she was planning on spending most of the night snooping round the house. Hector and Damian would be zonked out after their socialising, hopefully, so it was a good opportunity.

  Still, it would be good to get some warm clothing, although she had no intention of letting him pay for it.

  John Ritchie’s was an old-fashioned outfitters, one side of which had ‘Ladies’ above the door and the other ‘Gentlemen’. The ‘Ladies’ section had glass-topped counters under which open-fronted oak drawers held an array of pants and socks and tights. Behind the counter, there were more oak drawers with labels: ‘Bed jackets’, ‘Thermal vests’, ‘Pyjamas’.

  Norrie was immediately deep in unintelligible conversation with one of the comfortably padded, pension-age ladies serving.

  ‘His aunt,’ Hector murmured. He’d taken a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, which he placed on the counter along with three canvas bags, giving the other assistant a wide smile. ‘A challenge for you today, Mrs Milne.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Claire here is from...’ and he dropped his voice: ‘London.’

  An amused look of mock horror was turned on Claire. ‘Oh dear oh dear.’

  ‘And, needless to say, has arrived in our midst woefully unprepared for the rigours of a Pitfourie winter.’ He tapped the piece of paper. ‘Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to equip her with these items of clothing, and anything else that it occurs to you might keep her alive.’

  ‘Well, Mr Forbes,’ she said, deadpan, looking down the list, ‘a good pair of thermal long johns has been the salvation of many a poor quine from London.’

  Long johns?! No way was she wearing long johns.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it, if I can tear Norrie away from his in-depth discussion of Christmas fairy costumes. Beryl as a Christmas fairy.’ He shook his head. ‘Alarming prospect.’

  ‘Beryl?’ Claire couldn’t resist. That name had been on his Christmas present list.

  ‘His two-year-old. Not her real name. Christ, what is her real name?’

  A peal of laughter from Mrs Milne. ‘Now you’re asking! Is it Isabel?’ She pronounced the name Iss-ibl.

  ‘It’s Annabel,’ said Norrie, shaking his head at them and rolling his eyes at Claire.

  ‘Well, it’s your ain wite,’ laughed his aunt. ‘Lumbering the poor thing with Beryl the Peril. It’s your ain wite it’s stuck!’

  ‘Oh, everything’s my fault, Unty. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from three years of marriage, it’s that.’

  More peals of laughter, and the two men were gone, leaving what Claire could only describe as a fuzzy feeling in their wake. The whole shop gave her a fuzzy feeling – the two lovely women now alternately beaming at her and examining Hector’s list; the shiny Christmas decorations looped over the shelves; the Santa and Rudolf soft toys on the counter with a basket of sweets in front of them; the fake tree in the corner with winking fairy lights. Norrie’s ‘Unty’ had a length of red tinsel pinned round the neck of her sweater. A Christmas carol was playing faintly in the background.

  It was a different world from the London shops where she usually bought her clothes.

  But now Claire came to look at the jackets hanging on a circular rail next to her, she saw that they were Barbours. And there was a Rohan stand behind it, and next to it a brand that, judging by the flag on the labels, was Norwegian and looked expensive. This stuff was good quality.

  Twenty minutes later, the pile of garments on the counter had grown to three thermal vests, three pairs of thermal long johns, five pairs of thermal socks and three pairs of woolly ones, two cashmere jumpers, another woolly jumper, a thick fleece,
thermal gloves, waterproof mitts, two pairs of fleece-lined Rohan trousers, two pairs of waterproof overtrousers and a pair of gaiters.

  ‘Now, Jaikities,’ said Unty, pulling one of the blue Norwegian jackets off its hanger.

  ‘Jaikities? I don’t think I’m familiar with that brand, but it looks very well made...’ And expensive.

  The two women laughed.

  ‘Jaikities – jaikits – jackets!’

  Oh for God’s sake!

  ‘This is an affa good jacket. It’s breathable, wind- and waterproof, and there’s a padded inner and a fleece inner so you can layer up or down depending on the weather.’

  Claire had just seen the price tag. Three hundred and forty-nine pounds. Phil had said it was best not to let Hector Forbes buy her anything, as there were ethical and legal issues with UCs accepting gifts from the criminals they were investigating, so she should put it all on her credit card and then claim it back on expenses, but she wouldn’t put it past Accounts to baulk at it. ‘I don’t think I need anything that major. I’m not going to be hiking in the hills or anything in this weather.’

  ‘Och, but you don’t know.’

  ‘Look at us and our hard sell!’ chuckled Unty.

  Claire let herself be persuaded to try on the jacket. It was beautiful: soft and very warm, with a lined hood and about a million pockets.

  ‘Like a model,’ said Unty. ‘Isn’t she, Jean?’

  ‘Affa bonnie.’

  ‘The top of the hood, you see, has a peak to it, to keep the rain off your face.’

  ‘It’s a lovely jacket,’ said Claire, shrugging out of it. ‘But to be honest I can’t afford it.’

  ‘But it’s Mr Forbes paying. Dinna fash – don’t you be worrying about that!’

  Jean was consulting the list. ‘Now, our shoe department is up the stair. Walking boots, sheepskin boots to wear in the House....’

  As they trooped up the stairs, Unty began eulogising about Hector. ‘Oh, he’s a lovely man! Just a perfect gentleman, is what I always say. And he does an affa lot for folk round here... an affa lot.’ She stopped a couple of steps above Claire and turned, lowering her voice confidentially. ‘When my brother-in-law was diagnosed with stage three bowel cancer last year, Mr Forbes paid for him to go private. Had one of his men drive Lovie and Geordie into Aberdeen for every appointment... And that’s Geordie just got the all-clear a week syne.’

  ‘And he aye sees efter his workers,’ Jean contributed from behind Claire.

  Claire turned, mirroring Jean’s broad smile. ‘Sorry – he does what to his workers?’

  The ladies chuckled.

  ‘He looks after them,’ said Unty.

  Claire chuckled.

  ‘Folk let bide in their hames when they retire, and for a peppercorn rent, nae packed aff with a mantel clock and a goodie bag like happens on most estates.’

  ‘And there’s The Pines when you’re dottled – when you’ve got dementia,’ said Unty. ‘Pitfourie Estate’s ain care home. The Al’ Laird started it up but Mr Forbes has improved it no end – estate workers get to stay free of charge if they’ve lang service on the Estate, and for tenants, the Council pays sixty per cent, the Estate forty.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Claire, her head spinning.

  ‘Aye, he’s a fine man, Hector Forbes. A richt lad, maybe, when he was young, but –’

  ‘Sorry, a what?’

  Unty looked past her at Jean. ‘Now, when I come to think how I’d explain “a richt lad”, word for word it’s just “a proper boy”, but that’s nae the meaning o’t.’

  ‘A wild one,’ suggested Jean.

  Unty looked thoughtful. ‘Aye, but nae quite that. A loveable rogue?’ She beamed at Claire, at Jean. ‘Aye! A loveable rogue!’

  The shoe department was an attic room with views over the rooftops of the little town. Unty and Jean soon had Claire kitted out with a pair of sturdy Gore-Tex walking boots and warm sheepskin boots with rubber soles.

  ‘You’ll never have these off your feet in the House,’ Jean predicted, returning them to their box and carefully tucking the tissue paper back round them. ‘It’s a grand place, but affa caal’ – awfully cold. When Mary MacIver was a housemaid there, one of her jobbies in winter was taking the ice off the inside of the windows! That was back when we had real winters.’

  ‘So this isn’t a real winter?’

  They both chuckled.

  ‘It’s nae even winter yet. Nae really.’

  ‘Well,’ said Claire, zipping her own boots back onto her feet. ‘I’m certainly finding Pond Cottage cosy enough.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Jean.

  Unty just nodded.

  So Claire was forced to push it: ‘Although... I mean, it’s terrible about the man who lived there who died – John someone, was it?’

  ‘John Cameron,’ said Unty. And on an indrawn breath: ‘Aye. Terrible. My nephew Norrie had the mannie working with him, and liked him fine.’

  ‘Awful. And I –’ Claire grimaced. ‘I’m probably just being silly, but – it’s maybe just because I’m not used to living somewhere out on my own with no neighbours, but I have to admit that I do get very nervous, especially at night.’ She looked past Jean’s sympathetic face to the window and the wet slate roofs and the darkening sky. ‘One of the teenagers, Damian or maybe Karen, said the other men who lived there left because they were scared to stay on. That John Cameron’s death might not have been an accident...’

  ‘Oft!’ Unty patted the lid of the shoebox in place. ‘Karen DeCicco’s a drama queen!’ Interesting that she wasn’t even entertaining the possibility that Damian could have been the culprit.

  ‘Well now, the poor craiturie found him. Hisna been the same since.’

  Unty gave Jean a look. ‘But scaring poor Claire with nonsense – there’s nae excuse for it. The mannie fell into the pond and drowned. It was an accident – fit else would it be?’

  ‘And the other men – they left because...’

  ‘Well, Liam was aye thinking of moving in with Charlene. And I think Mick Shepherd – he just didna hae the heart to stay on, with Chimp gone.’

  ‘Did he move in with someone too?’

  ‘Na. He’s gone to bide in the al’ chauffeur’s flat at the House with Chris McClusky.’

  Excellent. It would be easy enough to engineer encounters with him. ‘And Liam is still in the area too?’

  Jean nodded. ‘In a cottage in Kirkton. Though he’s off to Florida with Charlene and her folk for Christmas.’

  Damn.

  Hector and Norrie appeared as the ladies were ringing all the purchases up on the till and packing them into the bags. Hector inspected their choices. ‘What about a hat? You’re going to need a hat.’

  As Jean and Unty scuttled off to look out a selection, Norrie said in a low voice: ‘Twatmobile.’

  Hector turned to look out at the street. A black Range Rover TDV8 with tinted windows was holding up traffic, double-parked with its hazard lights flashing. Unty and Jean, each carrying several candidate woolly hats, came to watch, noses twitching.

  ‘Some folks’ll just park onyways,’ said Unty. ‘They winna walk their ain length.’

  Hector translated for Claire: ‘Some people will park any old how. They won’t walk the equivalent of their height.’

  ‘It’s yon man Weber,’ sniffed Jean.

  A tall, tweed-clad man had come out of the newsagent’s opposite, papers under his arm. He was wearing a tweed waistcoat, jacket and trousers, well cut but somehow unconvincing, as if it was a costume. Claire glanced at the men standing next to her. Hector was also in tweed trousers and jacket, teamed with a grey jersey over a shirt, but they looked absolutely right on him. And Norrie’s tweed jacket fitted him like the pelt of an animal.

  ‘That’s the Press and Journal he’s got,’ sniffed Unty. ‘Fit’s he deeing with the Press and Journal?’

  ‘Goes with the outfit,’ suggested Hector, and they all laughed.

  ‘I dinna get the Press and J
ournal ony mair,’ confided Unty, as if confessing to a crime. ‘I just ging online to see fa’s deid.’

  More laughter, and this time it was Norrie who helped Claire out: ‘Unty goes online to see who’s dead.’

  Claire selected a cream cable-knit hat and this was added to the haul. Then Jean, frowning out at the sky, suggested that Claire might want to wear her new jacket, reassuring her that they’d take it back if she wanted to return it even without the tags attached.

  By the time she’d pushed her own coat into one of the bags and was snuggly zipped into her new Norwegian jacket, she realised that Hector had paid. He waved away her protests with a frown almost of irritation. ‘Think of it as a cold-weather bonus.’

  Outside, she felt the benefit of the jacket immediately as a raw wind hit her.

  ‘We’re round the corner,’ Hector said.

  They turned off the main street into a quiet lane bounded by a high wall on the right and the backs of sheds on the left. It was deserted apart from a woman and child coming towards them hand in hand, the little girl in bright red and white spotted wellies and a yellow coat, the woman in a fitted parka, skinny jeans and boots. She had the colouring Claire had always envied – honey-coloured hair, blue eyes and an English – or in this case, presumably Scottish – rose complexion. A yummy mummy, as Phil would have said.

  The little girl suddenly squealed, and the woman came to a halt.

  The girl looked up at her mother indignantly, tugging on her hand. She was a sweet little thing with dark curly hair. Claire was useless at kids’ ages, but she guessed she would be three or four – pre-school age. In the hand not clasped in her mother’s, she held a small, flat box.

  ‘It’s Hector!’ she protested.

  Claire shot a glance over her shoulder. Hector was smiling past her. ‘It’s Lizzie!’ he responded.

  The woman let go the little girl’s hand, and she came running, past Claire, past Norrie, to launch herself at Hector. He swept her up and she hooked an arm round his neck, shoving the box into his face. ‘Look what I got for Cat! They’re paints. They’re for Cat’s Christmas!’